CHAPTER VI.
PHINEAS AND HIS OLD FRIENDS.
Phineas Finn returned from Tankerville to London in much betterspirits than those which had accompanied him on his journey thither.He was not elected; but then, before the election, he had come tobelieve that it was quite out of the question that he should beelected. And now he did think it probable that he should get the seaton a petition. A scrutiny used to be a very expensive business, butunder the existing law, made as the scrutiny would be in the boroughitself, it would cost but little; and that little, should he besuccessful, would fall on the shoulders of Mr. Browborough. Should heknock off eight votes and lose none himself, he would be member forTankerville. He knew that many votes had been given for Browboroughwhich, if the truth were known of them, would be knocked off; and hedid not know that the same could be said of any one of those by whichhe had been supported. But, unfortunately, the judge by whom all thiswould be decided might not reach Tankerville in his travels tillafter Christmas, perhaps not till after Easter; and in the meantime,what should he do with himself?
As for going back to Dublin, that was now out of the question. He hadentered upon a feverish state of existence in which it was impossiblethat he should live in Ireland. Should he ultimately fail in regardto his seat he must--vanish out of the world. While he remained in hispresent condition he would not even endeavour to think how he mightin such case best bestow himself. For the present he would remainwithin the region of politics, and live as near as he could to thewhirl of the wheel of which the sound was so dear to him. Of one clubhe had always remained a member, and he had already been re-electeda member of the Reform. So he took up his residence once more at thehouse of a certain Mr. and Mrs. Bunce, in Great Marlborough Street,with whom he had lodged when he first became a member of Parliament.
"So you're at the old game, Mr. Finn?" said his landlord.
"Yes; at the old game. I suppose it's the same with you?" Now Mr.Bunce had been a very violent politician, and used to rejoice incalling himself a Democrat.
"Pretty much the same, Mr. Finn. I don't see that things are muchbetter than they used to be. They tell me at the People's Banneroffice that the lords have had as much to do with this election aswith any that ever went before it."
"Perhaps they don't know much about it at the People's Banner office.I thought Mr. Slide and the People's Banner had gone over to theother side, Bunce?"
"Mr. Slide is pretty wide-awake whatever side he's on. Not but whathe's disgraced himself by what he's been and done now." Mr. Slidein former days had been the editor of the People's Banner, andcircumstances had arisen in consequence of which there had been someacquaintance between him and our hero. "I see you was hammering awayat the Church down at Tankerville."
"I just said a word or two."
"You was all right, there, Mr. Finn. I can't say as I ever saw verymuch in your religion; but what a man keeps in the way of religionfor his own use is never nothing to me;--as what I keeps is nothingto him."
"I'm afraid you don't keep much, Mr. Bunce."
"And that's nothing to you, neither, is it, sir?"
"No, indeed."
"But when we read of Churches as is called State Churches,--Churchesas have bishops you and I have to pay for, as never goes into them--"
"But we don't pay the bishops, Mr. Bunce."
"Oh yes, we do; because, if they wasn't paid, the money would come tous to do as we pleased with it. We proved all that when we pared themdown a bit. What's an Ecclesiastical Commission? Only another namefor a box to put the money into till you want to take it out again.When we hear of Churches such as these, as is not kept up by thepeople who uses them,--just as the theatres are, Mr. Finn, or the ginshops,--then I know there's a deal more to be done before honest mencan come by their own. You're right enough, Mr. Finn, you are, as faras churches go, and you was right, too, when you cut and run off theTreasury Bench. I hope you ain't going to sit on that stool again."
