CHAPTER II.
HARRINGTON HALL.
Phineas, on his first arrival in London, found a few of his oldfriends, men who were still delayed by business though the Sessionwas over. He arrived on the 10th of August, which may be consideredas the great day of the annual exodus, and he remembered how he,too, in former times had gone to Scotland to shoot grouse, and whathe had done there besides shooting. He had been a welcome guest atLoughlinter, the magnificent seat of Mr. Kennedy, and indeed therehad been that between him and Mr. Kennedy which ought to make him awelcome guest there still. But of Mr. Kennedy he had heard nothingdirectly since he had left London. From Mr. Kennedy's wife, LadyLaura, who had been his great friend, he had heard occasionally; butshe was separated from her husband, and was living abroad with herfather, the Earl of Brentford. Has it not been written in a formerbook how this Lady Laura had been unhappy in her marriage, havingwedded herself to a man whom she had never loved, because he was richand powerful, and how this very Phineas had asked her to be his brideafter she had accepted the rich man's hand? Thence had come greattrouble, but nevertheless there had been that between Mr. Kennedy andour hero which made Phineas feel that he ought still to be welcomedas a guest should he show himself at the door of Loughlinter Castle.The idea came upon him simply because he found that almost every manfor whom he inquired had just started, or was just starting, for theNorth; and he would have liked to go where others went. He asked afew questions as to Mr. Kennedy from Barrington Erle and others, whohad known him, and was told that the man now lived quite alone. Hestill kept his seat in Parliament, but had hardly appeared duringthe last Session, and it was thought that he would not come forwardagain. Of his life in the country nothing was known. "No one fisheshis rivers, or shoots his moors, as far as I can learn," saidBarrington Erle. "I suppose he looks after the sheep and says hisprayers, and keeps his money together."
"And there has been no attempt at a reconciliation?" Phineas asked.
"She went abroad to escape his attempts, and remains there in orderthat she may be safe. Of all hatreds that the world produces, awife's hatred for her husband, when she does hate him, is thestrongest."
In September Finn was back in Ireland, and about the end of thatmonth he made his first visit to Tankerville. He remained there forthree or four days, and was terribly disgusted while staying at the"Yellow" inn, to find that the people of the town would treat him asthough he were rolling in wealth. He was soon tired of Tankerville,and as he could do nothing further, on the spot, till the time forcanvassing should come on, about ten days previous to the election,he returned to London, somewhat at a loss to know how to bestirhimself. But in London he received a letter from another old friend,which decided him:--
"My dear Mr. Finn," said the letter,
of course you know that Oswald is now master of the Brake hounds. Upon my word, I think it is the place in the world for which he is most fit. He is a great martinet in the field, and works at it as though it were for his bread. We have been here looking after the kennels and getting up the horses since the beginning of August, and have been cub-hunting ever so long. Oswald wants to know whether you won't come down to him till the election begins in earnest.
We were so glad to hear that you were going to appear again. I have always known that it would be so. I have told Oswald scores of times that I was sure you would never be happy out of Parliament, and that your real home must be somewhere near the Treasury Chambers. You can't alter a man's nature. Oswald was born to be a master of hounds, and you were born to be a Secretary of State. He works the hardest and gets the least pay for it; but then, as he says, he does not run so great a risk of being turned out.
We haven't much of a house, but we have plenty of room for you. As for the house, it was a matter of course, whether good or bad. It goes with the kennels, and I should as little think of having a choice as though I were one of the horses. We have very good stables, and such a stud! I can't tell you how many there are. In October it seems as though their name were legion. In March there is never anything for any body to ride on. I generally find then that mine are taken for the whips. Do come and take advantage of the flush. I can't tell you how glad we shall be to see you. Oswald ought to have written himself, but he says--; I won't tell you what he says. We shall take no refusal. You can have nothing to do before you are wanted at Tankerville.
I was so sorry to hear of your great loss. I hardly know whether to mention it or to be silent in writing. If you were here of course I should speak of her. And I would rather renew your grief for a time than allow you to think that I am indifferent. Pray come to us.
Yours ever most sincerely,
VIOLET CHILTERN.
Harrington Hall, Wednesday.
Phineas Finn at once made up his mind that he would go to HarringtonHall. There was the prospect in this of an immediate return to someof the most charming pleasures of the old life, which was verygrateful to him. It pleased him much that he should have been sothought of by this lady,--that she should have sought him outat once, at the moment of his reappearance. That she would haveremembered him, he was quite sure, and that her husband, LordChiltern, should remember him also, was beyond a doubt. There hadbeen passages in their joint lives which people cannot forget. Butit might so well have been the case that they should not have caredto renew their acquaintance with him. As it was, they must havemade close inquiry, and had sought him at the first day of hisreappearance. The letter had reached him through the hands ofBarrington Erle, who was a cousin of Lord Chiltern, and was at onceanswered as follows:--
Fowler's Hotel, Jermyn Street, October 1st.
