The Cabinet Minister at Killaloe
Phineas did not throw himself into the river from the Duke’s garden;
and was ready, in spite of Violet Effingham, to start for Ireland
with Mr. Monk at the end of the first week in August. The close of
that season in London certainly was not a happy period of his life.
Violet had spoken to him after such a fashion that he could not bring
himself not to believe her. She had given him no hint whether it was
likely or unlikely that she and Lord Chiltern would be reconciled;
but she had convinced him that he could not be allowed to take Lord
Chiltern’s place. “A woman cannot transfer her heart,” she had said.
Phineas was well aware that many women do transfer their hearts;
but he had gone to this woman too soon after the wrench which her
love had received; he had been too sudden with his proposal for a
transfer; and the punishment for such ill judgment must be that
success would now be impossible to him. And yet how could he have
waited, feeling that Miss Effingham, if she were at all like other
girls whom he had known, might have promised herself to some other
lover before she would return within his reach in the succeeding
spring? But she was not like some other girls. Ah;--he knew that now,
and repented him of his haste.
But he was ready for Mr. Monk on the 7th of August, and they started
together. Something less than twenty hours took them from London to
Killaloe, and during four or five of those twenty hours Mr. Monk
was unfitted for any conversation by the uncomfortable feelings
incidental to the passage from Holyhead to Kingstown. Nevertheless,
there was a great deal of conversation between them during the
journey. Mr. Monk had almost made up his mind to leave the Cabinet.
“It is sad to me to have to confess it,” he said, “but the truth is
that my old rival, Turnbull, is right. A man who begins his political
life as I began mine, is not the man of whom a Minister should
be formed. I am inclined to think that Ministers of Government
require almost as much education in their trade as shoemakers or
tallow-chandlers. I doubt whether you can make a good public servant
of a man simply because he has got the ear of the House of Commons.”
“Then you mean to say,” said Phineas, “that we are altogether wrong
from beginning to end, in our way of arranging these things?”
“I do not say that at all. Look at the men who have been leading
statesmen since our present mode of government was formed,--from the
days in which it was forming itself, say from Walpole down, and you
will find that all who have been of real use had early training as
public servants.”
“Are we never to get out of the old groove?”
“Not if the groove is good,” said Mr. Monk, “Those who have been
efficient as ministers sucked in their efficacy with their mother’s
milk. Lord Brock did so, and Lord de Terrier, and Mr. Mildmay. They
seated themselves in office chairs the moment they left college.
Mr. Gresham was in office before he was eight-and-twenty. The
Duke of St. Bungay was at work as a Private Secretary when he was
three-and-twenty. You, luckily for yourself, have done the same.”
“And regret it every hour of my life.”
“You have no cause for regret, but it is not so with me. If there be
any man unfitted by his previous career for office, it is he who has
become, or who has endeavoured to become, a popular politician,--an
exponent, if I may say so, of public opinion. As far as I can see,
office is offered to such men with one view only,--that of clipping
their wings.”
“And of obtaining their help.”
“It is the same thing. Help from Turnbull would mean the withdrawal
of all power of opposition from him. He could not give other help for
any long term, as the very fact of his accepting power and patronage
would take from him his popular leadership. The masses outside
require to have their minister as the Queen has hers; but the same
man cannot be minister to both. If the people’s minister chooses to
change his master, and to take the Queen’s shilling, something of
temporary relief may be gained by government in the fact that the
other place will for a time be vacant. But there are candidates
enough for such places, and the vacancy is not a vacancy long. Of
course the Crown has this pull, that it pays wages, and the people do
not.”
“I do not think that that influenced you,” said Phineas.
“It did not influence me. To you I will make bold to state so much
positively, though it would be foolish, perhaps, to do so to others.
