Job’s Comforters
Before Phineas had returned to London his engagement with Mary Flood
Jones was known to all his family, was known to Mrs. Flood Jones, and
was indeed known generally to all Killaloe. That other secret of his,
which had reference to the probability of his being obliged to throw
up his office, was known only to Mary herself. He thought that he had
done all that honour required of him in telling her of his position
before he had proposed;--so that she might on that ground refuse
him if she were so minded. And yet he had known very well that such
prudence on her part was not to be expected. If she loved him, of
course she would say so when she was asked. And he had known that
she loved him. “There may be delay, Mary,” he said to her as he was
going; “nay, there must be delay, if I am obliged to resign.”
“I do not care a straw for delay if you will be true to me,” she
said.
“Do you doubt my truth, dearest?”
“Not in the least. I will swear by it as the one thing that is truest
in the world.”
“You may, dearest. And if this should come to pass I must go to work
and put my shoulder to the wheel, and earn an income for you by my
old profession before I can make you my wife. With such a motive
before me I know that I shall earn an income.” And thus they parted.
Mary, though of course she would have preferred that her future
husband should remain in his high office, that he should be a member
of Parliament and an Under-Secretary of State, admitted no doubt
into her mind to disturb her happiness; and Phineas, though he had
many misgivings as to the prudence of what he had done, was not the
less strong in his resolution of constancy and endurance. He would
throw up his position, resign his seat, and go to work at the Bar
instantly, if he found that his independence as a man required him to
do so. And, above all, let come what might, he would be true to Mary
Flood Jones.
December was half over before he saw Lord Cantrip. “Yes,--yes;” said
Lord Cantrip, when the Under-Secretary began to tell his story; “I
saw what you were about. I wish I had been at your elbow.”
“If you knew the country as I know it, you would be as eager about it
as I am.”
“Then I can only say that I am very glad that I do not know the
country as you know it. You see, Finn, it’s my idea that if a man
wants to make himself useful he should stick to some special kind of
work. With you it’s a thousand pities that you should not do so.”
“You think, then, I ought to resign?”
“I don’t say anything about that. As you wish it, of course I’ll
speak to Gresham. Monk, I believe, has resigned already.”
“He has written to me, and told me so,” said Phineas.
“I always felt afraid of him for your sake, Finn. Mr. Monk is a
clever man, and as honest a man as any in the House, but I always
thought that he was a dangerous friend for you. However, we will see.
I will speak to Gresham after Christmas. There is no hurry about it.”
When Parliament met the first great subject of interest was the
desertion of Mr. Monk from the Ministry. He at once took his place
below the gangway, sitting as it happened exactly in front of Mr.
Turnbull, and there he made his explanation. Some one opposite asked
a question whether a certain right honourable gentleman had not left
the Cabinet. Then Mr. Gresham replied that to his infinite regret his
right honourable friend, who lately presided at the Board of Trade,
had resigned; and he went on to explain that this resignation had,
according to his ideas, been quite unnecessary. His right honourable
friend entertained certain ideas about Irish tenant-right, as to
which he himself and his right honourable friend the Secretary for
Ireland could not exactly pledge themselves to be in unison with him;
but he had thought that the motion might have rested at any rate over
this session. Then Mr. Monk explained, making his first great speech
on Irish tenant-right. He found himself obliged to advocate some
immediate measure for giving security to the Irish farmer; and as he
could not do so as a member of the Cabinet, he was forced to resign
the honour of that position. He said something also as to the great
doubt which had ever weighed on his own mind as to the inexpediency
of a man at his time of life submitting himself for the first time
to the trammels of office. This called up Mr. Turnbull, who took
the opportunity of saying that he now agreed cordially with his old
friend for the first time since that old friend had listened to the
blandishments of the ministerial seducer, and that he welcomed his
old friend back to those independent benches with great satisfaction.