MY DEAR LADY CHILTERN,
I cannot tell you how much pleasure the very sight of your handwriting gave me. Yes, here I am again, trying my hand at the old game. They say that you can never cure a gambler or a politician; and, though I had very much to make me happy till that great blow came upon me, I believe that it is so. I am uneasy till I can see once more the Speaker's wig, and hear bitter things said of this "right honourable gentleman," and of that noble friend. I want to be once more in the midst of it; and as I have been left singularly desolate in the world, without a tie by which I am bound to aught but an honourable mode of living, I have determined to run the risk, and have thrown up the place which I held under Government. I am to stand for Tankerville, as you have heard, and I am told by those to whose tender mercies I have been confided by B. E. that I have not a chance of success.
Your invitation is so tempting that I cannot refuse it. As you say, I have nothing to do till the play begins. I have issued my address, and must leave my name and my fame to be discussed by the Tankervillians till I make my appearance among them on the 10th of this month. Of course, I had heard that Chiltern has the Brake, and I have heard also that he is doing it uncommonly well. Tell him that I have hardly seen a hound since the memorable day on which I pulled him out from under his horse in the brook at Wissindine. I don't know whether I can ride a yard now. I will get to you on the 4th, and will remain if you will keep me till the 9th. If Chiltern can put me up on anything a little quieter than Bonebreaker, I'll go out steadily, and see how he does his cubbing. I may, perhaps, be justified in opining that Bonebreaker has before this left the establishment. If so I may, perhaps, find myself up to a little very light work.
Remember me very kindly to him. Does he make a good nurse with the baby?
Yours, always faithfully,
PHINEAS FINN.
I cannot tell you with what pleasure I look forward to seeing you both again.
The next few days went very heavily with him. There had, indeed,been no real reason why he should not have gone to Harrington Hallat once, except that he did not wish to seem to be utterly homeless.And yet were he there, with his old friends, he would not scruplefor a moment in owning that such was the c
ase. He had fixed his day,however, and did remain in London till the 4th. Barrington Erle andMr. Ratler he saw occasionally, for they were kept in town on theaffairs of the election. The one was generally full of hope; but theother was no better than a Job's comforter. "I wouldn't advise you toexpect too much at Tankerville, you know," said Mr. Ratler.
"By no means," said Phineas, who had always disliked Ratler, and hadknown himself to be disliked in return. "I expect nothing."
"Browborough understands such a place as Tankerville so well! He hasbeen at it all his life. Money is no object to him, and he doesn'tcare a straw what anybody says of him. I don't think it's possible tounseat him."
"We'll try at least," said Phineas, upon whom, however, such remarksas these cast a gloom which he could not succeed in shaking off,though he could summon vigour sufficient to save him from showingthe gloom. He knew very well that comfortable words would be spokento him at Harrington Hall, and that then the gloom would go. Thecomforting words of his friends would mean quite as little as thediscourtesies of Mr. Ratler. He understood that thoroughly, and feltthat he ought to hold a stronger control over his own impulses. Hemust take the thing as it would come, and neither the flatterings offriends nor the threatenings of enemies could alter it; but he knewhis own weakness, and confessed to himself that another week of lifeby himself at Fowler's Hotel, refreshed by occasional interviews withMr. Ratler, would make him altogether unfit for the coming contest atTankerville.
He reached Harrington Hall in the afternoon about four, and foundLady Chiltern alone. As soon as he saw her he told himself that shewas not in the least altered since he had last been with her, and yetduring the period she had undergone that great change which turnsa girl into a mother. She had the baby with her when he came intothe room, and at once greeted him as an old friend,--as a loved andloving friend who was to be made free at once to all the inmostprivileges of real friendship, which are given to and are desired byso few. "Yes, here we are again," said Lady Chiltern, "settled, asfar as I suppose we ever shall be settled, for ever so many years tocome. The place belongs to old Lord Gunthorpe, I fancy, but really Ihardly know. I do know that we should give it up at once if we gaveup the hounds, and that we can't be turned out as long as we havethem. Doesn't it seem odd to have to depend on a lot of yelpingdogs?"
Lady Chiltern and her baby.]
"Only that the yelping dogs depend on you."
"It's a kind of give and take, I suppose, like other things in theworld. Of course, he's a beautiful baby. I had him in just thatyou might see him. I show Baby, and Oswald shows the hounds. We'venothing else to interest anybody. But nurse shall take him now.Come out and have a turn in the shrubbery before Oswald comes back.They're gone to-day as far as Trumpeton Wood, out of which no fox wasever known to break, and they won't be home till six."
