21 On the very morning after his failure in the House of Commons, when Phineas was reading in the Telegraph. He took the Telegraph, not from choice, but for economy. The words of that debate, which he had heard, and in which he should have taken a part, a most unwelcome visit was paid to him. It was near eleven, and the breakfast things were still on the table. He was, at this time, on a committee of the House, with reference to the use of potted peas in the army and navy, at which he had sat once, at a preliminary meeting, and in reference to which he had already resolved, that as he had failed so frightfully in debate, he would certainly do his duty to the utmost, in the more easy, but infinitely more tedious work of the committee room. The committee met at twelve, and he intended to walk down to the Reform Club, and then to the House. He had just completed his reading of the debate and of the leaders in the Telegraph on the subject. He had told himself how little the writer of the article knew about Mr. Turnbull, how little about Mr. Monk, and how little about the people, such being his own ideas as to the qualifications of the writer of that leading article, and was about to start. But Mrs. Bunce arrested him by telling him that there was a man below who wanted to see him. What sort of a man, Mrs. Bunce? He ain't a gentleman, sir. Did he give his name? He did not, sir, but I know it's about money. I know the ways of them so well. I've seen this one's face before somewhere. You had better show him up, said Phineas. He knew well the business on which the man was come. The man wanted money for that bill which Lawrence Fitzgibbon had sent to float, and which Phineas had endorsed. Phineas had never as yet fallen so deeply into troubles of money as to make it necessary that he need refuse himself to any callers on that score, and he did not choose to do so now. Nevertheless he most heartily wished that he had left his lodgings for the club before the man had come. This was not the first he had heard of the bill being overdue and unpaid. The bill had been brought to him noted a month since, and then he had simply told the youth who brought it that he would see Mr. Fitzgibbon and have the matter settled. He had spoken to his friend Lawrence, and Lawrence had simply assured him that all should be made right in two days, or at furthest by the end of a week. Since that time he had observed that his friend had been somewhat shy of speaking to him when no others were with them. Phineas would not have alluded to the bill had he and Lawrence been alone together, but he had been quick enough to guess from his friend's manner that the matter was not settled. Now, no doubt, serious trouble was about to commence. The visitor was a little man with gray hair and a white cravat, some sixty years of age, dressed in black, with a very decent hat, which on entering the room he at once put down on the nearest chair. With reference to whom any judge on the subject would have concurred at first sight in the decision pronounced by Mrs. Bunce, though none but a judge very well used to sift the causes of his own conclusions, could have given the reasons for that early decision. He ain't a gentleman, Mrs. Bunce had said, and the man certainly was not a gentleman. The old man in the white cravat was very neatly dressed, and carried himself without any of that humility which betrays one class of uncertified aspirants to gentility, or of that assumed arrogance which is at once fatal to another class. But nevertheless Mrs. Bunce had seen at a glance that he was not a gentleman, had seen, moreover, that such a man could have come only upon one mission. She was right there, too. This visitor had come about money. About this bill, Mr. Finn, said the visitor, proceeding to take out of his breastcoat pocket a rather large leather case, as he advanced up towards the fire. My name is Clarkson, Mr. Finn, if I may venture so far I'll take a chair. Certainly, Mr. Clarkson. said Phineas, getting up and pointing to a seat. Thank ye, Mr. Finn, thank ye. We shall be more comfortable doing business sitting, shan't we? Whereupon the horrid little man, drew himself close into the fire, and spreading out his leathern case upon his knees, began to turn over one suspicious bit of paper after another, as though he were uncertain in what part of his portfolio lay this identical bit which he was seeking. He seemed to be quite at home, and to feel that there was no ground, whatever, for hurry, in such comfortable quarters. Phineas hated him at once, with a hatred altogether unconnected with the difficulty which his friend Fitzgibbon had brought upon him. Here it is, said Mr. Clarkson at last. Oh, dear me, dear me! The third of November, and here we are in March. I didn't think it was so bad as this. I didn't indeed. This is very bad. Very bad. And for Parliament gents too, who should be more punctual than anybody, because of the privilege. Shouldn't they now, Mr. Finn? All men should be punctual, I suppose, said Phineas. Of course they should. Of course they should. I always say to my gents, be punctual, and I'll do anything for you. But perhaps, Mr. Finn, you can hand me a check for this amount, and then you and I will begin square. Indeed, I cannot, Mr. Clarkson. Not hand me a check for it? Upon my word, no. That's very bad. Very bad indeed. Then I suppose I must take the half, and renew for the remainder, though I don't like it. I don't indeed. I can pay no part of that bill, Mr. Clarkson. Pay no part of it. And Mr. Clarkson, in order that he might the better express his surprise, arrested his hand in the very act of poking his host's fire. If you'll allow me, I'll manage the fire, said Phineas, putting out his hand for the poker. But Mr. Clarkson was fond of poking fires, and would not surrender the poker. Pay no part of it, he said again, holding the poker away from Phineas in his left hand. Don't say that, Mr. Finn. Pray don't say that. Don't drive me to be severe. I don't like to be severe with my gents. I'll do anything, Mr. Finn, if you'll only be punctual. The fact is, Mr. Clarkson, I have never had one penny of consideration for that bill, and, oh, Mr. Finn, oh, Mr. Finn. And then Mr. Clarkson had his will of the fire. I never had one penny of consideration for that bill, continued Phineas. Of course, I don't deny my responsibility. No, Mr. Finn, you can't deny that.  I don't deny it, but I had no reason to suppose that I should be called upon for the money when I accommodated my friend, Mr. Fitzgibbon, and I have not got it. That is the long and the short of it. I must see him and take care that arrangements are made. Arrangements? Yes, arrangements for settling the bill. He hasn't got the money, Mr. Finn. You know that, as well as I do. I know nothing about it, Mr. Clarkson. Oh, yes, Mr. Finn, you know, you know.  As to Mr. Fitzgibbon, he's the pleasantest gent that ever lived. And he now. I've known him these ten years. I don't suppose that for ten years I've been without his name in my pocket. But bless you, Mr. Finn, there's an end to everything. I shouldn't have looked at this bit of paper if it hadn't been for your signature. Of course not.  You will find me always ready, if you'll only be punctual. I tell you again, sir, that I never had a shilling out of that for myself, and I do not want any such help. Here Mr. Clarkson smiled sweetly. I gave my name to my friend simply to oblige him. I like you, Irish gents, because you do hang together so close," said Mr. Clarkson. Simply to oblige him, continued Phineas. As I said before, I know that I am responsible, but, as I said before also, I have not the means of taking up that bill. I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon and let you know what we propose to do. Then Phineas got up from his seat and took his hat.  But Mr. Clarkson did not get up from his seat. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave me now, Mr. Clarkson, as I have business down at the house. Business at the house never presses, Mr. Finn, said Mr. Clarkson. What's the best of Parliament? I've known Parliament gents this thirty years and more. Would you believe it? I've had a Prime Minister's name in that portfolio that I have, and a Lord Chancellor's that I have, and an Archbishop's too. I know what Parliament is, Mr. Finn. Come, come, don't put me off with Parliament." There he sat, before the fire, with his pouch open before him, and Phineas had no power of moving him. Could Phineas have paid him the money which was manifestly due to him on the bill, the man would of course have gone. But failing in that, Phineas could not turn him out. There was a black cloud on the young member's brow, and great anger at his heart. Against Fitzgibbon, rather than against the man who was sitting there before him. Sir, he said, It is really imperative that I should go. I am pledged to an appointment at the house at twelve, and it wants now only a quarter. I regret that your interview with me should be so unsatisfactory, but I can only promise you that I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon. And when shall I call again, Mr. Finn? Perhaps I had better write to you," said Phineas. Oh, dear no! said Mr. Clarkson. I should much prefer to look in. Looking in is always best. We can get to understand one another in that way. Let me see. I dare say you're not particular. Suppose I say Sunday morning. Really, I could not see you on Sunday morning, Mr. Clarkson. Parliament gents ain't generally particular, especially not among the Catholics, pleaded Mr. Clarkson. I am always engaged on Sundays," said Phineas. Suppose we say Monday, or Tuesday. Tuesday morning at eleven, and do be punctual, Mr. Finn. At Tuesday morning I'll come, and then no doubt I shall find you ready. Whereupon Mr. Clarkson slowly put up his bills within his portfolio, and then, before Phineas knew where he was, had warmly shaken that poor, dismayed member of Parliament by the hand. Only do be punctual, Mr. Finn," he said, as he made his way down the stairs. It was now twelve, and Phineas rushed off to a cab. He was in such a fervor of rage and misery that he could hardly think of his position, or what he had better do, till he got into the committee room, and when there he could think of nothing else. He intended to go deeply into the question of potted peas, holding an equal balance between the assailed government offices on the one hand, and the advocates of the potted peas on the other. The potters of the peas, who wanted to sell their article to the crown, declared that an extensive, perhaps we may say an unlimited, use of the article would save the whole army and navy from the scourges of scurvy, dyspepsia, and rheumatism, would be the best safeguard against typhus and other fevers, and would be an invaluable aid in all other maladies to which soldiers and sailors are peculiarly subject. The peas in question were grown on a large scale in Holstein, and their growth had been fostered with the special object of doing good to the British army and navy. The peas were so cheap that there would