Lord Chiltern at Saulsby
Lord Chiltern did exactly as he said he would do. He wrote to his
father as he passed through Carlisle, and at once went on to his
hunting at Willingford. But his letter was very stiff and ungainly,
and it may be doubted whether Miss Effingham was not wrong in
refusing the offer which he had made to her as to the dictation of
it. He began his letter, “My Lord,” and did not much improve the
style as he went on with it. The reader may as well see the whole
letter;--
Railway Hotel, Carlisle,
December 27, 186--.
MY LORD,
I am now on my way from Loughlinter to London, and write
this letter to you in compliance with a promise made by
me to my sister and to Miss Effingham. I have asked Violet
to be my wife, and she has accepted me, and they think
that you will be pleased to hear that this has been done.
I shall be, of course, obliged, if you will instruct Mr.
Edwards to let me know what you would propose to do in
regard to settlements. Laura thinks that you will wish to
see both Violet and myself at Saulsby. For myself, I can
only say that, should you desire me to come, I will do
so on receiving your assurance that I shall be treated
neither with fatted calves nor with reproaches. I am not
aware that I have deserved either.
I am, my lord, yours affect.,
CHILTERN.
P.S.--My address will be “The Bull, Willingford.”
That last word, in which he half-declared himself to be joined in
affectionate relations to his father, caused him a world of trouble.
But he could find no term for expressing, without a circumlocution
which was disagreeable to him, exactly that position of feeling
towards his father which really belonged to him. He would have
written “yours with affection,” or “yours with deadly enmity,” or
“yours with respect,” or “yours with most profound indifference,”
exactly in accordance with the state of his father’s mind, if he had
only known what was that state. He was afraid of going beyond his
father in any offer of reconciliation, and was firmly fixed in his
resolution that he would never be either repentant or submissive
in regard to the past. If his father had wishes for the future,
he would comply with them if he could do so without unreasonable
inconvenience, but he would not give way a single point as to things
done and gone. If his father should choose to make any reference to
them, his father must prepare for battle.
The Earl was of course disgusted by the pertinacious obstinacy of his
son’s letter, and for an hour or two swore to himself that he would
not answer it. But it is natural that the father should yearn for the
son, while the son’s feeling for the father is of a very much weaker
nature. Here, at any rate, was that engagement made which he had
ever desired. And his son had made a step, though it was so very
unsatisfactory a step, towards reconciliation. When the old man read
the letter a second time, he skipped that reference to fatted calves
which had been so peculiarly distasteful to him, and before the
evening had passed he had answered his son as follows;--
Saulsby, December 29, 186--.
MY DEAR CHILTERN,
I have received your letter, and am truly delighted to hear that dear
Violet has accepted you as her husband. Her fortune will be very
material to you, but she herself is better than any fortune. You have
long known my opinion of her. I shall be proud to welcome her as a
daughter to my house.
I shall of course write to her immediately, and will endeavour to
settle some early day for her coming here. When I have done so, I
will write to you again, and can only say that I will endeavour to
make Saulsby comfortable to you.
Your affectionate father,
BRENTFORD.
Richards, the groom, is still here. You had perhaps better write to
him direct about your horses.
By the middle of February arrangements had all been made, and Violet
met her lover at his father’s house. She in the meantime had been
with her aunt, and had undergone a good deal of mild unceasing
persecution. “My dear Violet,” said her aunt to her on her arrival
at Baddingham, speaking with a solemnity that ought to have been
terrible to the young lady, “I do not know what to say to you.”
“Say ‘how d’you do?’ aunt,” said Violet.
“I mean about this engagement,” said Lady Baldock, with an increase
of awe-inspiring severity in her voice.
“Say nothing about it at all, if you don’t like it,” said Violet.
“How can I say nothing about it? How can I be silent? Or how am I to
congratulate you?”
“The least said, perhaps, the soonest mended,” and Violet smiled as
she spoke.
