PHINEAS AGAIN IN LONDON.
Phineas, on his return to London, before he had taken his seat in the
House, received the following letter from Lady Laura Kennedy:--
Dresden, Feb. 8, 1870.
DEAR FRIEND,--
I thought that perhaps you would have written to me from
Harrington. Violet has told me of the meeting between you
and Madame Goesler, and says that the old friendship seems
to have been perfectly re-established. She used to think
once that there might be more than friendship, but I
never quite believed that. She tells me that Chiltern is
quarrelling with the Pallisers. You ought not to let him
quarrel with people. I know that he would listen to you.
He always did.
I write now especially because I have just received so
dreadful a letter from Mr. Kennedy! I would send it you
were it not that there are in it a few words which on his
behalf I shrink from showing even to you. It is full of
threats. He begins by quotations from the Scriptures, and
from the Prayer-Book, to show that a wife has no right to
leave her husband,--and then he goes on to the law. One
knows all that of course. And then he asks whether he ever
ill-used me? Was he ever false to me? Do I think, that
were I to choose to submit the matter to the iniquitous
practices of the present Divorce Court, I could prove
anything against him by which even that low earthly
judge would be justified in taking from him his marital
authority? And if not,--have I no conscience? Can I
reconcile it to myself to make his life utterly desolate
and wretched simply because duties which I took upon
myself at my marriage have become distasteful to me?
These questions would be very hard to answer, were there
not other questions that I could ask. Of course I was
wrong to marry him. I know that now, and I repent my sin
in sackcloth and ashes. But I did not leave him after
I married him till he had brought against me horrid
accusations,--accusations which a woman could not bear,
which, if he believed them himself, must have made it
impossible for him to live with me. Could any wife live
with a husband who declared to her face that he believed
that she had a lover? And in this very letter he says that
which almost repeats the accusation. He has asked me how I
can have dared to receive you, and desires me never either
to see you or to wish to see you again. And yet he sent
for you to Loughlinter before you came, in order that you
might act as a friend between us. How could I possibly
return to a man whose power of judgment has so absolutely
left him?
I have a conscience in the matter, a conscience that
is very far from being at ease. I have done wrong, and
have shipwrecked every hope in this world. No woman was
ever more severely punished. My life is a burden to me,
and I may truly say that I look for no peace this side
the grave. I am conscious, too, of continued sin,--a
sin unlike other sins,--not to be avoided, of daily
occurrence, a sin which weighs me to the ground. But I
should not sin the less were I to return to him. Of course
he can plead his marriage. The thing is done. But it can't
be right that a woman should pretend to love a man whom
she loathes. I couldn't live with him. If it were simply
to go and die, so that his pride would be gratified by my
return, I would do it; but I should not die. There would
come some horrid scene, and I should be no more a wife to
him than I am while living here.
He now threatens me with publicity. He declares that
unless I return to him he will put into some of the papers
a statement of the whole case. Of course this would be
very bad. To be obscure and untalked of is all the comfort
that now remains to me. And he might say things that
would be prejudicial to others,--especially to you. Could
this in any way be prevented? I suppose the papers would
publish anything; and you know how greedily people will
read slander about those whose names are in any way
remarkable. In my heart I believe he is insane; but it is
very hard that one's privacy should be at the mercy of a
madman. He says that he can get an order from the Court of
Queen's Bench which will oblige the judges in Saxony to
send me back to England in the custody of the police, but
that I do not believe. I had the opinion of Sir Gregory
Grogram before I came away, and he told me that it was not
so. I do not fear his power over my person, while I remain
here, but that the matter should be dragged forward before
the public.
I have not answered him yet, nor have I shown his letter
to Papa. I hardly liked to tell you when you were here,
but I almost fear to talk to Papa about it. He never urges
me to go back, but I know that he wishes that I should do
so. He has ideas about money, which seem singular to me,
knowing, as I do, how very generous he has been himself.
When I married, my fortune, as you knew, had been just
used in paying Chiltern's debts. Mr. Kennedy had declared
himself to be quite indifferent about it, though the sum
was large. The whole thing was explained to him, and he
was satisfied. Before a year was over he complained to
Papa, and then Papa and Chiltern together raised the
money,--£40,000,--and it was paid to Mr. Kennedy. He
has written more than once to Papa's lawyer to say that,
though the money is altogether useless to him, he will not
return a penny of it, because by doing so he would seem
to abandon his rights. Nobody has asked him to return
it. Nobody has asked him to defray a penny on my account
since I left him. But Papa continues to say that the
money should not be lost to the family. I cannot, however,
return to such a husband for the sake of £40,000. Papa is
very angry about the money, because he says that if it had
been paid in the usual way at my marriage, settlements
would have been required that it should come back to the
family after Mr. Kennedy's death in the event of my having
no child. But, as it is now, the money would go to his
estate after my death. I don't understand why it should be
so, but Papa is always harping upon it, and declaring that
Mr. Kennedy's pretended generosity has robbed us all. Papa
thinks that were I to return this could be arranged; but
I could not go back to him for such a reason. What does
it matter? Chiltern and Violet will have enough; and of
what use would it be to such a one as I am to have a sum
of money to leave behind me? I should leave it to your
children, Phineas, and not to Chiltern's.