be a great saving in money, and it really had seemed to many that the officials of the horse-guards and the admiralty had been actuated by some fiendish desire to deprive their men of salutary fresh vegetables, simply because they were of foreign growth. But the officials of the war-office and the admiralty declared that the potted peas in question were hardly fit for swine. The motion for the committee had been made by a gentleman of the opposition, and Phineas had been put upon it as an independent member. He had resolved to give it all his mind, and, as far as he was concerned, to reach a just decision in which there should be no favor shown to the government side. New brooms are proverbial for thorough work, and in this committee work Phineas was as yet a new broom. But, unfortunately, on this day his mind was so harassed that he could hardly understand what was going on. It did not, perhaps, much signify, as the witnesses examined were altogether agricultural. They only proved the production of peas in Holstein, a fact as to which Phineas had no doubt. The proof was naturally slow, as the evidence was given in German, and had to be translated into English. And the work of the day was much impeded by a certain member who unfortunately spoke German, who seemed to be fond of speaking German before his brethren of the committee, and who was curious as to agriculture in Holstein generally. The chairman did not understand German, and there was a difficulty in checking this gentleman, and in making him understand that his questions were not relevant to the issue. Phineas could not keep his mind during the whole afternoon from the subject of his misfortune. What should he do if this horrid man came to him once or twice a week? He certainly did owe the man the money. He must admit that to himself. The man, no doubt, was a dishonest knave, who had discounted the bill, probably, at fifty percent. But, nevertheless, Phineas had made himself legally responsible for the amount. The privilege of the house prohibited him from arrest. He thought of that very often, but the thought only made him the more unhappy. Would it not be said, and might it not be said truly, that he had incurred this responsibility, a responsibility which he was altogether unequal to answer, because he was so protected? He did feel that a certain consciousness of his privilege had been present to him when he had put his name across the paper, and there had been dishonesty in that very consciousness. And of what service would his privilege be to him if this man could harass every hour of his life? The man was to be with him again in a day or two, and when the appointment had been proposed, he, Phineas, had not dared to negative it. And how was he to escape? As for paying the bill, that with him was altogether impossible. The man had told him, and he had believed the man, that payment by Fitzgibbon was out of the question. And yet Fitzgibbon was the son of a peer, whereas he was only the son of a country doctor. Of course, Fitzgibbon must make some effort, some great effort, and have the things settled. Alas, alas! he knew enough of the world already to feel that the hope was vain. He went down from the committee room into the house, and he dined at the house, and remained there until eight or nine at night. But Fitzgibbon did not come. He then went to the reform club, but he was not there. Both at the club and in the house, many men spoke to him about the debate of the previous night, expressing surprise that he had not spoken, making him more and more wretched. He saw Mr. Monk, but Mr. Monk was walking arm in arm with his colleague Mr. Palacer, and Phineas could do no more than just speak to them. He thought that Mr. Monk's nod of recognition was very cold. That might be fancy, but it certainly was a fact that Mr. Monk only nodded to him. He would tell Mr. Monk the truth, and then, if Mr. Monk chose to quarrel with him, he at any rate would take no step to renew their friendship. From the reform club he went to the Shakespeare, a smaller club to which Fitzgibbon belonged, and of which Phineas much wished to become a member, and to which he knew that his friend resorted when he wished to enjoy himself thoroughly and to be at ease in his inn. Men at the Shakespeare could do as they pleased.  Everybody called everybody by his Christian name, and members smoked all over the house. They who did not belong to the Shakespeare thought it an elysium upon earth, and they who did believed it to be among pandemoniums the most pleasant. Phineas called at the Shakespeare and was told by the porter that Mr. Fitzgibbon was upstairs. He was shown into the stranger's room, and in five minutes his friend came down to him. I want you to come down to the reform with me," said Phineas. By Jingo, my dear fellow, I'm in the middle of a rubber of wist. There has been a man with me about that bill. What, Clarkson? Yes, Clarkson, said Phineas. Don't mind him, said Fitzgibbon. That's nonsense. How am I to help minding him? I must mind him. He is coming to me again on Tuesday morning. Don't see him. How can I help seeing him? Make them say you're not at home. He has made an appointment. He has told me that he'll never leave me alone. He'll be the death of me if this is not settled. It shall be settled, my dear fellow. I'll see about it. I'll see about it and write you a line. You must excuse me now, because those fellows are waiting. I'll have it all arranged. Again, as Phineas went home, he thoroughly wished that he had not seceded from Mr. Low. End of Chapter 21. Recording by Laura Koskonen. CHAPTERS 22 AND 23 OF PHINEAS FINN This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Philippa Jevons. PHINEAS FINN by Anthony Trollop. CHAPTER 22 Lady Baldock at Home. About the middle of March, Lady Baldock came up from Battingham to London. Coerced into doing so, as Violet Effingham declared, in thorough opposition to all her own tastes, by the known wishes of her friends and relatives—her friends and relatives, so Miss Effingham insinuated—were unanimous in wishing that Lady Baldock should remain at Battingham Park, and therefore, that wish having been indiscreetly expressed, she had put herself to great inconvenience and had come to London in March. "'Gustavus will go mad,' said Violet to Lady Laura. The Gustavus in question was the Lord Baldock of the present generation, Miss Effingham's Lady Baldock, being the peer's mother. "'Why does not Lord Baldock take a house himself?' asked Lady Laura. "'Don't you know, my dear?' Violet answered. "'How much? We Battingham people think of money. We don't like being vexed and driven mad, but even that is better than keeping up two households.' As regarded Violet, the injury arising from Lady Baldock's early migration was very great, for she was thus compelled to move from Grovener Place to Lady Baldock's house in Barclay Square. "'As you are so fond of being in London, Augusta and I have made up our minds to come up before Easter,' Lady Baldock had written to her. "'I shall go to her now,' Violet had said to her friend, "'because I have not quite made up my mind as to what I will do for the future. Marry Oswald and be your own mistress. I mean to be my own mistress without marrying Oswald, though I don't see my way quite clearly as yet. I think I shall set up a little house of my own and let the world say what it pleases. I suppose they couldn't make me out to be a lunatic. I shouldn't wonder if they were to try,' said Lady Laura. "'They could not prevent me in any other way, but I am in the dark as yet, and so I shall be obedient and go to my aunt.' Miss Effingham went to Barclay Square, and Finneas Finn was introduced to Lady Baldock. He had been often in Grovener Place, and had seen Violet frequently. Mr. Kennedy gave periodical dinners once a week, to which everybody went who could get an invitation, and Finneas had been a guest more than once. Indeed in spite of his miseries he had taken to dining out a good deal, and was popular as an eater of dinners. He could talk when wanted, and did not talk too much. Was pleasant in manners and appearance, and had already achieved a certain recognized position in London life. Of those who knew him intimately, not one in twenty were aware of whence he came, what was his parentage, or what his means of living. He was a member of Parliament. A friend of Mr. Kennedy's was intimate with Mr. Monk, though an Irishman did not as a rule heard with other Irishmen, and was the right sort of person to have at your house. Some people said he was a cousin of Lord Brentford's, and others declared that he was Lord Chilton's earliest friend. There he was, however, with a position gained, and even Lady Baldock asked him to her house. Lady Baldock had evenings. People went to her house, and stood about the room, and on the stairs, talked to each other for half an hour, and went away. In these March days there was no crowding, but still there were always enough of people there to show that Lady Baldock was successful. Why people should have gone to Lady Baldock's? I cannot explain, but there are houses to which people go without any reason. This received a little card, asking him to go, and he always went. I think you like my friend Mr. Finn," Lady Laura said to Miss Effingham after the first of these evenings. Yes, I do, I like him decidedly. So do I. I should hardly have thought that you would have taken a fancy to him. I hardly know what you call taking a fancy," said Violet. I'm not quite sure I like to be told that I have taken a fancy for a young man. I mean no offence, my dear. Of course you don't, but to speak truth I think I have rather taken a fancy to him. There is just enough of him, but not too much.  I don't like a man who is too lazy to make any effort to shine, but I particularly dislike the man who is always striving for effect. I abominate a humble man, but yet I love to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex and youth and all that kind of thing. You want to be flattered without plain flattery. Of course I do.  