In this way the debate was very exciting. Nothing was said which made
it then necessary for Phineas to get upon his legs or to declare
himself; but he perceived that the time would rapidly come in which
he must do so. Mr. Gresham, though he strove to speak with gentle
words, was evidently very angry with the late President of the Board
of Trade; and, moreover, it was quite clear that a bill would be
introduced by Mr. Monk himself, which Mr. Gresham was determined
to oppose. If all this came to pass and there should be a close
division, Phineas felt that his fate would be sealed. When he again
spoke to Lord Cantrip on the subject, the Secretary of State shrugged
his shoulders and shook his head. “I can only advise you,” said Lord
Cantrip, “to forget all that took place in Ireland. If you will do
so, nobody else will remember it.” “As if it were possible to forget
such things,” he said in the letter which he wrote to Mary that
night. “Of course I shall go now. If it were not for your sake, I
should not in the least regret it.”
He had been with Madame Goesler frequently in the winter, and had
discussed with her so often the question of his official position
that she had declared that she was coming at last to understand the
mysteries of an English Cabinet. “I think you are quite right, my
friend,” she said,--“quite right. What--you are to be in Parliament
and say that this black thing is white, or that this white thing is
black, because you like to take your salary! That cannot be honest!”
Then, when he came to talk to her of money,--that he must give up
Parliament itself, if he gave up his place,--she offered to lend him
money. “Why should you not treat me as a friend?” she said. When he
pointed out to her that there would never come a time in which he
could pay such money back, she stamped her foot and told him that
he had better leave her. “You have high principle,” she said, “but
not principle sufficiently high to understand that this thing could
be done between you and me without disgrace to either of us.” Then
Phineas assured her with tears in his eyes that such an arrangement
was impossible without disgrace to him.
But he whispered to this new friend no word of the engagement with
his dear Irish Mary. His Irish life, he would tell himself, was a
thing quite apart and separate from his life in England. He said not
a word about Mary Flood Jones to any of those with whom he lived
in London. Why should he, feeling as he did that it would so soon
be necessary that he should disappear from among them? About Miss
Effingham he had said much to Madame Goesler. She had asked him
whether he had abandoned all hope. “That affair, then, is over?” she
had said.
“Yes;--it is all over now.”
“And she will marry the red-headed, violent lord?”
“Heaven knows. I think she will. But she is exactly the girl to
remain unmarried if she takes it into her head that the man she likes
is in any way unfitted for her.”
“Does she love this lord?”
“Oh yes;--there is no doubt of that.” And Phineas, as he made this
acknowledgment, seemed to do so without much inward agony of soul.
When he had been last in London he could not speak of Violet and Lord
Chiltern together without showing that his misery was almost too much
for him.
At this time he received some counsel from two friends. One was
Laurence Fitzgibbon, and the other was Barrington Erle. Laurence had
always been true to him after a fashion, and had never resented his
intrusion at the Colonial Office. “Phineas, me boy,” he said, “if all
this is thrue, you’re about up a tree.”
“It is true that I shall support Monk’s motion.”
“Then, me boy, you’re up a tree as far as office goes. A place like
that niver suited me, because, you see, that poker of a young lord
expected so much of a man; but you don’t mind that kind of thing, and
I thought you were as snug as snug.”
“Troubles will come, you see, Laurence.”
“Bedad, yes. It’s all throubles, I think, sometimes. But you’ve a way
out of all your throubles.”
“What way?”
“Pop the question to Madame Max. The money’s all thrue, you know.”
“I don’t doubt the money in the least,” said Phineas.
“And it’s my belief she’ll take you without a second word. Anyways,
thry it, Phinny, my boy. That’s my advice.” Phineas so far agreed
with his friend Laurence that he thought it possible that Madame
Goesler might accept him were he to propose marriage to her. He knew,
of course, that that mode of escape from his difficulties was out
of the question for him, but he could not explain this to Laurence
Fitzgibbon.
“I am sorry to hear that you have taken up a bad cause,” said
Barrington Erle to him.