"Who are 'they'?" asked Phineas, as he took his hat.
"The 'they' is only Adelaide Palliser. I don't think you ever knewher?"
"Never. Is she anything to the other Pallisers?"
"She is everything to them all; niece and grand-niece, and firstcousin and grand-daughter. Her father was the fourth brother, and asshe was one of six her share of the family wealth is small. ThosePallisers are very peculiar, and I doubt whether she ever saw theold duke. She has no father or mother, and lives when she is at homewith a married sister, about seventy years older than herself, Mrs.Attenbury."
"I remember Mrs. Attenbury."
"Of course you do. Who does not? Adelaide was a child then, Isuppose. Though I don't know why she should have been, as she callsherself one-and-twenty now. You'll think her pretty. I don't. Butshe is my great new friend, and I like her immensely. She rides tohounds, and talks Italian, and writes for the _Times_."
"Writes for the _Times_!"
"I won't swear that she does, but she could. There's only one otherthing about her. She's engaged to be married."
"To whom?"
"I don't know that I shall answer that question, and indeed I'm notsure that she is engaged. But there's a man dying for her."
"You must know, if she's your friend."
"Of course I know; but there are ever so many ins and outs, and Iought not to have said a word about it. I shouldn't have done so toany one but you. And now we'll go in and have some tea, and go tobed."
"Go to bed!"
"We always go to bed here before dinner on hunting days. When thecubbing began Oswald used to be up at three."
"He doesn't get up at three now."
"Nevertheless we go to bed. You needn't if you don't like, and I'llstay with you if you choose till you dress for dinner. I did knowso well that you'd come back to London, Mr. Finn. You are not a bitaltered."
"I feel to be changed in everything."
"Why should you be altered? It's only two years. I am altered becauseof Baby. That does change a woman. Of course I'm thinking always ofwhat he will do in the world; whether he'll be a master of houndsor a Cabinet Minister or a great farmer;--or perhaps a miserablespendthrift, who will let everything that his grandfathers andgrandmothers have done for him go to the dogs."
"Why do you think of anything so wretched, Lady Chiltern?"
"Who can help thinking? Men do do so. It seems to me that that is theline of most young men who come to their property early. Why should Idare to think that my boy should be better than others? But I do; andI fancy that he will be a great statesman. After all, Mr. Finn, thatis the best thing that a man can be, unless it is given him to be asaint and a martyr and all that kind of thing,--which is not justwhat a mother looks for."
"That would only be better than the spendthrift and gambler."
"Hardly better you'll say, perhaps. How odd that is! We all professto believe when we're told that this world should be used merely asa preparation for the next; and yet there is something so cold andcomfortless in the theory that we do not relish the prospect even forour children. I fancy your people have more real belief in it thanours."
Now Phineas Finn was a Roman Catholic. But the discussion was stoppedby the noise of an arrival in the hall.
"There they are," said Lady Chiltern; "Oswald never comes in withouta sound of trumpets to make him audible throughout the house." Thenshe went to meet her husband, and Phineas followed her out of thedrawing-room.
Lord Chiltern was as glad to see him as she had been, and in a veryfew minutes he found himself quite at home. In the hall he wasintroduced to Miss Palliser, but he was hardly able to see her as shestood there a moment in her hat and habit. There was ever so muchsaid about the day's work. The earths had not been properly stopped,and Lord Chiltern had been very angry, and the owner of TrumpetonWood, who was a great duke, had been much abused, and things had notgone altogether straight.
"Lord Chiltern was furious," said Miss Palliser, laughing, "andtherefore, of course, I became furious too, and swore that it wasan awful shame. Then they all swore that it was an awful shame, andeverybody was furious. And you might hear one man saying to anotherall day long, 'By George, this is too bad.' But I never could quitemake out what was amiss, and I'm sure the men didn't know."
"What was it, Oswald?"
"Never mind now. One doesn't go to Trumpeton Wood expecting to behappy there. I've half a mind to swear I'll never draw it again."
"I've been asking him what was the matter all the way home," saidMiss Palliser, "but I don't think he knows himself."
"Come upstairs, Phineas, and I'll show you your room," said LordChiltern. "It's not quite as comfortable as the old 'Bull,' but wemake it do."