Now in all those matters your friend Mr. Finn seems to know what he is about. In other words he makes himself pleasant, and therefore one is glad to see him. I suppose you do not mean to fall in love with him. Not that I know of, my dear, but when I do I will be sure to give you notice. I fear that there was more of earnestness in Lady Laura's last question than Miss Effingham had supposed. She had declared to herself over and over again that she had never been in love with Finneas Finn. She had acknowledged to herself, before Mr. Kennedy had asked her hand in marriage, that there had been danger, that she could have learned to love the man if such love would not have been ruinous to her, that the romance of such a passion would have been pleasant to her. She had gone farther than this, and had said to herself that she would have given way to that romance, and would have been ready to accept such love if offered to her, had she not put it out of her own power to marry a poor man by her generosity to her brother. Then she had thrust the thing aside, and had clearly understood—she thought that she had clearly understood—that life for her must be a matter of business. Was it not the case, with nine out of every ten among mankind? With nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand, that life must be a matter of business and not of romance. Of course she could not marry Mr. Finne, knowing as she did that neither of them had a shilling. Of all men in the world she has steamed Mr. Kennedy the most, and when these thoughts were passing through her mind, she was well aware that he would ask her to be his wife. Had she not resolved that she would accept the offer, she would not have gone to Sherlock Linter. Having put aside all romance as unfitted to her life, she could, she thought, do her duty as Mr. Kennedy's wife. She would teach herself to love him. Nay, she had taught herself to love him. She was at any rate so sure of her own heart that she would never give her husband cause to rue the confidence he placed in her. And yet there was something sore within her when she thought that Finne as Finne was fond of Violet Effingham. It was Lady Baldock's second evening, and Finneus came to the house at about eleven o'clock. At this time he had encountered a second and a third interview with Mr. Clarkson, and had already failed in obtaining any word of comfort from Lawrence Fitzgibbon about the bill. It was clear enough now that Lawrence felt that they were both made safe by their privilege, and that Mr. Clarkson should be treated as you treat the organ-grinders. They are a nuisance, and must be endured. But the nuisance is not so great, but what you can live in comfort, if only you are not too sore as to the annoyance. "'My dear fellow,' Lawrence had said to him, "'I have had Clarkson almost living in my rooms. He used to drink nearly a point of sherry a day for me. All I looked to was that I didn't live there at the same time. If you wish it, I'll send in the sherry.' This was very bad, and Finneus tried to quarrel with his friend, but he found that it was difficult to quarrel with Lawrence Fitzgibbon. But though on this side Finneus was very miserable, on another side he had obtained great comfort. Mr. Monk and he were better friends than ever. "'As to what Turnbull says about me in the house,' Mr. Monk had said, laughing, "'he and I understand each other perfectly. I should like to see you on your legs, but it is just as well, perhaps, that you have deferred it. We shall have the real question on immediately after Easter, and then you'll have plenty of opportunities.' Finneus had explained how he had attempted, how he had failed, and how he had suffered. And Mr. Monk had been generous in his sympathy. "'I know all about it,' said he, and have gone through it all myself. The more respect you feel for the house, the more satisfaction you will have in addressing it when you have mastered this difficulty. The first person who spoke to Finneus at Lady Baldock's was Miss Fitzgibbon, Lawrence's sister. As spasier Fitzgibbon was a warm woman, as regarded Monty, and as she was more over a most discreet spinster, she was made welcome by Lady Baldock, in spite of the well-known iniquities of her male relatives. "'Mr. Finn,' said she, "'how'd you do? I want to say a word to you. Just come here into the corner.'" Finneus, not knowing how to escape, did retreat into the corner with Miss Fitzgibbon. "'Tell me now, Mr. Finn. Have you been lending money to Lawrence?' "'No, I have lent him no money,' said Finneus, much astonished by the question. "'Don't. That's my advice to you. Don't. Any other matter, Lawrence is the best creature in the world, but he's bad to lend money to. He ain't in any hobble with him, then." "'Well, nothing to speak of. What makes you ask?' "'Then you are in a hobble. Dear, dear, I never saw such a man as Lawrence. Never. Good boy, I wouldn't do it again if I were you, that's all." Then Miss Fitzgibbon came out of the corner, and made her way down stairs. Finneus immediately afterwards came across Miss Effingham. "'I did not know,' said she, "'that you and the Divine Espasia were such close allies.  "'May her body be told how she has done that?' Violet asked. "'Well, no, I'm afraid not, even though the body be Miss Effingham. It was a profound secret, really a secret concerning a third person, and she began about it just as though she was speaking about the weather. How charming! I do so like her. You haven't heard, have you, that Mr. Rattler proposed to her the other day?' "'No.' "'But he did. At least so she tells everybody. She said she'd take him, if he would promise to get her brother's salary doubled.' "'Did she tell you?' "'No, not me, and of course I don't believe a word of it. I suppose Barrington Earl made up the whole story. Are you going out of town next week, Mr. Finne?' "'The week next to this was Easter week. I heard you were going into Northamptonshire.' "'From Lady Laura?' "'Yes, from Lady Laura.' "'I intend to spend three days with Lord Chilton at Willingford. It is an old promise. I am going to ride his horses—that is, if I am able to ride them.  They say his horses are so dangerous. I am rather good at falling, I flatter myself. I know that Lord Chilton rides anything he can sit, so long as it is some animal that nobody else will ride. It was always so with him. He is so odd, is he not?' Finneus knew, of course, that Lord Chilton had more than once asked Violet Effingham to be his wife, and he believed that she, from her intimacy with Lady Laura, must know that he knew it. He had also heard Lady Laura express a very strong wish that, in spite of these refusals, Violet might even yet become her brother's wife. And Finneus also knew that Violet Effingham was becoming, in his own estimation, the most charming woman of his acquaintance. How was he to talk to her about Lord Chilton? "'He is odd,' said Finneus, but he is an excellent fellow, whom his father altogether misunderstands.' "'Exactly. Just so. I am so glad to hear you say that.  Why don't you tell Lord Brentford—Lord Brentford would listen to you?' "'To me?' "'Yes. Of course he would. For you are just the link that is wanting. You are Chilton's intimate friend, and you are also the friend of Bigwigs and Cabinet Ministers.' "'Lord Brentford would put me down at once if I spoke to him on such a subject.' "'I am sure he would not. You are too big to be put down, and no man can really dislike to hear his son well spoken of by those who are well spoken of themselves. Won't you try, Mr. Finne?' Finneus said that he would think of it—that he would try if any fit opportunity could be found. "'Of course, you know how intimate I have been with the Standishes,' said Violet. "'That Laura is to me a sister, and that Oswald used to be almost a brother.' "'Why do you not speak to Lord Brentford? You who are his favourite.' "'There are reasons, Mr. Finne. But how can any girl come forward and say that she knows the disposition of any man? You can live with Lord Chilton, and see what he has made of, and know his thoughts, and learn what is good in him, and also what is bad. After all, how is any girl really to know anything of a man's life?' "'If I can do anything with Effingham, I will,' said Finneus. "'And then we shall all of us be so grateful to you,' said Violet, with her sweetest smile. Finneus, retreating from this conversation, stood for a while alone, thinking of it. Had she spoken thus of Lord Chilton because she did love him, or because she did not? And the sweet commendations which had fallen from her lips upon him—him, Finneus Finn—were they compatible with anything like a growing partiality for himself, or were they incompatible with any such feeling? Had he most reason to be comforted, or to be discomforted by what had taken place? It seemed hardly possible to his imagination that Violet Effingham should love such a nobody as he. And yet he had fair evidence that one standing as high in the world as Violet Effingham would feign have loved him, could she have followed the dictates of her heart? He had trembled when he had first resolved to declare his passion to Lady Laura, fearing that she would scorn him as being presumptuous. But there had been no cause for such fear as that. He had declared his love, and she had not thought him to be presumptuous. That now was ages ago, eight months since, and Lady Laura had become a married woman. Since he had become so warmly alive to the charms of Violet Effingham, he had determined with stern propriety that a passion for a married woman was disgraceful. Such love was in itself a sin, even though it was accompanied by the severest forbearance and the most rigid propriety of conduct—no. Lady Laura had done wisely to check the growing feeling of partiality which she had admitted, and now that she was married, he would be as wise as she. It was clear to him that as regarded his own heart, the way was open to him for a new enterprise. But what if he were to fail again, and be told by Violet when he declared his love, that she had just engaged herself to Lord Chilson? What were you and Violet talking about so eagerly? said Lady Laura to him, with the smile that, in its approach to laughter, almost betrayed its mistress. We were talking about your brother.  Yes, I leave London on Sunday night, but only for a day or two. Has he any chance there, do you think? What, with Miss Effingham? Yes, with Violet. Sometimes I think she loves him. How can I say? In such a matter you can judge better than I can do. One woman with reference to another can draw the line between love and friendship. She certainly likes Chilson. Oh, I believe she loves him. I do indeed. But she fears him. She does not quite understand how much there is of tenderness with that assumed ferocity. And Oswald is so strange, so unwise, so impolitic, that though he loves her better than all the world beside, he will not sacrifice even a turn of a word to win her. When he asks her to marry him, he almost flies at her throat as an angry debtor who applies for instant payment. Tell him, Mr. Finn, never to give it over, and teach him that he should be soft with her. Tell him also that in her heart she likes him. One woman, as you say, knows another woman. And I am certain he would win her. If he would only be gentle with her. Then again, before they parted, Lady Laura told him that this marriage was the dearest wish of her heart, and that there would be no end to her gratitude if Finneas could do anything to promote it. All which, again, made our hero unhappy. CHAPTER XXIII SUNDAY IN GROVENER PLACE Mr. Kennedy, though he was a most scrupulously attentive Member of Parliament, was a man very punctual to ours and rules in his own house, and liked that his wife should be as punctual as himself. Lady Laura, who in marrying him had firmly resolved that she would do her duty to him in all ways, even though the ways might sometimes be painful, and had been perhaps more punctilious in this respect than she might have been had she loved him heartily, was not perhaps quite so fond of accurate regularity as her