I did not go for the shilling, though I am so poor a man that the
shilling is more to me than it would be to almost any man in the
House. I took the shilling, much doubting, but guided in part by
this, that I was ashamed of being afraid to take it. They told
me,--Mr. Mildmay and the Duke,--that I could earn it to the benefit
of the country. I have not earned it, and the country has not been
benefited,--unless it be for the good of the country that my voice in
the House should be silenced. If I believe that, I ought to hold my
tongue without taking a salary for holding it. I have made a mistake,
my friend. Such mistakes made at my time of life cannot be wholly
rectified; but, being convinced of my error, I must do the best in my
power to put myself right again.”
There was a bitterness in all this to Phineas himself of which he
could not but make plaint to his companion. “The truth is,” he said,
“that a man in office must be a slave, and that slavery is
distasteful.”
“There I think you are wrong. If you mean that you cannot do joint
work with other men altogether after your own fashion the same may be
said of all work. If you had stuck to the Bar you must have pleaded
your causes in conformity with instructions from the attorneys.”
“I should have been guided by my own lights in advising those
attorneys.”
“I cannot see that you suffer anything that ought to go against the
grain with you. You are beginning young, and it is your first adopted
career. With me it is otherwise. If by my telling you this I shall
have led you astray, I shall regret my openness with you. Could I
begin again, I would willingly begin as you began.”
It was a great day in Killaloe, that on which Mr. Monk arrived with
Phineas at the doctor’s house. In London, perhaps, a bishop inspires
more awe than a Cabinet Minister. In Killaloe, where a bishop might
be seen walking about every day, the mitred dignitary of the Church,
though much loved, was thought of, I fear, but lightly; whereas a
Cabinet Minister coming to stay in the house of a townsman was a
thing to be wondered at, to be talked about, to be afraid of, to be
a fruitful source of conversation for a year to come. There were
many in Killaloe, especially among the elder ladies, who had shaken
their heads and expressed the saddest doubts when young Phineas Finn
had first become a Parliament man. And though by degrees they had
been half brought round, having been driven to acknowledge that he
had been wonderfully successful as a Parliament man, still they
had continued to shake their heads among themselves, and to fear
something in the future,--until he appeared at his old home leading a
Cabinet Minister by the hand. There was such assurance in this that
even old Mrs. Callaghan, at the brewery, gave way, and began to say
all manner of good things, and to praise the doctor’s luck in that he
had a son gifted with parts so excellent. There was a great desire to
see the Cabinet Minister in the flesh, to be with him when he ate and
drank, to watch the gait and countenance of the man, and to drink
water from this fountain of state lore which had been so wonderfully
brought among them by their young townsman. Mrs. Finn was aware that
it behoved her to be chary of her invitations, but the lady from the
brewery had said such good things of Mrs. Finn’s black swan, that she
carried her point, and was invited to meet the Cabinet Minister at
dinner on the day after his arrival.
Mrs. Flood Jones and her daughter were invited also to be of the
party. When Phineas had been last at Killaloe, Mrs. Flood Jones,
as the reader may remember, had remained with her daughter at
Floodborough,--feeling it to be her duty to keep her daughter away
from the danger of an unrequited attachment. But it seemed that
her purpose was changed now, or that she no longer feared the
danger,--for both Mary and her mother were now again living in
Killaloe, and Mary was at the doctor’s house as much as ever.
A day or two before the coming of the god and the demigod to the
little town, Barbara Finn and her friend had thus come to understand
each other as they walked along the Shannon side. “I am sure, my
dear, that he is engaged to nobody,” said Barbara Finn.
“And I am sure, my dear,” said Mary, “that I do not care whether he
is or is not.”
“What do you mean, Mary?”
“I mean what I say. Why should I care? Five years ago I had a foolish
dream, and now I am awake again. Think how old I have got to be!”
“Yes;--you are twenty-three. What has that to do with it?”
“It has this to do with it;--that I am old enough to know better.
Mamma and I quite understand each other. She used to be angry with
him, but she has got over all that foolishness now. It always made me
so vexed;--the idea of being angry with a man because,--because--!