“That is very well, and if I had no duty to perform, I would be
silent. But, Violet, you have been left in my charge. If I see you
shipwrecked in life, I shall ever tell myself that the fault has been
partly mine.”
“Nay, aunt, that will be quite unnecessary. I will always admit that
you did everything in your power to--to--to--make me run straight, as
the sporting men say.”
“Sporting men! Oh, Violet.”
“And you know, aunt, I still hope that I shall be found to have kept
on the right side of the posts. You will find that poor Lord Chiltern
is not so black as he is painted.”
“But why take anybody that is black at all?”
“I like a little shade in the picture, aunt.”
“Look at Lord Fawn.”
“I have looked at him.”
“A young nobleman beginning a career of useful official life, that
will end in--; there is no knowing what it may end in.”
“I daresay not;--but it never could have begun or ended in my being
Lady Fawn.”
“And Mr. Appledom!”
“Poor Mr. Appledom. I do like Mr. Appledom. But, you see, aunt, I
like Lord Chiltern so much better. A young woman will go by her
feelings.”
“And yet you refused him a dozen times.”
“I never counted the times, aunt; but not quite so many as that.”
The same thing was repeated over and over again during the month that
Miss Effingham remained at Baddingham, but Lady Baldock had no power
of interfering, and Violet bore her persecution bravely. Her future
husband was generally spoken of as “that violent young man,” and
hints were thrown out as to the personal injuries to which his wife
might be possibly subjected. But the threatened bride only laughed,
and spoke of these coming dangers as part of the general lot of
married women. “I daresay, if the truth were known, my uncle Baldock
did not always keep his temper,” she once said. Now, the truth was,
as Violet well knew, that “my uncle Baldock” had been dumb as a sheep
before the shearers in the hands of his wife, and had never been
known to do anything improper by those who had been most intimate
with him even in his earlier days. “Your uncle Baldock, miss,” said
the outraged aunt, “was a nobleman as different in his manner of
life from Lord Chiltern as chalk from cheese.” “But then comes the
question, which is the cheese?” said Violet. Lady Baldock would not
argue the question any further, but stalked out of the room.
Lady Laura Kennedy met them at Saulsby, having had something of a
battle with her husband before she left her home to do so. When she
told him of her desire to assist at this reconciliation between her
father and brother, he replied by pointing out that her first duty
was at Loughlinter, and before the interview was ended had come to
express an opinion that that duty was very much neglected. She in the
meantime had declared that she would go to Saulsby, or that she would
explain to her father that she was forbidden by her husband to do
so. “And I also forbid any such communication,” said Mr. Kennedy. In
answer to which, Lady Laura told him that there were some marital
commands which she should not consider it to be her duty to obey.
When matters had come to this pass, it may be conceived that both Mr.
Kennedy and his wife were very unhappy. She had almost resolved that
she would take steps to enable her to live apart from her husband;
and he had begun to consider what course he would pursue if such
steps were taken. The wife was subject to her husband by the laws
both of God and man; and Mr. Kennedy was one who thought much of
such laws. In the meantime, Lady Laura carried her point and went to
Saulsby, leaving her husband to go up to London and begin the session
by himself.
Lady Laura and Violet were both at Saulsby before Lord Chiltern
arrived, and many were the consultations which were held between them
as to the best mode in which things might be arranged. Violet was of
opinion that there had better be no arrangement, that Lord Chiltern
should be allowed to come in and take his father’s hand, and sit down
to dinner,--and that so things should fall into their places. Lady
Laura was rather in favour of some scene. But the interview had taken
place before either of them were able to say a word. Lord Chiltern,
on his arrival, had gone immediately to his father, taking the Earl
very much by surprise, and had come off best in the encounter.
“My lord,” said he, walking up to his father with his hand out, “I am
very glad to come back to Saulsby.” He had written to his sister to
say that he would be at Saulsby on that day, but had named no hour.