husband, and thus, by this time, certain habits of his had become rather bonds than habits to her. He always had prayers at nine, and breakfasted at a quarter past nine, let the hours on the night before have been as late as they might before the time for rest had come. After breakfast he would open his letters in his study, but he liked her to be with him, and desired to discuss with her every application he got from a constituent. He had his private secretary in a room apart, but he thought that everything should be filtered to his private secretary through his wife. He was very anxious that she herself should superintend the accounts of their own private expenditure, and to take in some trouble to teach her an excellent mode of bookkeeping. He had recommended to her a certain course of reading, which was pleasant enough, ladies like to receive such recommendations. But Mr. Kennedy, having drawn out the course, seemed to expect that his wife should read the books he had named, and worse still that she should read them in the time he had allocated for the work. This I think was tyranny. Then the Sundays became very wearisome to Lady Laura. Going to church twice she had learnt would be a part of her duty, and though in her father's household attendance at church had never been very strict, she had made up her mind to this cheerfully. Mr. Kennedy expected also that he and she should always dine together on Sundays, that there should be no guests, and that there should be no evening company. After all, the demand was not very severe, but yet she found that it operated injuriously upon her comfort. The Sundays were very wearisome to her, and made her feel that her lord and master was—her lord and master. She made an effort or two to escape, but the efforts were all in vain. He never spoke a cross word to her, he never gave a stern command, but yet he had his way. I won't say that reading a novel on Sunday is a sin, he said, but we must at any rate admit that it is a matter on which men disagree, that many of the best of men are against such occupation on Sunday, and that to abstain is to be on the safe side. So the novels were put away, and Sunday afternoon, with the long evening, became rather a stumbling block to Lady Laura. Those two hours moreover with her husband in the morning became very wearisome to her. At first she had declared that it would be her greatest ambition to help her husband in his work, and she had read all the letters from the McNabs and the McPhees, asking to be made gauges and landing-waiters, with an assumed interest. But the work pulled upon her very quickly. Her quick intellect discovered soon that there was nothing in it which she really did. It was all form and verbiage and pretence at business. Her husband went through it all with the utmost patience, reading every word, giving orders as to every detail, and conscientiously doing that which he conceived he had undertaken to do. But Lady Laura wanted to meddle with high politics, to discuss reform-bills, to assist in putting up Mr. This and putting down my Lord That. Why should she waste her time in doing that which the lad in the next room, who was called a private secretary, could do as well? Still she would obey. Let the task be as hard as it might, she would obey. If he counseled her to do this or that, she would follow his counsel, because she owed him so much. If she had accepted the half of all his wealth without loving him, she owed him the more on that account. But she knew, she could not but know, that her intellect was brighter than his, and might it not be possible for her to lead him. Then she made efforts to lead her husband, and found that he was as stiff-necked as an ox. Mr. Kennedy was not, perhaps, a clever man, but he was a man who knew his own way, and who intended to keep it. I have got a headache, Robert, she said to him, one Sunday after luncheon. I think I will not go to church this afternoon. It is not serious, I hope. Oh, dear, no! Don't you know how one feels sometimes, that one has got a head, and when that is the case one's armchair is the best place. I am not sure of that, said Mr. Kennedy. If I went to church I should not attend, said Lady Laura. The fresh air would do you more good than anything else, and we could walk across the park. Thank you, I won't go out again to-day. This she said was something almost of cross-neth in her manner, and Mr. Kennedy went to the afternoon service by himself. Lady Laura, when she was left alone, began to think of her position. She was not more than four or five months married, and she was becoming very tired of her life. Was it not also true that she was becoming tired of her husband? She had twice told Phineas Finn that of all men in the world she esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most. She did not esteem him less now. She knew no point or particle in which he did not do his duty with accuracy. But no person can live happily with another, not even with a brother or a sister or a friend, simply upon esteem. All the virtues in the calendar, though they exist on each side, will not make a man and woman happy together, unless there be sympathy. Lady Laura was beginning to find out that there was a lack of sympathy between herself and her husband. She thought of this, till she was tired of thinking of it, and then, wishing to divert her mind, she took up the book that was lying nearest to her hand. It was a volume of a new novel which she had been reading on the previous day, and now, without much thought about it, she went on with her reading. There came to her no doubt some dim, half-formed idea that as she was freed from going to church by the plea of a headache, she was also absolved by the same plea from other Sunday hindrances. A child, when it is ill, has buttered toast and a picture-book instead of bread and milk and lessons. In this way Lady Laura conceived herself to be entitled to her novel. While she was reading it, there came a knock at door, and Barrington Earl was shown upstairs. Mr. Kennedy had given no orders against Sunday visitors, but had simply said that Sunday visiting was not to his taste. Barrington, however, was Lady Laura's cousin, and people must be very strict if they can't see their cousins on Sunday. Lady Laura soon lost her headache altogether in the animation of discussing the chances of the new reform-bill with the Prime Minister's private secretary, and had left her chair and was standing by the table with the novel in her hand, protesting this and denying that, expressing infinite confidence in Mr. Monk, and violently denouncing Mr. Turnbull, when her husband returned from church and came up into the drawing-room. Lady Laura had forgotten her headache altogether, and had in her composition none of that thoughtfulness of hypocrisy, which would have taught her to moderate her political feeling at her husband's return. "'I do declare,' she said, that if Mr. Turnbull opposes the government measure now, because he can't have his own way in everything, I will never again put my trust in any man who calls himself a popular leader.' "'You never should,' said Barrington Earl. "'That's all very well for you, Barrington, who are an aristocratic wig of the old official school, and who call yourself a liberal simply because Fox was a liberal a hundred years ago. My heart's in it.' "'Heart should never have anything to do with politics, should it?' said Earl, turning round to Mr. Kennedy. "'Mr. Kennedy did not wish to discuss the matter on a Sunday, nor yet did he wish to say before Barrington Earl that he thought it wrong to do so. And he was desirous of treating his wife in some way as though she were an invalid, that she thereby might be as it were punished. But he did not wish to do this in such a way that Barrington should be aware of the punishment. "'Laura had better not disturb herself about it now,' he said. "'How is a person to help being disturbed?' said Lady Laura, laughing. "'Well—well, we won't mind all that now,' said Mr. Kennedy, turning away. Then he took up the novel, which Lady Laura had just laid down from her hand, and having looked at it, carried it aside and placed it on a bookshelf which was remote from them. Lady Laura watched him as he did this, and the whole course of her husband's thoughts on the subject was open to her at once. She regretted the novel, and she regretted also the political discussion. Soon afterwards Barrington Earl went away, and the husband and wife were alone together.  He did not intend to be severe, but he spoke with a gravity of manner which almost amounted to severity. "'Yes, it is,' she said. Barrington's coming in cheered me up. I am sorry that she should have wanted cheering. "'Don't you know what I mean, Robert?' "'No, I do not think that I do exactly.  You do not get that feeling of dazed, helpless, imbecility of brain which hardly amounts to headache, but which yet is almost as bad. Imbicillity of brain may be worse than headache, but I don't think it can produce it. Well, well, I don't know how to explain it. Headache comes, I think, always from the stomach, even when produced by nervous affections, but imbecility of the brain—' "'Oh, Robert, I am so sorry that I used the word.' "'I see that it did not prevent your reading,' he said, after a pause. "'Not such reading as that. I was up to nothing better.' Then there was another pause. "'I won't deny that it may be a prejudice,' he said, but I confess that the use of novels in my own house on Sundays is a pain to me. My mother's ideas on the subject are very strict, and I cannot think that it is bad for a son to hang on to the teaching of his mother. This he said in the most serious tone which he could command. "'I don't know why I took it up,' said Lady Laura. "'Simply, I believe because it was there. I will avoid doing so for the future.' "'Do, my dear,' said the husband. "'I shall be obliged and grateful if you will remember what I have said.' Then he left her, and she sat alone, first in the dusk, and then in the dark, for two hours, doing nothing. Was this to be the life which she had procured for herself by marrying Mr. Kennedy of Loch Linter? If it was harsh and unendurable in London, what would it be in the country?' CHAPTER 24 THE WILLINGFORD BOOL This left London by a night-mail train on Easter Sunday, and found himself at the Willingford Bull about half an hour after midnight. Lord Chilton was up and waiting for him, and supper was on the table. The Willingford Bull was an English inn of the old stamp, which had now, in these latter years of railway travelling, ceased to have a road business, for there were no travellers on the road, and but little posting, but had acquired a new trade as a depot for hunters and hunting men. The landlord let out horses, and kept hunting stables, and the house was generally filled from the beginning of November to the middle of April. Then it became a desert in the summer, and no guests were seen there, till the pink coats flocked down again into the shires. "'How many days do you mean to give us?' said Lord Chilton, as he helped his friend to a deviled lake of Turkey. "'I must go back on Wednesday,' said Phineas. "'That means Wednesday night. "'I'll tell you what we'll do. We have the cottage more to-morrow. We'll get into Tailby's country on Tuesday, and the Fitzwillum will be only twelve miles off on Wednesday. We shall be rather short of horses.' "'Pray don't let me put you out. I can hire something here, I suppose.' "'You won't put me out at all. There'll be three between us each day, and we'll run our luck. The horses have all gone to NPM for to-morrow. Tailby's are rather a long way off, at Summerby, but we'll manage it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can get back to Stanford by rail. On Wednesday we shall have everything very comfortable. There out beyond Stiltonham will draw home our way. I've planned it all out. I have a trap with a fast stepper, and if we start to-morrow at half-past nine, we shall be in plenty of time. You shall ride Meg Merleys, and if she don't carry you, you may shoot her.' "'Is she one of the pulling ones?' "'She's heavy in hand, if you are heavy at her.  