You know one can’t talk about it, it is so foolish. But that is all
over now.”
“Do you mean to say you don’t care for him, Mary? Do you remember
what you used to swear to me less than two years ago?”
“I remember it all very well, and I remember what a goose I was. As
for caring for him, of course I do,--because he is your brother, and
because I have known him all my life. But if he were going to be
married to-morrow, you would see that it would make no difference to
me.”
Barbara Finn walked on for a couple of minutes in silence before she
replied. “Mary,” she said at last, “I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Very well;--then all that I shall ask of you is, that we may not
talk about him any more. Mamma believes it, and that is enough for
me.” Nevertheless, they did talk about Phineas during the whole of
that day, and very often talked about him afterwards, as long as Mary
remained at Killaloe.
There was a large dinner party at the doctor’s on the day after Mr.
Monk’s arrival. The bishop was not there, though he was on terms
sufficiently friendly with the doctor’s family to have been invited
on so grand an occasion; but he was not there, because Mrs. Finn
was determined that she would be taken out to dinner by a Cabinet
Minister in the face of all her friends. She was aware that had the
bishop been there, she must have taken the bishop’s arm. And though
there would have been glory in that, the other glory was more to her
taste. It was the first time in her life that she had ever seen a
Cabinet Minister, and I think that she was a little disappointed at
finding him so like other middle-aged gentlemen. She had hoped that
Mr. Monk would have assumed something of the dignity of his position;
but he assumed nothing. Now the bishop, though he was a very mild
man, did assume something by the very facts of his apron and
knee-breeches.
“I am sure, sir, it is very good of you to come and put up with our
humble way of living,” said Mrs. Finn to her guest, as they sat down
at table. And yet she had resolved that she would not make any speech
of the kind,--that she would condescend to no apology,--that she
would bear herself as though a Cabinet Minister dined with her at
least once a year. But when the moment came, she broke down, and made
this apology with almost abject meekness, and then hated herself
because she had done so.
“My dear madam,” said Mr. Monk, “I live myself so much like a hermit
that your house is a palace of luxury to me.” Then he felt that he
had made a foolish speech, and he also hated himself. He found it
very difficult to talk to his hostess upon any subject, until by
chance he mentioned his young friend Phineas. Then her tongue was
unloosed. “Your son, madam,” he said, “is going with me to Limerick
and back to Dublin. It is a shame, I know, taking him so soon away
from home, but I should not know how to get on without him.”
“Oh, Mr. Monk, it is such a blessing for him, and such an honour for
us, that you should be so good to him.” Then the mother spoke out
all her past fears and all her present hopes, and acknowledged the
great glory which it was to her to have a son sitting in Parliament,
holding an office with a stately name and a great salary, and blessed
with the friendship of such a man as Mr. Monk. After that Mr. Monk
got on better with her.
“I don’t know any young man,” said he, “in whose career I have taken
so strong an interest.”
“He was always good,” said Mrs. Finn, with a tear forcing itself into
the corner of each eye. “I am his mother, and of course I ought not
to say so,--not in this way; but it is true, Mr. Monk.” And then the
poor lady was obliged to raise her handkerchief and wipe away the
drops.
Phineas on this occasion had taken out to dinner the mother of his
devoted Mary, Mrs. Flood Jones. “What a pleasure it must be to the
doctor and Mrs. Finn to see you come back in this way,” said Mrs.
Flood Jones.
“With all my bones unbroken?” said he, laughing.
“Yes; with all your bones unbroken. You know, Phineas, when we
first heard that you were to sit in Parliament, we were afraid that
you might break a rib or two,--since you choose to talk about the
breaking of bones.”
“Yes, I know. Everybody thought I should come to grief; but nobody
felt so sure of it as I did myself.”
“But you have not come to grief.”
“I am not out of the wood yet, you know, Mrs. Flood Jones. There is
plenty of possibility for grief in my way still.”