He bids me neither see you nor write to you,--but how can
I obey a man whom I believe to be mad? And when I will
not obey him in the greater matter by returning to him it
would be absurd were I to attempt to obey him in smaller
details. I don't suppose I shall see you very often. His
letter has, at any rate, made me feel that it would be
impossible for me to return to England, and it is not
likely that you will soon come here again. I will not even
ask you to do so, though your presence gave a brightness
to my life for a few days which nothing else could have
produced. But when the lamp for a while burns with special
brightness there always comes afterwards a corresponding
dullness. I had to pay for your visit, and for the comfort
of my confession to you at Königstein. I was determined
that you should know it all; but, having told you, I do
not want to see you again. As for writing, he shall not
deprive me of the consolation,--nor I trust will you.
Do you think that I should answer his letter, or will it
be better that I should show it to Papa? I am very averse
to doing this, as I have explained to you; but I would
do so if I thought that Mr. Kennedy really intended to
act upon his threats. I will not conceal from you that it
would go nigh to kill me if my name were dragged through
the papers. Can anything be done to prevent it? If he were
known to be mad of course the papers would not publish his
statements; but I suppose that if he were to send a letter
from Loughlinter with his name to it they would print it.
It would be very, very cruel.
God bless you. I need not say how faithfully I am
Your friend,
L. K.
This letter was addressed to Phineas at his club, and there he
received it on the evening before the meeting of Parliament. He sat
up for nearly an hour thinking of it after he read it. He must answer
it at once. That was a matter of course. But he could give her no
advice that would be of any service to her. He was, indeed, of all
men the least fitted to give her counsel in her present emergency.
It seemed to him that as she was safe from any attack on her person,
she need only remain at Dresden, answering his letter by what softest
negatives she could use. It was clear to him that in his present
condition she could take no steps whatever in regard to the money.
That must be left to his conscience, to time, and to chance. As to
the threat of publicity, the probability, he thought, was that it
would lead to nothing. He doubted whether any respectable newspaper
would insert such a statement as that suggested. Were it published,
the evil must be borne. No diligence on her part, or on the part of
her lawyers, could prevent it.
But what had she meant when she wrote of continual sin, sin not to be
avoided, of sin repeated daily which nevertheless weighed her to the
ground? Was it expected of him that he should answer that portion of
her letter? It amounted to a passionate renewal of that declaration
of affection for himself which she had made at Königstein, and which
had pervaded her whole life since some period antecedent to her
wretched marriage. Phineas, as he thought of it, tried to analyse the
nature of such a love. He also, in those old days, had loved her, and
had at once resolved that he must tell her so, though his hopes of
success had been poor indeed. He had taken the first opportunity, and
had declared his purpose. She, with the imperturbable serenity of a
matured kind-hearted woman, had patted him on the back, as it were,
as she told him of her existing engagement with Mr. Kennedy. Could
it be that at that moment she could have loved him as she now said
she did, and that she should have been so cold, so calm, and so kind;
while, at that very moment, this coldness, calmness, and kindness was
but a thin crust over so strong a passion? How different had been
his own love! He had been neither calm nor kind. He had felt himself
for a day or two to be so terribly knocked about that the world was
nothing to him. For a month or two he had regarded himself as a man
peculiarly circumstanced,--marked for misfortune and for a solitary
life. Then he had retricked his beams, and before twelve months were
passed had almost forgotten his love. He knew now, or thought that
he knew,--that the continued indulgence of a hopeless passion was a
folly opposed to the very instincts of man and woman,--a weakness
showing want of fibre and of muscle in the character. But here was
a woman who could calmly conceal her passion in its early days and
marry a man whom she did not love in spite of it, who could make her
heart, her feelings, and all her feminine delicacy subordinate to
material considerations, and nevertheless could not rid herself of
her passion in the course of years, although she felt its existence
to be an intolerable burden on her conscience. On which side lay
strength of character and on which side weakness? Was he strong or
was she?