You better not ride more in a cry than you can help. Now, what do you drink?' They sat up half the night, smoking and talking, and a Phineas learned more about Lord Chilton than had ever he had learned before. There was plenty of brandy and water before them, but neither of them drank. Lord Chilton, indeed, had a pint of beer by his side from which he sipped occasionally. "'I've taken a beer,' he said, as being the best drink going when a man hunts six days a week, he can afford to drink beer. "'I'm on an allowance, three pints a day. That's not too much.' "'And you drink nothing else?' "'Nothing when I'm alone, except a little cherry brandy when I'm out. I never cared for drink, never in my life. I do like excitement, and have been less careful than I ought to have been as to what it has come from. I could give up drink to-morrow without a struggle. If it were worth my while to make my mind to do it, it's the same with gambling. I never do gamble now because I've got no money. But I own—I like it better than anything in the world. While you're at it, there is life in it.' "'You should take to politics, Chilton.' "'And I would have done so, but my father would not help me.' "'Never mind. We'll not talk about him.' "'How does Laura get on with her husband?' "'Very happily, I should say.' "'I don't believe it,' said Lord Chilton. "'Her temper is too much like mine to allow her to be happy with such a log of wood as Robert Kennedy. It is such men as he who drive me out of the pail of decent life. If that is decency, I'd soon be indecent. You mark my words. They'll come to grief. She'll never be able to stand it.' "'I should think she had her own way in everything,' said Phineas. "'No, no. Though he's a prick, he's a man, and she will not find it easy to drive him.' "'But she may bend him. Not an inch. That is, if I understand his character. I suppose you see a good deal of them.' "'Yes, pretty well. I'm not there so often as I used to be in the square. Ah, you get sick of it, I suppose. I should. Do you see my father often?' Only occasionally he is always very civil when I do see him. He's a very pink of civility when he pleases, but the most unjust man I ever met. I should not have thought that.' "'Yes, he is,' said the Earl's son, and all from lack of judgment to discern the truth. He makes up his mind to a thing on insufficient proof, and then nothing will turn him. He thinks well of you, who will probably believe your word on any indifferent subject without thought of it out.  He would smile incredulously and make you a little bow. I can see him do it.' "'You're too hard on him, Chilton. He's been too hard on me, I know. Is Violet Effingham still in Grosvenor Place?' "'No, she's with Lady Baldock. That old grandmother of Eve's has come to town. Has she? Poor Violet! When we were young together, we used to have such fun about that old woman.' "'The old woman is an ally of mine now,' said Phineas. "'You make allies everywhere. You know Violet Effingham, of course.' "'Oh, yes, I know her. Don't you think her very charming?' said Lord Chilton. Exceedingly charming. I've asked that girl to marry me three times, and I shall never ask her again. There is a point beyond which a man shouldn't go. There are many reasons why it would be a good marriage. In the first place, her money would be serviceable. Then it would heal matters in our family, for my father is as prejudiced in her favour as he is against me. And I love her dearly. I've loved her all my life, since I used to buy cakes for her. But I shall never ask her again.' "'I would if I were you,' said Phineas. Hardly know what it might be best for him to say. No, I never will. But I'll tell you what. I shall get in some desperate scrape about her. Of course she'll marry, and that soon. Then I shall make a fool of myself. When I hear that she's engaged, I shall go quarrel with a man and kick him, or get kicked. All the world will turn against me, and I shall be called a wild beast.' "'A dog in the manger is what you should be called.' "'Exactly. But how is the man to help it? If you loved a girl, could you see a mother-man take her?' Phineas remembered, of course, that he had lately come through this ordeal. It's as though he were to come and put his hand upon me and wanted my own heart out of me. Though I have no property in her at all, no right in her. Though she never gave me a word of encouragement, it's as though she were the most private thing in the world to me. I should be half mad, and my madness I could not master the idea that I was alone. I should resent it as a personal interference.' "'I suppose it will come to that if you give her up yourself,' said Phineas. "'No, it's no question of giving up. Of course I cannot make her marry me. Light another cigar, old fellow!' Phineas, as he lit the other cigar, remembered that he owed a certain duty in this matter to Lady Laura. She had commissioned him to persuade her brother that his suit with violet effingham would not be hopeless. If he could only restrain himself in his mode of conducting it. Phineas was disposed to do his duty, although he felt it would be very hard that he should be called upon to be eloquent against his own interest. He had been thinking for the last quarter of an hour how he must bear himself if it might turn out that he should be the man whom Lord Chilton was resolved to kick. He looked at his friend and a host, and became aware that a kicking match with such a one would not be a pleasant pastime. Nevertheless, he would be happy enough to be subject to Lord Chilton's wrath for such a reason. He would do his duty by Lord Chilton, and then, when that had been adequately done, he would, if occasion served, fight a battle for himself. "'You are too sudden with her, Chilton,' he said, after a pause. "'What do you mean by too sudden?' said Lord Chilton almost angrily. "'You frightened her by being so impetuous. You rushed at her as though you wanted to conquer her by a single blow.' "'So I do.' "'You should be more gentle with her. You should give her time to find out whether she likes you or not.' "'She's known me all her life, and has found that out long ago.' "'Not for what you're right.' "'I know you're right. If I were you,' and had your skin empleasing, "'I should drop soft words into her ear till I caught her. "'But I have no gifts in that way. I'm as awkward as a pig as what is called flirting, "'and I have an accursed pride which stands in my own light. "'If she were in the house this moment, "'even I knew she would be had for asking. "'I don't think I could bring myself to ask her again.' "'But we'll go to bed. It's half past two, and we must be off at half past nine, "'were to be at Exton Park, Gates at eleven.' "'Pineas, as he went upstairs, "'assured himself that he had done his duty. "'If there ever should come to be anything "'between him and Violet Effingham, "'Lord Chilton might quarrel with him, "'might probably attempt that kicking encounter "'to which illusion had been made. "'But nobody could just say "'that he had not behaved honourably to his friend. "'On the next morning there was a bustle and a scurry, "'as there always is on such occasions, "'and the two men got off about ten minutes after time.  "'They had a fair day's sport with the Cotsmore, "'and Phineas, though he found that Med Merrily "'did require a good deal of riding, "'went through his day's work with credit. "'He had been riding since he was a child, "'as is the custom with all boys in Munster, "'and had an Irishman's natural aptitude for jumping. "'When they got back to the Willingford Bull, "'he felt pleased with the day, "'and rather proud of himself. "'It wasn't fast, you know,' said Chilton, "'and I don't call that stiff country. "'Besides, Meg is very handy when you've got her out of the crowd. "'You shall ride Bonebreaker tomorrow at Summerby. "'You'll find that better fun.' "'Bonebreaker, haven't I heard you say he rushes like mischief?' "'Well, he does rush, but by George "'you want a horse to rush in that country. "'When you have to go right through four or five feet "'of stiff green wood like a bullet through a target "'you want a little horse, "'or you're apt to be left up a tree.' "'And what do you ride?' "'Ah, brute, I never put my leg on yet. "'He was sent down to Wilcox here out of Lincolnshire "'because they couldn't get anybody to ride him there. "'They say he goes with his head up in the air "'and won't look at a fence, but that isn't as high as his breast. "'And I think he'll do here. "'I never saw a better-made beast or one with more power. "'Do you look at his shoulders? "'He's to be haped for seventy pounds, "'and these are the sort of horses I like to buy.' "'Again they dined alone, "'and Lord Chilton explained to Phineus "'that he rarely associated with the men of either of the Huntsmen "'which he rode. "'There's a set of fellows down here who are poisoned to me "'and there's another set, and I'm poisoned to them. "'Everybody's very civil, as you see, "'but I have no associates. "'And gradually I'm getting to have a reputation as I "'with the devil himself. "'I think I shall come out next year dressed entirely in black.' "'Are you not wrong to give way to that kind of thing?' "'What the deuce am I to do?' "'Can't make civil little speeches. "'When once a man gets a reputation as an ogre, "'it's the most difficult thing in the world to drop it. "'I could have a score of men here every day if I liked it.' "'My title would do that for me, "'but there would be men I should loathe "'and I should be sure to tell them so, "'even though I did not mean it.' "'Bonebreaker and the new horse and another "'went on at twelve to-day. "'You must expect hard work to-morrow. "'As I dare say, we shall be home before eight.' "'The next day's meet was in Leicestershire, "'not far from Milton, and they started early.' "'He had neither wife nor child, "'and nobody had a better right to risk his neck.' "'We'll put a gag on him,' said the groom, "'and he'll ride him in a ring, "'so