He now appeared between ten and eleven in the morning, and his father
had as yet made no preparation for him,--had arranged no appropriate
words. He had walked in at the front door, and had asked for the
Earl. The Earl was in his own morning-room,--a gloomy room, full of
dark books and darker furniture, and thither Lord Chiltern had at
once gone. The two women still were sitting together over the fire in
the breakfast-room, and knew nothing of his arrival.
“Oswald!” said his father, “I hardly expected you so early.”
“I have come early. I came across country, and slept at Birmingham. I
suppose Violet is here.”
“Yes, she is here,--and Laura. They will be very glad to see you. So
am I.” And the father took the son’s hand for the second time.
“Thank you, sir,” said Lord Chiltern, looking his father full in the
face.
“I have been very much pleased by this engagement,” continued the
Earl.
“What do you think I must be, then?” said the son, laughing. “I
have been at it, you know, off and on, ever so many years; and have
sometimes thought I was quite a fool not to get it out of my head.
But I couldn’t get it out of my head. And now she talks as though it
were she who had been in love with me all the time!”
“Perhaps she was,” said the father.
“I don’t believe it in the least. She may be a little so now.”
“I hope you mean that she always shall be so.”
“I shan’t be the worst husband in the world, I hope; and I am quite
sure I shan’t be the best. I will go and see her now. I suppose I
shall find her somewhere in the house. I thought it best to see you
first.”
“Stop half a moment, Oswald,” said the Earl. And then Lord Brentford
did make something of a shambling speech, in which he expressed a
hope that they two might for the future live together on friendly
terms, forgetting the past. He ought to have been prepared for the
occasion, and the speech was poor and shambling. But I think that it
was more useful than it might have been, had it been uttered roundly
and with that paternal and almost majestic effect which he would have
achieved had he been thoroughly prepared. But the roundness and the
majesty would have gone against the grain with his son, and there
would have been a danger of some outbreak. As it was, Lord Chiltern
smiled, and muttered some word about things being “all right,” and
then made his way out of the room. “That’s a great deal better than I
had hoped,” he said to himself; “and it has all come from my going in
without being announced.” But there was still a fear upon him that
his father even yet might prepare a speech, and speak it, to the
great peril of their mutual comfort.
His meeting with Violet was of course pleasant enough. Now that she
had succumbed, and had told herself and had told him that she loved
him, she did not scruple to be as generous as a maiden should be who
has acknowledged herself to be conquered, and has rendered herself to
the conqueror. She would walk with him and ride with him, and take a
lively interest in the performances of all his horses, and listen to
hunting stories as long as he chose to tell them. In all this, she
was so good and so loving that Lady Laura was more than once tempted
to throw in her teeth her old, often-repeated assertions, that she
was not prone to be in love,--that it was not her nature to feel any
ardent affection for a man, and that, therefore, she would probably
remain unmarried. “You begrudge me my little bits of pleasure,”
Violet said, in answer to one such attack. “No;--but it is so odd to
see you, of all women, become so love-lorn,” “I am not love-lorn,”
said Violet, “but I like the freedom of telling him everything and
of hearing everything from him, and of having him for my own best
friend. He might go away for twelve months, and I should not be
unhappy, believing, as I do, that he would be true to me.” All of
which set Lady Laura thinking whether her friend had not been wiser
than she had been. She had never known anything of that sort of
friendship with her husband which already seemed to be quite
established between these two.
In her misery one day Lady Laura told the whole story of her own
unhappiness to her brother, saying nothing of Phineas Finn,--thinking
nothing of him as she told her story, but speaking more strongly
perhaps than she should have done, of the terrible dreariness of her
life at Loughlinter, and of her inability to induce her husband to
alter it for her sake.
“Do you mean that he,--ill-treats you?” said the brother, with a
scowl on his face which seemed to indicate that he would like no task
better than that of resenting such ill-treatment.
“He does not beat me, if you mean that.”
“Is he cruel to you? Does he use harsh language?”
“He never said a word in his life either to me or, as I believe, to
any other human being, that he would think himself bound to regret.”
“What is it then?”
“He simply chooses to have his own way, and his way cannot be my way.