Mr. Bunce was a privileged person, and Mrs. Bunce made up for hisapparent rudeness by her own affectionate cordiality. "Deary me,and isn't it a thing for sore eyes to have you back again! I neverexpected this. But I'll do for you, Mr. Finn, just as I ever did inthe old days; and it was I that was sorry when I heard of the pooryoung lady's death; so I was, Mr. Finn; well, then, I won't mentionher name never again. But after all there's been betwixt you and usit wouldn't be natural to pass it by without one word; would it, Mr.Finn? Well, yes; he's just the same man as ever, without a ha'porthof difference. He's gone on paying that shilling to the Union everyweek of his life, just as he used to do; and never got so much outof it, not as a junketing into the country. That he didn't. It makesme that sick sometimes when I think of where it's gone to, that Idon't know how to bear it. Well, yes; that is true, Mr. Finn. Therenever was a man better at bringing home his money to his wife thanBunce, barring that shilling. If he'd drink it, which he never does,I think I'd bear it better than give it to that nasty Union. Andyoung Jack writes as well as his father, pretty nigh, Mr. Finn,which is a comfort,"--Mr. Bunce was a journeyman scrivener at a lawstationer's,--"and keeps his self; but he don't bring home his money,nor yet it can't be expected, Mr. Finn. I know what the young 'unswill do, and what they won't. And Mary Jane is quite handy about thehouse now,--only she do break things, which is an aggravation; andthe hot water shall be always up at eight o'clock to a minute, if Ibring it with my own hand, Mr. Finn."
"Well, then, I won't mention her name again."]
And so he was established once more in his old rooms in GreatMarlborough Street; and as he sat back in the arm-chair, which heused to know so well, a hundred memories of former days crowded backupon him. Lord Chiltern for a few months had lived with him; and thenthere had arisen a quarrel, which he had for a time thought woulddissolve his old life into ruin. Now Lord Chiltern was again hisvery intimate friend. And there had used to sit a needy money-lenderwhom he had been unable to banish. Alas! alas! how soon might he nowrequire that money-lender's services! And then he recollected how hehad left these rooms to go into others, grander and more appropriateto his life when he had filled high office under the State. Wouldthere ever again come to him such cause for migration? And would heagain be able to load the frame of the looking-glass over the firewith countless cards from Countesses and Ministers' wives? He hadopened the oyster for himself once, though it had closed again withso sharp a snap when the point of his knife had been withdrawn. Wouldhe be able to insert the point again between those two difficultshells? Would the Countesses once more be kind to him? Woulddrawing-rooms be opened to him, and sometimes opened to him and tono other? Then he thought of certain special drawing-rooms in whichwonderful things had been said to him. Since that he had been amarried man, and those special drawing-rooms and those wonderfulwords had in no degree actuated him in his choice of a wife. He hadleft all those things of his own free will, as though telling himselfthat there was a better life than they offered to him. But was hesure that he had found it to be better? He had certainly sighed forthe gauds which he had left. While his young wife was living he hadkept his sighs down, so that she should not hear them; but he hadbeen forced to acknowledge that his new life had been vapid andflavourless. Now he had been tempted back again to the old haunts.Would the Countesses' cards be showered upon him again?
One card, or rather note, had reached him while he was yet atTankerville, reminding him of old days. It was from Mrs. Low, thewife of the barrister with whom he had worked when he had been alaw student in London. She had asked him to come and dine with themafter the old fashion in Baker Street, naming a day as to which shepresumed that he would by that time have finished his affairs atTankerville, intimating also that Mr. Low would then have finishedhis at North Broughton. Now Mr. Low had sat for North Broughtonbefore Phineas left London, and his wife spoke of the seat as acertainty. Phineas could not keep himself from feeling that Mrs. Lowintended to triumph over him; but, nevertheless, he accepted theinvitation. They were very glad to see him, explainin
g that, asnobody was supposed to be in town, nobody had been asked to meethim. In former days he had been very intimate in that house, havingreceived from both of them much kindness, mingled, perhaps, with sometouch of severity on the part of the lady. But the ground for thatwas gone, and Mrs. Low was no longer painfully severe. A few wordswere said as to his great loss. Mrs. Low once raised her eyebrows inpretended surprise when Phineas explained that he had thrown up hisplace, and then they settled down on the question of the day. "Andso," said Mrs. Low, "you've begun to attack the Church?" It must beremembered that at this moment Mr. Daubeny had not as yet electrifiedthe minds of East Barsetshire, and that, therefore, Mrs. Low was notdisturbed. To Mrs. Low, Church and State was the very breath of hernostrils; and if her husband could not be said to live by means ofthe same atmosphere it was because the breath of his nostrils hadbeen drawn chiefly in the Vice-Chancellor's Court in Lincoln's Inn.But he, no doubt, would be very much disturbed indeed should he everbe told that he was required, as an expectant member of Mr. Daubeny'sparty, to vote for the Disestablishment of the Church of England.