“It is a pity;--is it not?”
“And the worst of it is that you’ll sacrifice yourself and do no good
to the cause. I never knew a man break away in this fashion, and not
feel afterwards that he had done it all for nothing.”
“But what is a man to do, Barrington? He can’t smother his
convictions.”
“Convictions! There is nothing on earth that I’m so much afraid of in
a young member of Parliament as convictions. There are ever so many
rocks against which men get broken. One man can’t keep his temper.
Another can’t hold his tongue. A third can’t say a word unless he has
been priming himself half a session. A fourth is always thinking of
himself, and wanting more than he can get. A fifth is idle, and won’t
be there when he’s wanted. A sixth is always in the way. A seventh
lies so that you never can trust him. I’ve had to do with them all,
but a fellow with convictions is the worst of all.”
“I don’t see how a fellow is to help himself,” said Phineas. “When a
fellow begins to meddle with politics they will come.”
“Why can’t you grow into them gradually as your betters and elders
have done before you? It ought to be enough for any man, when he
begins, to know that he’s a Liberal. He understands which side of the
House he’s to vote, and who is to lead him. What’s the meaning of
having a leader to a party, if it’s not that? Do you think that you
and Mr. Monk can go and make a government between you?”
“Whatever I think, I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“I’m not so sure of that. But look here, Phineas, I don’t care two
straws about Monk’s going. I always thought that Mildmay and the
Duke were wrong when they asked him to join. I knew he’d go over the
traces,--unless, indeed, he took his money and did nothing for it,
which is the way with some of those Radicals. I look upon him as
gone.”
“He has gone.”
“The devil go along with him, as you say in Ireland. But don’t you be
such a fool as to ruin yourself for a crotchet of Monk’s. It isn’t
too late yet for you to hold back. To tell you the truth, Gresham
has said a word to me about it already. He is most anxious that you
should stay, but of course you can’t stay and vote against us.”
“Of course I cannot.”
“I look upon you, you know, as in some sort my own child. I’ve tried
to bring other fellows forward who seemed to have something in them,
but I have never succeeded as I have with you. You’ve hit the thing
off, and have got the ball at your foot. Upon my honour, in the whole
course of my experience I have never known such good fortune as
yours.”
“And I shall always remember how it began, Barrington,” said Phineas,
who was greatly moved by the energy and solicitude of his friend.
“But, for God’s sake, don’t go and destroy it all by such mad
perversity as this. They mean to do something next session. Morrison
is going to take it up.” Sir Walter Morrison was at this time
Secretary for Ireland. “But of course we can’t let a fellow like Monk
take the matter into his own hands just when he pleases. I call it
d----d treachery.”
“Monk is no traitor, Barrington.”
“Men will have their own opinions about that. It’s generally
understood that when a man is asked to take a seat in the Cabinet he
is expected to conform with his colleagues, unless something very
special turns up. But I am speaking of you now, and not of Monk. You
are not a man of fortune. You cannot afford to make ducks and drakes.
You are excellently placed, and you have plenty of time to hark back,
if you’ll only listen to reason. All that Irish stump balderdash will
never be thrown in your teeth by us, if you will just go on as though
it had never been uttered.”
Phineas could only thank his friend for his advice, which was at
least disinterested, and was good of its kind, and tell him that he
would think of it. He did think of it very much. He almost thought
that, were it to do again, he would allow Mr. Monk to go upon his
tour alone, and keep himself from the utterance of anything that so
good a judge as Erle could call stump balderdash. As he sat in his
arm-chair in his room at the Colonial Office, with despatch-boxes
around him, and official papers spread before him,--feeling himself
to be one of those who in truth managed and governed the affairs of
this great nation, feeling also that if he relinquished his post now
he could never regain it,--he did wish that he had been a little less
in love with independence, a little quieter in his boastings that no
official considerations should ever silence his tongue. But all this
was too late now. He knew that his skin was not thick enough to bear
the arrows of those archers who would bend their bows against him if
he should now dare to vote against Mr. Monk’s motion. His own party
might be willing to forgive and forget; but there would be others who
would read those reports, and would appear in the House with the
odious tell-tale newspapers in their hands.