“As far as I can understand it, you are out of the wood. All that
your friends here want to see now is, that you should marry some nice
English girl, with a little money, if possible. Rumours have reached
us, you know.”
“Rumours always lie,” said Phineas.
“Sometimes they do, of course; and I am not going to ask any
indiscreet questions. But that is what we all hope. Mary was saying,
only the other day, that if you were once married, we should all
feel quite safe about you. And you know we all take the most lively
interest in your welfare. It is not every day that a man from County
Clare gets on as you have done, and therefore we are bound to think
of you.” Thus Mrs. Flood Jones signified to Phineas Finn that she had
forgiven him the thoughtlessness of his early youth,--even though
there had been something of treachery in that thoughtlessness to her
own daughter; and showed him, also, that whatever Mary’s feelings
might have been once, they were not now of a nature to trouble her.
“Of course you will marry?” said Mrs. Flood Jones.
“I should think very likely not,” said Phineas, who perhaps looked
farther into the mind of the lady than the lady intended.
“Oh, do,” said the lady. “Every man should marry as soon as he can,
and especially a man in your position.”
When the ladies met together in the drawing-room after dinner,
it was impossible but that they should discuss Mr. Monk. There
was Mrs. Callaghan from the brewery there, and old Lady Blood, of
Bloodstone,--who on ordinary occasions would hardly admit that she
was on dining-out terms with any one in Killaloe except the bishop,
but who had found it impossible to decline to meet a Cabinet
Minister,--and there was Mrs. Stackpoole from Sixmiletown, a far-away
cousin of the Finns, who hated Lady Blood with a true provincial
hatred.
“I don’t see anything particularly uncommon in him, after all,” said
Lady Blood.
“I think he is very nice indeed,” said Mrs. Flood Jones.
“So very quiet, my dear, and just like other people,” said Mrs.
Callaghan, meaning to pronounce a strong eulogium on the Cabinet
Minister.
“Very like other people indeed,” said Lady Blood.
“And what would you expect, Lady Blood?” said Mrs. Stackpoole. “Men
and women in London walk upon two legs, just as they do in Ennis.”
Now Lady Blood herself had been born and bred in Ennis, whereas Mrs.
Stackpoole had come from Limerick, which is a much more considerable
town, and therefore there was a satire in this allusion to the habits
of the men of Ennis which Lady Blood understood thoroughly.
“My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, I know how the people walk in London quite
as well as you do.” Lady Blood had once passed three months in London
while Sir Patrick had been alive, whereas Mrs. Stackpoole had never
done more than visit the metropolis for a day or two.
“Oh, no doubt,” said Mrs. Stackpoole; “but I never can understand
what it is that people expect. I suppose Mr. Monk ought to have
come with his stars on the breast of his coat, to have pleased Lady
Blood.”
“My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, Cabinet Ministers don’t have stars,” said
Lady Blood.
“I never said they did,” said Mrs. Stackpoole.
“He is so nice and gentle to talk to,” said Mrs. Finn. “You may say
what you will, but men who are high up do very often give themselves
airs. Now I must say that this friend of my son’s does not do
anything of that kind.”
“Not the least,” said Mrs. Callaghan.
“Quite the contrary,” said Mrs. Stackpoole.
“I dare say he is a wonderful man,” said Lady Blood. “All I say is,
that I didn’t hear anything wonderful come out of his mouth; and
as for people in Ennis walking on two legs, I have seen donkeys in
Limerick doing just the same thing.” Now it was well known that Mrs.
Stackpoole had two sons living in Limerick, as to neither of whom
was it expected that he would set the Shannon on fire. After this
little speech there was no further mention of Mr. Monk, as it became
necessary that all the good-nature of Mrs. Finn and all the tact
of Mrs. Flood Jones and all the energy of Mrs. Callaghan should be
used, to prevent the raging of an internecine battle between Mrs.
Stackpoole and Lady Blood.