And he tried to examine his own feelings in regard to her. The thing
was so long ago that she was to him as some aunt, or sister, so much
the elder as to be almost venerable. He acknowledged to himself a
feeling which made it incumbent upon him to spend himself in her
service, could he serve her by any work of his. He was,--or would be,
devoted to her. He owed her a never-dying gratitude. But were she
free to marry again to-morrow, he knew that he could not marry her.
She herself had said the same thing. She had said that she would be
his sister. She had specially required of him that he should make
known to her his wife, should he ever marry again. She had declared
that she was incapable of further jealousy;--and yet she now told him
of daily sin of which her conscience could not assoil itself.
"Phineas," said a voice close to his ears, "are you repenting your
sins?"
"Oh, certainly;--what sins?"
It was Barrington Erle. "You know that we are going to do nothing
to-morrow," continued he.
"So I am told."
"We shall let the Address pass almost without a word. Gresham will
simply express his determination to oppose the Church Bill to the
knife. He means to be very plain-spoken about it. Whatever may be the
merits of the Bill, it must be regarded as an unconstitutional effort
to retain power in the hands of the minority, coming from such hands
as those of Mr. Daubeny. I take it he will go at length into the
question of majorities, and show how inexpedient it is on behalf
of the nation that any Ministry should remain in power who cannot
command a majority in the House on ordinary questions. I don't know
whether he will do that to-morrow or at the second reading of the
Bill."
"I quite agree with him."
"Of course you do. Everybody agrees with him. No gentleman can have
a doubt on the subject. Personally, I hate the idea of Church Reform.
Dear old Mildmay, who taught me all I know, hates it too. But Mr.
Gresham is the head of our party now, and much as I may differ from
him on many things, I am bound to follow him. If he proposes Church
Reform in my time, or anything else, I shall support him."
"I know those are your ideas."
"Of course they are. There are no other ideas on which things can be
made to work. Were it not that men get drilled into it by the force
of circumstances any government in this country would be impossible.
Were it not so, what should we come to? The Queen would find herself
justified in keeping in any set of Ministers who could get her
favour, and ambitious men would prevail without any support from the
country. The Queen must submit to dictation from some quarter."
"She must submit to advice, certainly."
"Don't cavil at a word when you know it to be true," said Barrington,
energetically. "The constitution of the country requires that she
should submit to dictation. Can it come safely from any other quarter
than that of a majority of the House of Commons?"
"I think not."
"We are all agreed about that. Not a single man in either House would
dare to deny it. And if it be so, what man in his senses can think
of running counter to the party which he believes to be right in its
general views? A man so burthened with scruples as to be unable to
act in this way should keep himself aloof from public life. Such a
one cannot serve the country in Parliament, though he may possibly do
so with pen and ink in his closet."
"I wonder then that you should have asked me to come forward again
after what I did about the Irish land question," said Phineas.
"A first fault may be forgiven when the sinner has in other respects
been useful. The long and the short of it is that you must vote
with us against Daubeny's bill. Browborough sees it plainly enough.
He supported his chief in the teeth of all his protestations at
Tankerville."
"I am not Browborough."
"Nor half so good a man if you desert us," said Barrington Erle, with
anger.
"I say nothing about that. He has his ideas of duty, and I have mine.
But I will go so far as this. I have not yet made up my mind. I shall
ask advice; but you must not quarrel with me if I say that I must
seek it from some one who is less distinctly a partisan than you
are."
"From Monk?"
"Yes;--from Mr. Monk. I do think it will be bad for the country that
this measure should come from the hands of Mr. Daubeny."
"Then why the d---- should you support it, and oppose your own party
at the same time? After that you can't do it. Well, Ratler, my guide
and philosopher, how is it going to be?"
Mr. Ratler had joined them, but was still standing before the seat
they occupied, not condescending to sit down in amicable intercourse
with a man as to whom he did not yet know whether to regard him as
a friend or foe. "We shall be very quiet for the next month or six
weeks," said Ratler.
"And then?" asked Phineas.
"Well, then it will depend on what may be the number of a few insane
men who never ought to have seats in the House."
"Such as Mr. Monk and Mr. Turnbull?" Now it was well known that both
those gentlemen, who were recognised as leading men, were strong
Radicals, and it was supposed that they both would support any bill,
come whence it might, which would separate Church and State.
"Such as Mr. Monk," said Ratler. "I will grant that Turnbull may be
an exception. It is his business to go in for everything in the way
of agitation, and he at any rate is consistent. But when a man has
once been in office,--why then--"
"When he has taken the shilling?" said Phineas. "Just so. I confess
I do not like a deserter."
"Phineas will be all right," said Barrington Erle.
"I hope so," said Mr. Ratler, as he passed on.
"Ratler and I run very much in the same groove," said Barrington,
"but I fancy there is some little difference in the motive power."
