CHAPTER XX.
PHINEAS AGAIN IN LONDON.
Phineas, on his return to London, before he had taken his seat in theHouse, 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,--L40,000,--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 L40,000. 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 Koenigstein. 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 hereceived it on the evening before the meeting of Parliament. He satup for nearly an hour thinking of it after he read it. He must answerit at once. That was a matter of course. But he could give her noadvice that would be of any service to her. He was, indeed, o
f allmen 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 softestnegatives she could use. It was clear to him that in his presentcondition she could take no steps whatever in regard to the money.That must be left to his conscience, to time, and to chance. As tothe threat of publicity, the probability, he thought, was that itwould lead to nothing. He doubted whether any respectable newspaperwould insert such a statement as that suggested. Were it published,the evil must be borne. No diligence on her part, or on the part ofher lawyers, could prevent it.
But what had she meant when she wrote of continual sin, sin not to beavoided, of sin repeated daily which nevertheless weighed her to theground? Was it expected of him that he should answer that portion ofher letter? It amounted to a passionate renewal of that declarationof affection for himself which she had made at Koenigstein, and whichhad pervaded her whole life since some period antecedent to herwretched marriage. Phineas, as he thought of it, tried to analyse thenature of such a love. He also, in those old days, had loved her, andhad at once resolved that he must tell her so, though his hopes ofsuccess had been poor indeed. He had taken the first opportunity, andhad declared his purpose. She, with the imperturbable serenity of amatured kind-hearted woman, had patted him on the back, as it were,as she told him of her existing engagement with Mr. Kennedy. Couldit be that at that moment she could have loved him as she now saidshe did, and that she should have been so cold, so calm, and so kind;while, at that very moment, this coldness, calmness, and kindness wasbut a thin crust over so strong a passion? How different had beenhis own love! He had been neither calm nor kind. He had felt himselffor a day or two to be so terribly knocked about that the world wasnothing to him. For a month or two he had regarded himself as a manpeculiarly circumstanced,--marked for misfortune and for a solitarylife. Then he had retricked his beams, and before twelve months werepassed had almost forgotten his love. He knew now, or thought thathe knew,--that the continued indulgence of a hopeless passion was afolly opposed to the very instincts of man and woman,--a weaknessshowing want of fibre and of muscle in the character. But here wasa woman who could calmly conceal her passion in its early days andmarry a man whom she did not love in spite of it, who could make herheart, her feelings, and all her feminine delicacy subordinate tomaterial considerations, and nevertheless could not rid herself ofher passion in the course of years, although she felt its existenceto be an intolerable burden on her conscience. On which side laystrength of character and on which side weakness? Was he strong orwas she?
And he tried to examine his own feelings in regard to her. The thingwas so long ago that she was to him as some aunt, or sister, so muchthe elder as to be almost venerable. He acknowledged to himself afeeling which made it incumbent upon him to spend himself in herservice, 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 shefree 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 behis sister. She had specially required of him that he should makeknown to her his wife, should he ever marry again. She had declaredthat she was incapable of further jealousy;--and yet she now told himof daily sin of which her conscience could not assoil itself.
"Phineas," said a voice close to his ears, "are you repenting yoursins?"
"Oh, certainly;--what sins?"
It was Barrington Erle. "You know that we are going to do nothingto-morrow," continued he.
"So I am told."
"We shall let the Address pass almost without a word. Gresham willsimply express his determination to oppose the Church Bill to theknife. He means to be very plain-spoken about it. Whatever may be themerits of the Bill, it must be regarded as an unconstitutional effortto retain power in the hands of the minority, coming from such handsas those of Mr. Daubeny. I take it he will go at length into thequestion of majorities, and show how inexpedient it is on behalfof the nation that any Ministry should remain in power who cannotcommand a majority in the House on ordinary questions. I don't knowwhether he will do that to-morrow or at the second reading of theBill."
"I quite agree with him."
"Of course you do. Everybody agrees with him. No gentleman can havea 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 fromhim on many things, I am bound to follow him. If he proposes ChurchReform 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 bemade to work. Were it not that men get drilled into it by the forceof circumstances any government in this country would be impossible.Were it not so, what should we come to? The Queen would find herselfjustified in keeping in any set of Ministers who could get herfavour, and ambitious men would prevail without any support from thecountry. 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 sheshould submit to dictation. Can it come safely from any other quarterthan 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 woulddare to deny it. And if it be so, what man in his senses can thinkof running counter to the party which he believes to be right in itsgeneral views? A man so burthened with scruples as to be unable toact in this way should keep himself aloof from public life. Such aone cannot serve the country in Parliament, though he may possibly doso with pen and ink in his closet."
"I wonder then that you should have asked me to come forward againafter what I did about the Irish land question," said Phineas.
"A first fault may be forgiven when the sinner has in other respectsbeen useful. The long and the short of it is that you must votewith us against Daubeny's bill. Browborough sees it plainly enough.He supported his chief in the teeth of all his protestations atTankerville."
"I am not Browborough."
"Nor half so good a man if you desert us," said Barrington Erle, withanger.
"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 shallask advice; but you must not quarrel with me if I say that I mustseek it from some one who is less distinctly a partisan than youare."
"From Monk?"
"Yes;--from Mr. Monk. I do think it will be bad for the country thatthis measure should come from the hands of Mr. Daubeny."