He is hard, and dry, and just, and dispassionate, and he wishes me to
be the same. That is all.”
“I tell you fairly, Laura, as far as I am concerned, I never could
speak to him. He is antipathetic to me. But then I am not his wife.”
“I am;--and I suppose I must bear it.”
“Have you spoken to my father?”
“No.”
“Or to Violet?”
“Yes.”
“And what does she say?”
“What can she say? She has nothing to say. Nor have you. Nor, if I am
driven to leave him, can I make the world understand why I do so. To
be simply miserable, as I am, is nothing to the world.”
“I could never understand why you married him.”
“Do not be cruel to me, Oswald.”
“Cruel! I will stick by you in any way that you wish. If you think
well of it, I will go off to Loughlinter to-morrow, and tell him that
you will never return to him. And if you are not safe from him here
at Saulsby, you shall go abroad with us. I am sure Violet would not
object. I will not be cruel to you.”
But in truth neither of Lady Laura’s councillors was able to give
her advice that could serve her. She felt that she could not leave
her husband without other cause than now existed, although she felt,
also, that to go back to him was to go back to utter wretchedness.
And when she saw Violet and her brother together there came to her
dreams of what might have been her own happiness had she kept herself
free from those terrible bonds in which she was now held a prisoner.
She could not get out of her heart the remembrance of that young man
who would have been her lover, if she would have let him,--of whose
love for herself she had been aware before she had handed herself
over as a bale of goods to her unloved, unloving husband. She had
married Mr. Kennedy because she was afraid that otherwise she might
find herself forced to own that she loved that other man who was
then a nobody;--almost nobody. It was not Mr. Kennedy’s money that
had bought her. This woman in regard to money had shown herself
to be as generous as the sun. But in marrying Mr. Kennedy she had
maintained herself in her high position, among the first of her own
people,--among the first socially and among the first politically.
But had she married Phineas,--had she become Lady Laura Finn,--there
would have been a great descent. She could not have entertained the
leading men of her party. She would not have been on a level with the
wives and daughters of Cabinet Ministers. She might, indeed, have
remained unmarried! But she knew that had she done so,--had she so
resolved,--that which she called her fancy would have been too strong
for her. She would not have remained unmarried. At that time it was
her fate to be either Lady Laura Kennedy or Lady Laura Finn. And she
had chosen to be Lady Laura Kennedy. To neither Violet Effingham nor
to her brother could she tell one half of the sorrow which afflicted
her.
“I shall go back to Loughlinter,” she said to her brother.
“Do not, unless you wish it,” he answered.
“I do not wish it. But I shall do it. Mr. Kennedy is in London now,
and has been there since Parliament met, but he will be in Scotland
again in March, and I will go and meet him there. I told him that I
would do so when I left.”
“But you will go up to London?”
“I suppose so. I must do as he tells me, of course. What I mean is, I
will try it for another year.”
“If it does not succeed, come to us.”
“I cannot say what I will do. I would die if I knew how. Never be a
tyrant, Oswald; or at any rate, not a cold tyrant. And remember this,
there is no tyranny to a woman like telling her of her duty. Talk of
beating a woman! Beating might often be a mercy.”
Lord Chiltern remained ten days at Saulsby, and at last did not get
away without a few unpleasant words with his father,--or without a
few words that were almost unpleasant with his mistress. On his first
arrival he had told his sister that he should go on a certain day,
and some intimation to this effect had probably been conveyed to the
Earl. But when his son told him one evening that the post-chaise had
been ordered for seven o’clock the next morning, he felt that his son
was ungracious and abrupt. There were many things still to be said,
and indeed there had been no speech of any account made at all as
yet.
“That is very sudden,” said the Earl.
“I thought Laura had told you.”
“She has not told me a word lately. She may have said something
before you came here. What is there to hurry you?”
“I thought ten days would be as long as you would care to have me
here, and as I said that I would be back by the first, I would rather
not change my plans.”
“You are going to hunt?”