"Ratler wants place."
"And so do I."
"He wants it just as most men want professional success," said
Phineas. "But if I understand your object, it is chiefly the
maintenance of the old-established political power of the Whigs. You
believe in families?"
"I do believe in the patriotism of certain families. I believe that
the Mildmays, FitzHowards, and Pallisers have for some centuries
brought up their children to regard the well-being of their country
as their highest personal interest, and that such teaching has been
generally efficacious. Of course, there have been failures. Every
child won't learn its lesson however well it may be taught. But the
school in which good training is most practised will, as a rule, turn
out the best scholars. In this way I believe in families. You have
come in for some of the teaching, and I expect to see you a scholar
yet."
The House met on the following day, and the Address was moved and
seconded; but there was no debate. There was not even a full House.
The same ceremony had taken place so short a time previously, that
the whole affair was flat and uninteresting. It was understood that
nothing would in fact be done. Mr. Gresham, as leader of his side
of the House, confined himself to asserting that he should give
his firmest opposition to the proposed measure, which was, it
seemed, so popular with the gentlemen who sat on the other side,
and who supported the so-called Conservative Government of the day.
His reasons for doing so had been stated very lately, and must
unfortunately be repeated very soon, and he would not, therefore, now
trouble the House with them. He did not on this occasion explain his
ideas as to majorities, and the Address was carried by seven o'clock
in the evening. Mr. Daubeny named a day a month hence for the first
reading of his bill, and was asked the cause of the delay by some
member on a back bench. "Because it cannot be ready sooner," said
Mr. Daubeny. "When the honourable gentleman has achieved a position
which will throw upon him the responsibility of bringing forward
some great measure for the benefit of his country, he will probably
find it expedient to devote some little time to details. If he do
not, he will be less anxious to avoid attack than I am." A Minister
can always give a reason; and, if he be clever, he can generally
when doing so punish the man who asks for it. The punishing of an
influential enemy is an indiscretion; but an obscure questioner may
often be crushed with good effect.
Mr. Monk's advice to Phineas was both simple and agreeable. He
intended to support Mr. Gresham, and of course counselled his friend
to do the same.
"But you supported Mr. Daubeny on the Address before Christmas," said
Phineas.
"And shall therefore be bound to explain why I oppose him now;--but
the task will not be difficult. The Queen's speech to Parliament was
in my judgment right, and therefore I concurred in the Address. But I
certainly cannot trust Mr. Daubeny with Church Reform. I do not know
that many will make the same distinction, but I shall do so."
Phineas soon found himself sitting in the House as though he had
never left it. His absence had not been long enough to make the place
feel strange to him. He was on his legs before a fortnight was over
asking some question of some Minister, and of course insinuating
as he did so that the Minister in question had been guilty of some
enormity of omission or commission. It all came back upon him as
though he had been born to the very manner. And as it became known
to the Ratlers that he meant to vote right on the great coming
question,--to vote right and to speak right in spite of his doings
at Tankerville,--everybody was civil to him. Mr. Bonteen did express
an opinion to Mr. Ratler that it was quite impossible that Phineas
Finn should ever again accept office, as of course the Tankervillians
would never replace him in his seat after manifest apostasy to his
pledge; but Mr. Ratler seemed to think very little of that. "They
won't remember, Lord bless you;--and then he's one of those fellows
that always get in somewhere. He's not a man I particularly like; but
you'll always see him in the House;--up and down, you know. When a
fellow begins early, and has got it in him, it's hard to shake him
off." And thus even Mr. Ratler was civil to our hero.
Lady Laura Kennedy's letter had, of course, been answered,--not
without very great difficulty. "My dear Laura," he had begun,--for
the first time in his life. She had told him to treat her as
a brother would do, and he thought it best to comply with her
instructions. But beyond that, till he declared himself at the end to
be hers affectionately, he made no further protestation of affection.
He made no allusion to that sin which weighed so heavily on her, but
answered all her questions. He advised her to remain at Dresden. He
assured her that no power could be used to enforce her return. He
expressed his belief that Mr. Kennedy would abstain from making any
public statement, but suggested that if any were made the answering
of it should be left to the family lawyer. In regard to the money, he
thought it impossible that any step should be taken. He then told her
all there was to tell of Lord and Lady Chiltern, and something also
of himself. When the letter was written he found that it was cold and
almost constrained. To his own ears it did not sound like the hearty
letter of a generous friend. It savoured of the caution with which
it had been prepared. But what could he do? Would he not sin against
her and increase her difficulties if he addressed her with warm
affection? Were he to say a word that ought not to be addressed to
any woman he might do her an irreparable injury; and yet the tone of
his own letter was odious to him.