that you may well now break his jaw. "'But he's a Raman, sir.' "'I'll do my best,' said Phineas. "'You'll take all that,' said the groom. "'Just let him have his own way at everything,' said Lord Chiltern, "'as they moved away from the meet to Pickle Gorse. "'He'll take all that,' said the groom. "'Just let him have his own way at everything,' said Lord Chiltern, "'and he'll move away from the meet to Pickle Gorse. "'And if you only sit on his back, "'he'll carry you through as safe as a church.'" Phineas could not help thinking that the councils of the master and of the groom were very different. "'My idea is,' continued Lord Chiltern, "'that in hunting you should always avoid a crowd. "'I don't think a horse is worth riding "'that'll go in a crowd. "'It's just like yachting. "'You should have plenty of sea-room. "'Give it a pull your horse up at every fence "'till somebody else is over. "'I think you'd better come out on a donkey.'" And so they went away to Pickle Gorse. There were over two hundred men out, and Phineas began to think that it might not be so easy to get out of the crowd. A crowd on a fast run no doubt quickly becomes small by degrees and beautifully less. But it is very difficult, especially for a stranger, to free himself from the rush at the first start. Lord Chiltern's horse plunged about so violently as they stood on a little hillside looking down upon the cover that he was obliged to take him to a distance, and Phineas followed him. "'If he breaks down wind,' said Lord Chiltern, "'we can't be better than we are here. "'If he goes upwind, "'he must turn before long, and we'll be all right.'" As he spoke, an old hound opened true and sharp, an old hound whom all the pack believed, and in a moment there was no doubt that the fox had been found. "'And not above eight or nine acres in it,' said Lord Chiltern, "'he can't hang along. "'Do you ever see such an uneasy brute as this in your life? "'I feel certain you'll go well when he gets away.'" Phineas was too much occupied with his own horse to think much of that on which Lord Chiltern was mounted.  "'He's a great deal more anxious than you and I are,' said Lord Chiltern. "'I see they've given you that gag. "'But don't you ride him on it until he wants it. "'Give him lots of room, and he'll go in the snaffle.'" All which Corson made Phineas think that any insurance office would charge very dear on his life at the present moment. The fox took two rings of the gorse, and then he went, upwind. "'It's not a vixen I swear,' said Lord Chiltern. "'A vixen and cub never went away like that yet. "'Now then, Finn my boy, keep to the right.'" And Lord Chiltern, with the horse out of Lincolnshire, went away across the brow of the hill, leaving the hounds to the left, and selected, as his point of exit into the next field, a stiff rail, which had there been an accident, might have put a very wide margin of ground between the rider and his horse. "'Go harder your fences, and then your fort clear,' he'd said to Phineas. "'I don't think, however, that he would have ridden at the rail as he did, but then there was no help for him. "'The brute began in his own way and carried on after in the same fashion all through,' he said afterwards. Phineas took the fence a little lower down, and what it was at which he rode he never knew. Bonebreaker sailed over it whatever it was, and he soon found himself by his friend's side. The ruck of the men were lower down than our two heroes, and were others far away to the left, and others again who'd been at the end of the course, and were now behind. Our friends were not near the hounds, not within two fields of them, but the hounds were below them, and therefore could be seen. "'Don't be in a hurry, and they'll be round upon us,' Lord Shorten said. "'How the juices want to help being in a hurry,' said Phineas, who was doing his very best to ride Bonebreaker with the snapple, but already began to feel that Bonebreaker cared nothing for that weak instrument. "'Why, George, I'd like to change with you,' said Lord Shorten. The Lincolnshire horse was going along with his head very low, boring as he galloped, but throwing his neck up at his fences just when he ought to have kept himself steady. After this, though Phineas kept near Lord Shorten throughout the run, they were not again near enough to exchange words, and indeed they had but little breath for such purpose. Lord Shorten rode till a little in advance, and Phineas, knowing his friend's partiality for solitude when taking his fences, kept the little to his left. He began to find that Bonebreaker knew pretty well what he was about. As for not using the gag rein, that was impossible. When a horse puts out what strength he has against a man's arm, a man must put out what strength he has against the horse's mouth. But Bonebreaker was cunning and had had a gag rein in before. He contracted his lip here and bent out his jaw there till he had settled it to his mind and then went away again after his own fashion. He seemed to have a passion for smashing through big, high-grown ox fences, and by degrees his rider came to feel that if there was nothing worse coming the fun was not bad. The fox ran up wind for a couple of miles or so as Lord Shorten prophesied and then turned, not to the right, as who best have served him and Phineas, but to the left, so that they were forced to make their way through the ruck of horses before they could place themselves again. Phineas found himself crossing a road in and out of it before he knew where he was and for a while he lost sight of Lord Shorten. But in truth he was leading now whereas Lord Shorten had led before. The two horses having been together all the morning and on the previous day were willing enough to remain in company if they were allowed to do so. They both crossed the road not very far from each other in and out amidst a crowd of horses and before long were again placed well now having the hunt on their right whereas here the two had been on their left. They went over large pasture fields and Phineas began to think that as long as Bonebreaker would be able to go through the thick grown-up hedges all would be right. Now and again he came to a cut fence a fence that had been cut and laid and these were not so pleasant. Force was not sufficient for them to be admitted of a mistake but the horse though he would rush at them unpleasantly took them when they came without touching them. He might be all right yet unless the beast should tar with him and then Phineas thought a misfortune might probably occur. He remembered as he flew over one such impediment that he rode a stone heavier than his friend. At the end of forty-five minutes Bonebreaker also might become aware of their fact. The hounds were running well in sight to their right and Phineas began to feel some of that pride which a man indulges when he becomes aware that he has taken his place comfortably has left the squad behind and is going well. The men near the hounds than he was but he was near enough even for ambition. There had already been enough of the run to make him sure that it would be a good thing and enough to make him aware also that probably it might be too good. When a run is over men are very apt at the termination, who a minute or two before were anxiously longing that the hounds might pull down their game. To finish well is everything in hunting. To have led for over an hour is nothing. Let the pace and country have been what they might if you fell away during the last half mile. Therefore it is that those behind hope that the fox may make this or that cover while the forward men long to see him turn over in every field. To ride to hounds is very glorious but to have ridden to hounds is more glorious still. They had now crossed another road and a larger one and had got into a somewhat closer country. The fields were not so big and the fences were not so high. Venus got a moment to look about him and saw Lord Chotun riding without his cap. He was very red in the face and his eyes seemed to glare at all his might, but the animal seemed still to go with perfect commander strength and Phineas had too much work on his own hands to think of offering quixotic assistance to anyone else. He saw someone, a farmer as he thought, speak to Lord Chotun as they rode close together. But Chotun and he shook his head and pooled at his horse. There were brooks in those parts. The river I forms itself thereabouts or some of its tributaries do so and these tributaries, those small as rivers, are considerable to men on one side who call by the exigencies of the occasion to place themselves quickly on the other. Phineas knew nothing of these brooks but Bonebreaker had gone garnetly over too and now that there came a third in the way it was to be hoped that he might go garnetly over that also. Phineas at any rate had no power to decide otherwise as long as the brute would go straight with him he could sit him and he'd long given up the idea of having a wool of his own. Indeed, till he was within twenty yards of the brook he did not see that it was larger than the others. He looked round and there was Chotun close to him still fighting with his horse but the farmer had turned away. He thought that Chotun nodded to him as much as to tell him to go on or he went at any rate. The brook when he came to it seemed to be a huge black hole yawning beneath him.  It was too late to think of anything. He stuck his knees against his saddle and in a moment was on the other side. The brute who'd taken off a yard before the stump knowing well the danger of striking with his foot came down with a grunt and did, I think, begin to feel the weight of that extra stone. Phineas as soon as he was safe looked back and there was Lord Chotun's horse in the very act of his spring higher up the rivulet where it was even broader. At that distance Phineas could see that Lord Chotun was wild with rage against the beast but whether he wished to take the leap or wished to avoid it there was no choice left to him. The animal rushed to the brook and in a moment the horse and horseman were lost to sight. It was well then that that extra stone enabled Phineas to arrest his horse and to come back to his friend. The Lincolnshire horse had chested the further bank and, of course, had fallen back into the stream. When Phineas got down he found that Lord Chotun was wedged in between the horse and the bank which was better at any rate than being under the horse in the water. All right, Elve, hello. He said with a smile when he saw Phineas, you go on, it's too good to lose. But he was very pale and seemed to be quite helpless where he lay. The horse did not move and never did move again. He had smashed his shoulder to pieces against a stump on the bank and was afterwards shot on that very spot. When Phineas got down he found that there was but little water where the horse lay. The depth of the stream had been on the side from which they had taken off and the thick black mud lay within a foot of the surface close to the bank against which Lord Chotun was propped. That's the