"You don't mean that I am guilty of throwing the first stone?" saidPhineas.
"They have been throwing stones at the Temple since first it wasbuilt," said Mrs. Low, with energy; "but they have fallen off itspolished shafts in dust and fragments." I am afraid that Mrs. Low,when she allowed herself to speak thus energetically, entertainedsome confused idea that the Church of England and the Christianreligion were one and the same thing, or, at least, that they hadbeen brought into the world together.
"You haven't thrown the first stone," said Mr. Low; "but you havetaken up the throwing at the first moment in which stones may bedangerous."
"No stones can be dangerous," said Mrs. Low.
"The idea of a State Church," said Phineas, "is opposed to my theoryof political progress. What I hope is that my friends will notsuppose that I attack the Protestant Church because I am a RomanCatholic. If I were a priest it would be my business to do so; butI am not a priest."
Mr. Low gave his old friend a bottle of his best wine, and in allfriendly observances treated him with due affection. But neither didhe nor did his wife for a moment abstain from attacking their guestin respect to his speeches at Tankerville. It seemed, indeed, toPhineas that as Mrs. Low was buckled up in such triple armour thatshe feared nothing, she might have been less loud in expressing herabhorrence of the enemies of the Church. If she feared nothing,why should she scream so loudly? Between the two he was a gooddeal crushed and confounded, and Mrs. Low was very triumphant whenshe allowed him to escape from her hands at ten o'clock. But, atthat moment, nothing had as yet been heard in Baker Street of Mr.Daubeny's proposition to the electors of East Barsetshire! Poor Mrs.Low! We can foresee that there is much grief in store for her, andsome rocks ahead, too, in the political career of her husband.
Phineas was still in London, hanging about the clubs, doing nothing,discussing Mr. Daubeny's wonderful treachery with such men as came upto town, and waiting for the meeting of Parliament, when he receivedthe following letter from Lady Laura Kennedy:--
Dresden, November 18, ----.
MY DEAR MR. FINN,
I have heard with great pleasure from my sister-in-law that you have been staying with them at Harrington Hall. It seems so like old days that you and Oswald and Violet should be together,--so much more natural than that you should be living in Dublin. I cannot conceive of you as living any other life than that of the House of Commons, Downing Street, and the clubs. Nor do I wish to do so. And when I hear of you at Harrington Hall I know that you are on your way to the other things.
Do tell me what life is like with Oswald and Violet. Of course he never writes. He is one of those men who, on marrying, assume that they have at last got a person to do a duty which has always hitherto been neglected. Violet does write, but tells me little or nothing of themselves. Her letters are very nice, full of anecdote, well written,--letters that are fit to be kept and printed; but they are never family letters. She is inimitable in discussing the miseries of her own position as the wife of a Master of Hounds; but the miseries are as evidently fictitious as the art is real. She told me how poor dear Lady Baldock communicated to you her unhappiness about her daughter in a manner that made even me laugh; and would make thousands laugh in days to come were it ever to be published. But of her inside life, of her baby, or of her husband as a husband, she never says a word. You will have seen it all, and have enough of the feminine side of a man's character to be able to tell me how they are living. I am sure they are happy together, because Violet has more common sense than any woman I ever knew.