Then he received a letter from his father. Some good-natured person
had enlightened the doctor as to the danger in which his son
was placing himself. Dr. Finn, who in his own profession was a
very excellent and well-instructed man, had been so ignorant of
Parliamentary tactics, as to have been proud at his son’s success at
the Irish meetings. He had thought that Phineas was carrying on his
trade as a public speaker with proper energy and continued success.
He had cared nothing himself for tenant-right, and had acknowledged
to Mr. Monk that he could not understand in what it was that the
farmers were wronged. But he knew that Mr. Monk was a Cabinet
Minister, and he thought that Phineas was earning his salary. Then
there came some one who undeceived him, and the paternal bosom of
the doctor was dismayed. “I don’t mean to interfere,” he said in his
letter, “but I can hardly believe that you really intend to resign
your place. Yet I am told that you must do so if you go on with this
matter. My dear boy, pray think about it. I cannot imagine you are
disposed to lose all that you have won for nothing.” Mary also wrote
to him. Mrs. Finn had been talking to her, and Mary had taught
herself to believe that after the many sweet conversations she
had had with a man so high in office as Phineas, she really did
understand something about the British Government. Mrs. Finn had
interrogated Mary, and Mary had been obliged to own that it was quite
possible that Phineas would be called upon to resign.
“But why, my dear? Heaven and earth! Resign two thousand a year!”
“That he may maintain his independence,” said Mary proudly.
“Fiddlestick!” said Mrs. Finn. “How is he to maintain you, or himself
either, if he goes on in that way? I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t
get himself all wrong, even now.” Then Mrs. Finn began to cry; and
Mary could only write to her lover, pointing out to him how very
anxious all his friends were that he should do nothing in a hurry.
But what if the thing were done already! Phineas in his great
discomfort went to seek further counsel from Madame Goesler. Of all
his counsellors, Madame Goesler was the only one who applauded him
for what he was about to do.
“But, after all, what is it you give up? Mr. Gresham may be out
to-morrow, and then where will be your place?”
“There does not seem to be much chance of that at present.”
“Who can tell? Of course I do not understand,--but it was only the
other day when Mr. Mildmay was there, and only the day before that
when Lord de Terrier was there, and again only the day before
that when Lord Brock was there.” Phineas endeavoured to make her
understand that of the four Prime Ministers whom she had named, three
were men of the same party as himself, under whom it would have
suited him to serve. “I would not serve under any man if I were an
English gentleman in Parliament,” said Madame Goesler.
“What is a poor fellow to do?” said Phineas, laughing.
“A poor fellow need not be a poor fellow unless he likes,” said
Madame Goesler. Immediately after this Phineas left her, and as he
went along the street he began to question himself whether the
prospects of his own darling Mary were at all endangered by his
visits to Park Lane; and to reflect what sort of a blackguard he
would be,--a blackguard of how deep a dye,--were he to desert Mary
and marry Madame Max Goesler. Then he also asked himself as to the
nature and quality of his own political honesty if he were to abandon
Mary in order that he might maintain his parliamentary independence.
After all, if it should ever come to pass that his biography should
be written, his biographer would say very much more about the manner
in which he kept his seat in Parliament than of the manner in which
he kept his engagement with Miss Mary Flood Jones. Half a dozen
people who knew him and her might think ill of him for his conduct
to Mary, but the world would not condemn him! And when he thundered
forth his liberal eloquence from below the gangway as an independent
member, having the fortune of his charming wife to back him, giving
excellent dinners at the same time in Park Lane, would not the world
praise him very loudly?
When he got to his office he found a note from Lord Brentford
inviting him to dine in Portman Square.