"Then why the d---- should you support it, and oppose your own partyat the same time? After that you can't do it. Well, Ratler, my guideand philosopher, how is it going to be?"
Mr. Ratler had joined them, but was still standing before the seatthey occupied, not condescending to sit down in amicable intercoursewith a man as to whom he did not yet know whether to regard him asa friend or foe. "We shall be very quiet for the next month or sixweeks," said Ratler.
"And then?" asked Phineas.
"Well, then it will depend on what may be the number of a few insanemen who never ought to have seats in the House."
"Such as Mr. Monk and Mr. Turnbull?" Now it was well known that boththose gentlemen, who were recognised as leading men, were strongRadicals, 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 bean exception. It is his business to go in for everything in the wayof agitation, and he at any rate is consistent. But when a man hasonce been in office,--why then--"
"When he has taken the shilling?" said Phineas. "Just so. I confessI 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," saidPhineas. "But if I understand your object, it is chiefly themaintenance of the old-established political power of the Whigs. Youbelieve in families?"
"I do believe in the patriotism of certain families. I believe thatthe Mildmays, FitzHowards, and Pallisers have for some centuriesbrought up their children to regard the well-being of their countryas their highest personal interest, and that such teaching has beengenerally efficacious. Of course, there have been failures. Everychild won't learn its lesson however well it may be taught. But theschool in which good training is most practised will, as a rule, turnout the best scholars. In this way I believe in families. You havecome in for some of the teaching, and I expect to see you a scholaryet."
The House met on the following day, and the Address was moved andseconded; but there was no debate. There was not even a full House.The same ceremony had taken place so short a time previously, thatthe whole affair was flat and uninteresting. It was understood thatnothing would in fact be done. Mr. Gresham, as leader of his sideof the House, confined himself to asserting that he should givehis firmest opposition to the proposed measure, which was, itseemed, 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 mustunfortunately be repeated very soon, and he would not, therefore, nowtrouble the House with them. He did not on this occasion explain hisideas as to majorities, and the Address was carried by seven o'clockin the evening. Mr. Daubeny named a day a month hence for the firstreading of his bill, and was asked the cause of the delay by somemember on a back bench. "Because it cannot be ready sooner," saidMr. Daubeny. "When the honourable gentleman has achieved a positionwhich will throw upon him the responsibility of bringing forwardsome great measure for the benefit of his country, he will probablyfind it expedient to devote some little time to details. If he donot, he will be less anxious to avoid attack than I am." A Ministercan always give a reason; and, if he be clever, he can generallywhen doing so punish the man who asks for it. The punishing of aninfluential enemy is an indiscretion; but an obscure questioner mayoften be crushed with good effect.
Mr. Monk's advice to Phineas was both simple and agreeable. Heintended to support Mr. Gresham, and of course counselled his friendto do the same.
"But you supported Mr. Daubeny on the Address before Christmas," saidPhineas.
"And shall therefore be bound to explain why I oppose him now;--butthe task will not be difficult. The Queen's speech to Parliament wasin my judgment right, and therefore I concurred in the Address. But Icertainly cannot trust Mr. Daubeny with Church Reform. I do not knowthat many will make the same distinction, but I shall do so."
Phineas soon found himself sitting in the House as though he hadnever left it. His absence had not been long enough to make the placefeel strange to him. He was on his legs before a fortnight was overasking some question of some Minister, and of course insinuatingas he did so that the Minister in question had been guilty of someenormity of omission or commission. It all came back upon him asthough he had been born to the very manner. And as it became knownto the Ratlers that he meant to vote right on the great comingquestion,--to vote right and to speak right in spite of his doingsat Tankerville,--everybody was civil to him. Mr. Bonteen did expressan opinion to Mr. Ratler that it was quite impossible that PhineasFinn should ever again accept office, as of course the Tankervillianswould never replace him in his seat after manifest apostasy to hispledge; but Mr. Ratler seemed to think very little of that. "Theywon't remember, Lord bless you;--and then he's one of those fellowsthat always get in somewhere. He's not a man I particularly like; butyou'll always see him in the House;--up and down, you know. When afellow begins early, and has got it in him, it's hard to shake himoff." And thus even Mr. Ratler was civil to our hero.
Lady Laura Kennedy's letter had, of course, been answered,--notwithout very great difficulty. "My dear Laura," he had begun,--forthe first time in his life. She had told him to treat her asa brother would do, and he thought it best to comply with herinstructions. But beyond that, till he declared himself at the end tobe hers affectionately, he made no further protestation of affection.He made no allusion to that sin which weighed so heavily on her, butanswered all her questions. He advised her to remain at Dresden. Heassured her that no power could be used to enforce her return. Heexpressed his belief that Mr. Kennedy would abstain from making anypublic statement, but suggested that if any were made the answeringof it should be left to the family lawyer. In regard to the money, hethought it impossible that any step should be taken. He then told herall there was to tell of Lord and Lady Chiltern, and something alsoof himself. When the letter was written he found that it was cold andalmost constrained. To his own ears it did not sound like the heartyletter of a generous friend. It savoured of the caution with whichit had been prepared. But what could he do? Would he not sin againsther and increase her difficulties if he addressed her with warmaffection? Were he to say a word that ought not to be addressed toany woman he might do her an irreparable injury; and yet the tone ofhis own letter was odious to him.