A 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
Chiltern. He stayed at home the whole morning, knowing that nothing
could be done before the hour Lord Chiltern 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 send you a
_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 for 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 him had been, he thought, at any rate
as long-winded as himself; but 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 Chiltern 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, there 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 Loughton. 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 Phineas refolded this note and put it into his
breast coat-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 Chiltern would
probably be 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 Chiltern was announced.
Phineas went forward immediately with his hand out to meet his
visitor. “Chiltern,” he said, “I am very glad to see you.” But Lord
Chiltern 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 Phineas was standing.
Phineas, taking up the letter, perceived that it was that which
he, in his great attempt to be honest, had written from the inn at
Loughton. “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. You must
withdraw it.”
“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 there threaten
to do. In that you have been very wise, and there can be no
difficulty in your withdrawing the letter.”
“I certainly shall not withdraw it, Lord Chiltern.”
“Do you remember--what--I once--told you,--about myself and Miss
Effingham?” 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 studied
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 of an
antagonist. Phineas was afraid of no violence, personal to himself;
but he was afraid of,--of what I may, perhaps, best 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, and that you know as well as I
do. 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
have Cabinet Ministers for your 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,--though it was painful to me to have
to tell such a secret to any one.”
“You wrote! Yes; when I was miles distant; weeks, months away. But I
did not come here to bullyrag like an old woman. I got your letter
only on Monday, and know nothing of what has occurred. Is Miss
Effingham to be--your wife?” Lord Chiltern 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. “I ask
you,” said Lord Chiltern, “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 Chiltern. “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 Chiltern 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, that I can 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 Chiltern.”
“Why;--what hope have you?”
“That is another thing. I shall not speak of that;--at any rate not
to you.”
“Then, sir,--” and now Lord Chiltern 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, Chiltern,” 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
poltroon. What I require of you is that you shall meet me. Will 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
are 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, and from his borough. 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, Chiltern.”
“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 some one,
whom he shall meet.”
“Of course I will do that if I have your promise to meet me. We
can be in Belgium in an hour or two, and back again in a few more
hours;--that is, any one of us who may 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 Laurence
Fitzgibbon to manage for me in such an affair.”
“Perhaps you will see him at once, then, so that Colepepper 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
Chiltern 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,--damnably false; not that you 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 false to his friend? When he
had thought over the matter at Saulsby, 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 Chiltern,
would be even chivalrous in its absolute honesty. He would tell his
purpose to Lord Chiltern the moment that his purpose was formed;--and
would afterwards speak of Lord Chiltern behind his back as one
dear friend should speak of another. Had Miss Effingham shown the
slightest intention of accepting Lord Chiltern’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 for ever from getting that which he wanted
because Lord Chiltern wanted it also,--knowing, as he did so well,
that Lord Chiltern could not get the thing which he wanted? All this
had been quite sufficient for him at Saulsby. But now the charge
against him that he had been false to his friend rang in his ears and
made him unhappy. It certainly was true that Lord Chiltern had not
given up his hopes, and that he had spoken probably more openly to
Phineas respecting them than he had done to any other human being. If
it was true that he had been false, then he must comply with any
requisition which Lord Chiltern might make,--short of voluntarily
giving up the lady. He must 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 Palliser openly told him that
he had 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 duelling? 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 Chiltern 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 any one but himself? Why should the world be so thin-skinned,--so
foolishly chary of human life?
Laurence 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 Reform
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 Saulsby. 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 at a crowded evening meeting. Lord Brentford
was there, and the Bonteens, and Barrington Erle, and Lady Glencora
Palliser, and Lord Cantrip with his young wife. It 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
Laurence 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 before Lady Laura’s marriage, Mr. Kennedy would have
been present. “I must speak to you as we go away,” said Phineas,
whispering a word into Fitzgibbon’s ear. “I have been leaving notes
for you all about the town.” “Not a duel, I hope,” said Fitzgibbon.
How pleasant it was,--that meeting; or would have been had there not
been that nightmare on his breast! They all talked as though there
were perfect accord 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 Finn,
throwing back, now and again, a thought to Killaloe, found himself
among them as one of themselves. How could any Mr. Low say that he
was wrong?
On a sofa near to him, so that he could almost touch her foot with
his, was sitting Violet Effingham, and as he leaned over from his
chair discussing some point in Mr. Mildmay’s bill with that most
inveterate politician, Lady Glencora, Violet looked into his face and
smiled. Oh heavens! If Lord Chiltern and he might only toss up as to
which of them should go to Patagonia and remain there for the next
ten years, and which should have Violet Effingham for a wife in
London!
“Come along, Phineas, if you mean to come,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon.
Phineas was of course bound to go, though Lady Glencora was still
talking Radicalism, and Violet Effingham was still smiling ineffably.
VOLUME II