“Yes;--I shall hunt till the end of March.”
“You might have hunted here, Oswald.” But the son made no sign of
changing his plans; and the father, seeing that he would not change
them, became solemn and severe. There were a few words which he must
say to his son,--something of a speech that he must make;--so he led
the way into the room with the dark books and the dark furniture, and
pointed to a great deep arm-chair for his son’s accommodation. But as
he did not sit down himself, neither did Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern
understood very well how great is the advantage of a standing orator
over a sitting recipient of his oratory, and that advantage he would
not give to his father. “I had hoped to have an opportunity of saying
a few words to you about the future,” said the Earl.
“I think we shall be married in July,” said Lord Chiltern.
“So I have heard;--but after that. Now I do not want to interfere,
Oswald, and of course the less so, because Violet’s money will to
a great degree restore the inroads which have been made upon the
property.”
“It will more than restore them altogether.”
“Not if her estate be settled on a second son, Oswald, and I hear
from Lady Baldock that that is the wish of her relations.”
“She shall have her own way,--as she ought. What that way is I do not
know. I have not even asked about it. She asked me, and I told her to
speak to you.”
“Of course I should wish it to go with the family property. Of course
that would be best.”
“She shall have her own way,--as far as I am concerned.”
“But it is not about that, Oswald, that I would speak. What are your
plans of life when you are married?”
“Plans of life?”
“Yes;--plans of life. I suppose you have some plans. I suppose you
mean to apply yourself to some useful occupation?”
“I don’t know really, sir, that I am of much use for any purpose.”
Lord Chiltern laughed as he said this, but did not laugh pleasantly.
“You would not be a drone in the hive always?”
“As far as I can see, sir, we who call ourselves lords generally are
drones.”
“I deny it,” said the Earl, becoming quite energetic as he defended
his order. “I deny it utterly. I know no class of men who do work
more useful or more honest. Am I a drone? Have I been so from my
youth upwards? I have always worked, either in the one House or
in the other, and those of my fellows with whom I have been most
intimate have worked also. The same career is open to you.”
“You mean politics?”
“Of course I mean politics.”
“I don’t care for politics. I see no difference in parties.”
“But you should care for politics, and you should see a difference in
parties. It is your duty to do so. My wish is that you should go into
Parliament.”
“I can’t do that, sir.”
“And why not?”
“In the first place, sir, you have not got a seat to offer me.
You have managed matters among you in such a way that poor little
Loughton has been swallowed up. If I were to canvass the electors of
Smotherem, I don’t think that many would look very sweet on me.”
“There is the county, Oswald.”
“And whom am I to turn out? I should spend four or five thousand
pounds, and have nothing but vexation in return for it. I had rather
not begin that game, and indeed I am too old for Parliament. I did
not take it up early enough to believe in it.”
All this made the Earl very angry, and from these things they went
on to worse things. When questioned again as to the future, Lord
Chiltern scowled, and at last declared that it was his idea to live
abroad in the summer for his wife’s recreation, and somewhere down
in the shires during the winter for his own. He would admit of no
purpose higher than recreation, and when his father again talked to
him of a nobleman’s duty, he said that he knew of no other special
duty than that of not exceeding his income. Then his father made a
longer speech than before, and at the end of it Lord Chiltern simply
wished him good night. “It’s getting late, and I’ve promised to see
Violet before I go to bed. Good-bye.” Then he was off, and Lord
Brentford was left there, standing with his back to the fire.
After that Lord Chiltern had a discussion with Violet, which lasted
nearly half the night; and during the discussion she told him more
than once that he was wrong. “Such as I am you must take me, or leave
me,” he said, in anger. “Nay; there is no choice now,” she answered.
“I have taken you, and I will stick by you,--whether you are right or
wrong. But when I think you wrong, I shall say so.” He swore to her
as he pressed her to his heart that she was the finest, grandest,
sweetest woman that ever the world had produced. But still there was
present on his palate, when he left her, the bitter taste of her
reprimand.