Phineas, when he was alone, could not help standing for awhile withhis back to the fire thinking of it all. He did already feel himselfto be at home in that house, and his doing so was a contradiction toall the wisdom which he had been endeavouring to teach himself forthe last two years. He had told himself over and over again thatthat life which he had lived in London had been, if not a dream, atany rate not more significant than a parenthesis in his days, which,as of course it had no bearing on
those which had gone before, soneither would it influence those which were to follow. The dearfriends of that period of feverish success would for the futurebe to him as--nothing. That was the lesson of wisdom which he hadendeavoured to teach himself, and the facts of the last two years hadseemed to show that the lesson was a true lesson. He had disappearedfrom among his former companions, and had heard almost nothing fromthem. From neither Lord Chiltern or his wife had he received anytidings. He had expected to receive none,--had known that in thecommon course of things none was to be expected. There were manyothers with whom he had been intimate--Barrington Erle, LaurenceFitzgibbon, Mr. Monk, a politician who had been in the Cabinet, andin consequence of whose political teaching he, Phineas Finn, hadbanished himself from the political world;--from none of these had hereceived a line till there came that letter summoning him back to thebattle. There had never been a time during his late life in Dublin atwhich he had complained to himself that on this account his formerfriends had forgotten him. If they had not written to him, neitherhad he written to them. But on his first arrival in England he had,in the sadness of his solitude, told himself that he was forgotten.There would be no return, so he feared, of those pleasant intimacieswhich he now remembered so well, and which, as he remembered them,were so much more replete with unalloyed delights than they had everbeen in their existing realities. And yet here he was, a welcomeguest in Lord Chiltern's house, a welcome guest in Lady Chiltern'sdrawing-room, and quite as much at home with them as ever he had beenin the old days.
Who is there that can write letters to all his friends, or would notfind it dreary work to do so even in regard to those whom he reallyloves? When there is something palpable to be said, what a blessingis the penny post! To one's wife, to one's child, one's mistress,one's steward if there be a steward; one's gamekeeper, if there beshooting forward; one's groom, if there be hunting; one's publisher,if there be a volume ready or money needed; or one's tailoroccasionally, if a coat be required, a man is able to write. Butwhat has a man to say to his friend,--or, for that matter, what hasa woman? A Horace Walpole may write to a Mr. Mann about all thingsunder the sun, London gossip or transcendental philosophy, and ifthe Horace Walpole of the occasion can write well and will labourdiligently at that vocation, his letters may be worth reading byhis Mr. Mann, and by others; but, for the maintenance of love andfriendship, continued correspondence between distant friends isnaught. Distance in time and place, but especially in time, willdiminish friendship. It is a rule of nature that it should be so,and thus the friendships which a man most fosters are those which hecan best enjoy. If your friend leave you, and seek a residence inPatagonia, make a niche for him in your memory, and keep him thereas warm as you may. Perchance he may return from Patagonia and theold joys may be repeated. But never think that those joys can bemaintained by the assistance of ocean postage, let it be at neverso cheap a rate. Phineas Finn had not thought this matter out verycarefully, and now, after two years of absence, he was surprised tofind that he was still had in remembrance by those who had nevertroubled themselves to write to him a line during his absence.
When he went down into the drawing-room he was surprised to findanother old friend sitting there alone. "Mr. Finn," said the oldlady, "I hope I see you quite well. I am glad to meet you again. Youfind my niece much changed, I dare say?"
"Not in the least, Lady Baldock," said Phineas, seizing the profferedhand of the dowager. In that hour of conversation, which they had hadtogether, Lady Chiltern had said not a word to Phineas of her aunt,and now he felt himself to be almost discomposed by the meeting. "Isyour daughter here, Lady Baldock?"
Lady Baldock shook her head solemnly and sadly. "Do not speak of her,Mr. Finn. It is too sad! We never mention her name now." Phineaslooked as sad as he knew how to look, but he said nothing. Thelamentation of the mother did not seem to imply that the daughter wasdead; and, from his remembrance of Augusta Boreham, he would havethought her to be the last woman in the world to run away with thecoachman. At the moment there did not seem to be any other sufficientcause for so melancholy a wagging of that venerable head. He had beentold to say nothing, and he could ask no questions; but Lady Baldockdid not choose that he should be left to imagine things more terriblethan the truth. "She is lost to us for ever, Mr. Finn."
"How very sad."
"Sad, indeed! We don't know how she took it."
"Took what, Lady Baldock?"
"I am sure it was nothing that she ever saw at home. If there isa thing I'm true to, it is the Protestant Established Church ofEngland. Some nasty, low, lying, wheedling priest got hold of her,and now she's a nun, and calls herself--Sister Veronica John!" LadyBaldock threw great strength and unction into her description of thepriest; but as soon as she had told her story a sudden thought struckher. "Oh, laws! I quite forgot. I beg your pardon, Mr. Finn; butyou're one of them!"
"Not a nun, Lady Baldock." At that moment the door was opened, andLord Chiltern came in, to the great relief of his wife's aunt.