And pray tell me about the affair at Tankerville. My cousin Barrington writes me word that you will certainly get the seat. He declares that Mr. Browborough is almost disposed not to fight the battle, though a man more disposed to fight never bribed an elector. But Barrington seems to think that you managed as well as you did by getting outside the traces, as he calls it. We certainly did not think that you would come out strong against the Church. Don't suppose that I complain. For myself I hate to think of the coming severance; but if it must come, why not by your hands as well as by any other? It is hardly possible that you in your heart should love a Protestant ascendant Church. But, as Barrington says, a horse won't get oats unless he works steady between the traces.
As to myself, what am I to say to you? I and my father live here a sad, sombre, solitary life, together. We have a large furnished house outside the town, with a pleasant view and a pretty garden. He does--nothing. He reads the English papers, and talks of English parties, is driven out, and eats his dinner, and sleeps. At home, as you know, not only did he take an active part in politics, but he was active also in the management of his own property. Now it seems to him to be almost too great a trouble to write a letter to his steward; and all this has come upon him because of me. He is here because he cannot bear that I should live alone. I have offered to return with him to Saulsby, thinking that Mr. Kennedy would trouble me no further,--or to remain here by myself; but he will consent to neither. In truth the burden of idleness has now fallen upon him so heavily that he cannot shake it off. He dreads that he may be called upon to do anything.
To me it is all one tragedy. I cannot but think of things as they were two or three years since. My father and my husband were both in the Cabinet, and you, young as you were, stood but one step below it. Oswald was out in the cold. He was very poor. Papa thought all evil of him. Violet had refused him over and over again. He quarrelled with you, and all the world seemed against him. Then of a sudden you vanished, and we vanished. An ineffable misery fell upon me and upon my wretched husband. All our good things went from us at a blow. I and my poor father became as it were outcasts. But Oswald suddenly retricked his beams, and is flaming in the forehead of the morning sky. He, I believe, has no more than he has deserved. He won his wife honestly;--did he not? And he has ever been honest. It is my pride to think I never gave him up. But the bitter part of my cup consists in this,--that as he has won what he has deserved, so have we. I complain of no injustice. Our castle was built upon the sand. Why should Mr. Kennedy have been a Cabinet Minister;--and why should I have been his wife? There is no one else of whom I can ask that question as I can of you, and no one else who can answer it as you can do.
Of Mr. Kennedy it is singular how little I know, and how little I ever hear. There is no one whom I can ask to tell me of him. That he did not attend during the last Session I do know, and we presume that he has now abandoned his seat. I fear that his health is bad,--or perhaps, worse still, that his mind is affected by the gloom of his life. I suppose that he lives exclusively at Loughlinter. From time to time I am implored by him to return to my duty beneath his roof. He grounds his demand on no affection of his own, on no presumption that any af
fection can remain with me. He says no word of happiness. He offers no comfort. He does not attempt to persuade with promises of future care. He makes his claim simply on Holy Writ, and on the feeling of duty which thence ought to weigh upon me. He has never even told me that he loves me; but he is persistent in declaring that those whom God has joined together nothing human should separate. Since I have been here I have written to him once,--one sad, long, weary letter. Since that I am constrained to leave his letters unanswered.
And now, my friend, could you not do for me a great kindness? For a while, till the inquiry be made at Tankerville, your time must be vacant. Cannot you come and see us? I have told Papa that I should ask you, and he would be delighted. I cannot explain to you what it would be to me to be able to talk again to one who knows all the errors and all the efforts of my past life as you do. Dresden is very cold in the winter. I do not know whether you would mind that. We are very particular about the rooms, but my father bears the temperature wonderfully well, though he complains. In March we move down south for a couple of months. Do come if you can.
Most sincerely yours,
LAURA KENNEDY.
If you come, of course you will have yourself brought direct to us. If you can learn anything of Mr. Kennedy's life, and of his real condition, pray do. The faint rumours which reach me are painfully distressing.