worst one I was ever on, said Lord Chotun, but I think he's gruelled now. Are you hurt? Well, I'm a fancied there is something amiss. I can't move my arms and I catch my breath. My legs are all right if I could get away from this cursive brute. I told you so, said the farmer, coming and looking down upon them from the bank. I told you so, but you wouldn't be said. Then he too got down and between them both educated Lord Chotun from his position and got him on to the bank. That on to Denon, said the farmer, pointing to the horse. So much the better, said his lordship. Give us a drop of sherry-fin. He had broken his collarbone and three of his ribs. They got a farmer's trap from Wisingdon and took him into Oakham. When there he insisted on being taken on through Stamford to the Willingford Bull before he would have his bones set. Then he went up, however, as surgeon at Stamford. Phineas remained with him for a couple of days, losing his run with the Fitzwilliams and a day at the Potted Peas and became very fond of his patient as he sat by his bedside. That was a good run, though, wasn't it? said Lord Chotun, as Phineas took his leave. And by George Phineas you wrote Bonebreaker so well that you shall have him as often as he'll come down. I don't know how it is, but you Irish fellows always ride. End of Chapter 34 Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 25 of Phineas Finn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Simon Evers Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop Chapter 25 Mr. Turnbull's carriage stops the way. When Phineas got back to London a day after his time he found that there was already a great political commotion in the metropolis. He had known that on Easter Monday and Tuesday there was to be a gathering of the people in favour of the ballot, and that on Wednesday there was to be a procession with a prostitution which Mr. Turnbull was to receive from the hands of the people on Primrose Hill. It had been at first intended that Mr. Turnbull should receive the petition at the door of Westminster Hall on the Thursday, but he had been requested to put aside this intention and he complied with the request made to him. Mr. Malmay was to move the second reading of his reform bill on that day, the preliminary steps having been taken without any special notice. But the bill of course included no clause in favour of the ballot, and this petition was the consequence of that omission. Mr. Turnbull had predicted evil consequences both in the House and out of it, and was now doing the best in his power in the purification of his own prophecies. Phineas, who reached his lodgings late on the Thursday, found that the town had been in a state of ferment for three days, that on the Wednesday forty or fifty thousand persons had been collected at Primrose Hill and that the police had been forced to interfere, and that worse was expected on the Friday. Though Mr. Turnbull had yielded to the government as to receiving the petition, the crowd was resolved and carried into the House. It was argued that the government would have done better to have refrained from interfering as to the previously intended arrangement. It would have been easier to deal with a procession than with a mob of men gathered together without any semblance of form. Mr. Malmay had been asked to postpone the second reading of his bill, but the request had come from his opponents and he would not yield to it. He said that it would be a bad expedient to close Parliament from fear of the people. Phineas found at the reform club on the Thursday evening that members of the House of Commons were requested to enter on the Friday by the door usually used by the peers and to make their way thence to their own House. He found that his landlord, Mr. Bunce, had been out with the people during the entire three days and Mrs. Bunce, with a flood of tears, begged Phineas to interfere as to the Friday. He's that headstrong that he'd be took if anybody's took and they say that all Westminster had to be lined with soldiers. Phineas on the Friday morning did have some conversation with his landlord but his first work on reaching London was to see Lord Chilton's friends and tell them of the accident. The body-piece committee sat on the Thursday and he ought to have been there. His absence however was unavoidable as he could not have left his friend's bedside so soon after the accident. On the Wednesday he had written to Lady Laura on a Thursday evening he went first to Portman Square and then to Gravenham Place. Of course he will kid himself some day, said the Earl, with a tear however in each eye. I hope not, my lord, he is a magnificent horseman but accidents of course will happen. How many of his bones are there not broken? I wonder, said his father. It's useless to talk, of course. You think he's not in danger? Certainly not. I should fear that he would be so liable to inflammation. The doctor says that there is none. He has been taking an enormous deal of exercise, said Phineas, and drinking no wine. All that is in his favour. What does he drink then? asked the Earl. Nothing. I rather think, my lord, you are mistaken a little about his habits. I don't fancy he ever drinks unless he is provoked to do it. Provoked? Could anything provoke you to make a brute of yourself? But I am glad that he is in no danger. If you hear of him, let me know how he goes on. Lady Laura was, of course, full of concern. I wanted to go down to him, she said, but Mr. Kennedy thought that there was no occasion. Nor is there any. I mean in regard to danger. He is very solitary there. You must go to see him again. Mr. Kennedy will not let me go unless I can say that there is danger. He seems to think that because Oswaldus has accidents before, it is nothing. Of course, I cannot leave London without his leave. Your brother makes very little of it, you know. He would make little of anything. But if I were real, he would be in London by the first train. Kennedy would let you go if you asked him. But he advises me not to go. He says my duty does not require it unless Oswaldus will be in danger. Don't you know, Mr. Finn, how hard it is for a wife not to take advice when it is so given? This she said within six months of her marriage to the man who had been her husband's rival. Finneas asked her whether Violet had heard the news and learned that she was still ignorant of it. I got your letter any this morning and I have not seen her, said Lady Laura. Indeed, I am so angry with her that I hardly wish to see her. Thursday was Lady Baloch's night and Finneas went from Gravener Place to Barkley Square. There he saw Violet and found that she had heard of the accident. I am so glad to see you, Mr. Finn, said she. Do tell me, is it much? Much in inconvenience, certainly, but not much in danger. I think Laura was so unkind not to send me word, I only heard it just now. Did you see it? I was close to him and helped him up. The horse jumped into a river with him and crushed him against the bank. How lucky that you should be there! Had you jumped the river? Yes, almost unintentionally, for my horse was rushing so that I couldn't hold him. Chiltern was riding a brute that no one should have ridden. No one will again. Did he destroy himself? He had to be killed afterwards. He broke his shoulder. How very lucky that you should have been near him and again, how lucky that you should not have been hurt yourself. It was not likely that we should both come to grief of the same fence. It might have been you, and you think there is no danger. And none whatever, if I may believe the doctor. His hunting is done for this year and he will be very desolate. I shall go down again to him in a few days and try to bring him up to town. Do, do! If he is laid up in his father's house, his father must see him. Phineas had not looked at the matter in that light, but he thought that Miss Effingham might probably be right. Early on the next morning he saw Mr Bunce in an eloquence to keep that respectable member of society at home. But in vain. What good do you expect to do, Mr Bunce, he said, with perhaps some little tone of authority in his voice. To carry my point, said Bunce, and what is your point? My present point is the ballot as a part of the government measure. And you expect to carry that out by going into the streets with all the ruffs of London and putting yourself in direct opposition to your interests. Do you really believe that the ballot will become the law of the land any sooner because you incur this danger and inconvenience? Look here, Mr Phine. I don't believe the sea will become any fuller because the piddle runs into out of the dorseture fields. But I do believe that the waters from all the countries is what makes the ocean. I shall help. It is my duty to help. It is your duty as a respectable citizen with a wife and family If everybody with a wife and family was to say so, there'd be a number of ruffs. And then where should we be? What will the government people say to us then? If every man with a wife and family was to show himself in the streets tonight, we should have the ballot before Parliament breaks up. And if none of them don't do it, we shall never have the ballot. Ain't that so? Phineas, who intended to be honest, was not prepared to dispute the assertion on the spur of the moment. If that so, said Brunch triumphantly, a man's duty is clear enough. You ought to go. There are two wives and families. And he went. The petition was to be presented at six o'clock, but the crowd, who collected to see it, carried into Westminster Hall, began to form itself by noon. It was said afterwards that many of the houses in the neighbourhood of Palace Yard on the bridge were filled with soldiers. But if so, the men did not show themselves. In the course of the evening three or four companies of the guards and James's Park did show themselves and had some rough work to do, for many of the people took themselves away from Westminster by that route. The police, who were very numerous in Palace Yard, had a hard time of it all the afternoon, and it was said afterwards that it would have been much better to have allowed the petition to have been brought up by the procession on Wednesday. A procession, let it be who it is that precedes, has in it of its own nature something of order. There was no order. The petition, which was said to fill fifteen cabs that the absolute sheets of signatures were carried into the house by four men was being dragged about half the day and it certainly would have been impossible for a member to have made his way into the house through Westminster Hall between the hours of four and six. To effect an entrance at all they were obliged to go round to the back of the Abbey as all the spaces round St Margaret's Church and Canning's Monument were filled with the crowd. Parliament Street was quite impassable at five o'clock and there was no traffic across the bridge from that hour till after eight. As the evening went on the mob extended itself to Downing Street and the front of the Treasury Chambers and before the night was over all the hoardings round the new Government offices had been pulled down. The windows also of certain obnoxious members of Parliament were broken when those obnoxious members lived within reach. One gentleman who unfortunately held a house in Richmond, Terris and who said to have said that the ballot was the resort of cowards fared very badly for his windows were not any broken but his furniture and mirrors were destroyed by the stones that were thrown. Mr. Marlbey, I say, was much blamed but after all it may be a doubt whether the procession on Wednesday might have ended worse. Mr. Turnbull was heard to say afterwards that the number of people collected was much greater. Mr. Marlbey moved to the second reading of his bill and made his speech. He made his speech with the knowledge of the Houses of Parliament was surrounded by a mob and I think the fact added to its efficacy. It certainly gave him an appropriate opportunity for a display which was not difficult. His voice faltered on two or three occasions and faltered through real feeling but this sort of feeling, though it be real is at the command of orators on certain occasions and does them human service. Mr. Marlbey was an old man nearly worn out in the service of his country which was known to have been true and honest and to have loved his country well. There were of course they who declared that his hand had been too weak for power and that his services had been nought and on this evening his virtues were remembered. Once when his voice failed him the whole Vore House got up and cheered. The nature of a weak Prime Minister's speech on such an occasion will be understood by most of my readers without further indication. The bill itself had been read before and it was understood that no objection would be made to the extent of the changes provided it by the Liberal side of the House. The opposition coming from Liberal members was to be confined to the subject of the ballot. And even as yet it was not known whether Mr. Turnbull and his followers would vote against the second reading or whether they would take what was given and declare their intention of obtaining the remainder on a separate motion. The opposition of a large party of Conservatives was a matter of certainty but to this party Mr. Marlbey did not conceive himself bound to offer so large an amount of argument as he would have given had there been at the moment no crowd in Palace Yard. And he probably felt that that crowd would assist him with his old Tory enemies. When in the last words of his speech he declared that under no circumstances would he disfigure the close of his political career by voting for the ballot not though the people on whose behalf he had been fighting battles all his life should be there in any number to coerce him there came another round of applause from the opposition benches and Mr. Dormony began to fear that some young horses in his team might get loose from their traces. With great dignity Mr. Dormony had kept aloof from Mr. Turnbull and from Mr. Turnbull's tactics but he was not the less alive to the fact that Mr. Turnbull with his mob and his big petition might be of considerable assistance to him in this present duel between himself and Mr. Marlbey. I think Mr. Dormony was in the habit of looking at these contests as duels between himself and the leader on the other side of the house in which assistance from any quarter might be accepted if offered. Mr. Marlbey's speech did not occupy much over an hour and at half-past seven Mr. Turnbull got up to reply. It was presumed that he would do so and not a member left his place though that time of the day is an interesting time and though Mr. Turnbull was accustomed to be long. There soon came to be but little ground for doubting what would be the nature of Mr. Turnbull's vote on the second reading. How may I dare said he to accept so small a measure of reform as this with such a message from the country as is now conveyed to me through the presence of fifty thousand of my countrymen who are at this moment demanding their measure of reform just beyond the frail walls of this chamber. The right honourable gentleman has told us that he will never be intimidated by a concourse of people. I do not know that there was any need that he should speak of intimidation. No one has accused the right honourable gentleman of political cacodice but, as he is so said I will follow in his footsteps. Neither will I be intimidated by the large majority which this house presented the other night against the wishes of the people. I will support no great measure of reform which does not include the ballot among its clauses. And so Mr. Turnbull threw down the gauntlet. Mr. Turnbull spoke for two hours and then the debate was adjourned till the Monday. The adjournment was moved by an independent member who, as was known, would support the government and at once received Mr. Turnbull's assent. There was no great hurry with the bill and it was felt that it would be well to let the ferment subside. Enough had been done for glory when Mr. Malway moved the second reading and quite enough in the way of debate with such an audience almost within hearing when Mr. Turnbull's speech had been made. Then the house emptied itself at once. The elderly, cautious members made their exit through the pier's door. One got out into the crowd through Westminster Hall and were pushed about among the ruffs for an hour or so. Phineas, who made his way through the hall with Lawrence Fix Gibbon, found Mr. Turnbull's carriage waiting at the entrance with a dozen policemen round it. I hope he won't get home to dinner before midnight, said Phineas. Oh, he understands all about it, said Lawrence. He had a good meal at three before he left home and you'd find sandwiches and sherry and plenty of you he knows how to remedy the costs of mob of popularity. At that time, poor Bunce was being hustled about in the crowd in the vicinity of Mr. Turnbull's carriage. Phineas and Fix Gibbon made their way out and by degrees worked a passage for themselves into Parliament Street. Mr. Turnbull had been somewhat behind them in coming down the hall and had not been without a sense of enjoyment in the evasion which was being given to him. There can be no doubt that he was wrong in what he was doing. That affair of the carriage was altogether wrong and did Mr. Turnbull much harm for many a day afterwards. When he got outside the door where were the twelve policemen guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers endeavored to shake hands with him. Among them was the devoted Bunce. But the policemen seemed to think that Mr. Turnbull was to be guarded even from the affection of his friends and were as careful that he should be ushered in the carriage untouched as he had been the favourite object of political aversion for the moment. Mr. Turnbull himself, when he began to perceive that men were crowding close upon the gates and to hear the noise and to feel as it were the breath of the mob stepped on quickly into his carriage. He said a word or two in a loud voice Thank you, my friends. I trust you may obtain all your just demands. But he did not pause to speak. Indeed, he could hardly have done so as the policemen were manifestly in a hurry. The carriage was got away at a snail's pace. But there remained in the spot where the carriage had stood the makings of a very pretty street row. Bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero. Bunce and some other reformers as ardent and as decent as himself. The police were very determined that there should be no such interruption to their programme for getting Mr Turnbull off the scene. Mr Bunce, who had his own ideas as to the right to shake hands with any gentleman at Westminster Hall who might choose to shake hands with him, became uneasy under the impediments that were placed in his way and expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights. Now a London policeman and a political row is, I believe, the most forbearing of men. So long as he meets with no special political opposition ordinary ill usage does not even put him out of temper. He's paid for rough work among roughs and takes his rubs garantly. But he feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of despotic power as opposed to civil rights and he won't stand what he calls jaw. Trip up a policeman in such a scramble and he will take it in good spirit. But mention the words habeas corpus and he'll lock you up if he can. As a rule his instincts are right. For the man who talks about habeas corpus in a political crowd will generally do more harm than can be affected by the tripping up of any constable. But these instincts may be the means of individual injustice. I think they were so when Mr Bunce was arrested and kept a fast prisoner. His wife had shown her knowledge of his character when she declared that he be took if anyone was took. Bunce was taken into custody with some three or four others like himself, decent men who meant no harm but who thought that as men they were bound to share their political opinions perhaps at the expense of a little martyrdom and was carried into a temporary stronghold which had been provided for the necessities of the police under the clock-tar. Keep me at your peril! said Bunce, indignantly. We means it! said the sergeant who had him in custody. I've done no apath to break the law! said Bunce. You was breaking the law when you was upsetting my men as I saw you! said the sergeant. I've upset nobody! said Bunce. Very well! rejoined the sergeant. You can say it all before the magistrate to-morrow. And am I to be locked up all night? said Bunce. I'm afraid you will! replied the sergeant. Bunce, it was not by nature of any talkative man, said no more. But he swore in his heart that there should be vengeance. Between eleven and twelve he was taken to the regular police station and from thence he was enabled to send word to his wife. Bunce has been taken! said she was something of the tragic queen and something also of the injured wife in the tone of her voice as soon as Phineas had let himself in with a latch-key between twelve and one. And then, mingled with and at last dominant over those severe atones, came the voice of the loving woman whose beloved one was in trouble. I knew how to be Mr. Phine, didn't I? And what must we do? I don't suppose he's had a bit to eat from the moment he went out. And as for a drop of beer he never thinks of it except what I put down for him at his meals. Then nasty police always take the best. That's why I was so afraid! Phineas said all that he could to comfort her and promised to go to the police office early in the morning and look after Bunce. No serious evil would he thought probably come of it. But still Bunce had been wrong to go. But you might have been took yourself, argued Mrs. Bunce, just as well as he. Then Phineas explained that he had gone forth in the execution of a public duty. You might have been took all the same, for I'm sure Bunce didn't do nothing amiss.


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