57 The top brick of the chimney. Madam Max Goessler was a lady who knew that in fighting the battles which fell to her thought, in arranging the social difficulties which she found in her way, in doing the work of the world which came to her share, very much more care was necessary, and care too about things apparently trifling, than was demanded by the affairs of people in general. And this was not the case so much on account of any special disadvantage under which she labored, as because she was ambitious of doing the very uttermost with those advantages which she possessed. Her own birth had not been high, and that of her husband, we may perhaps say, had been very low. He had been old when she had married him, and she had had little power of making any progress till he had left her a widow. When she found herself possessed of money, certainly, of wit as she believed, and of something in her personal appearance, which, as she plainly told herself, she might perhaps palm off upon the world as beauty. She was a woman who did not flatter herself, who did not strongly believe in herself, who could even bring herself to wonder that men and women in high position should condescend to notice such a one as her. With all her ambition there was a something of genuine humility about her, and with all the hardness she had learned there was a touch of womanly softness which would sometimes obtrude itself upon her heart. When she found a woman really kind to her, she would be very kind in return. And though she prized wealth and knew that her money was her only rock of strength, she could be lavish with it, as though it were dirt. But she was highly ambitious, and she played her game with great skill and great caution. Her doors were not open to all callers. Were shot even to some who find but few doors closed against them. Were shot occasionally to those whom she most specially wished to see within them. She knew how to allure by denying, and to make the gift rich by delaying it. We are told by the Latin proverb that he who gives quickly gives twice. But I say that she who gives quickly seldom gives more than half. When in the early spring the Duke of Omnium first knocked at Madame Max Gisler's door, he was informed that she was not at home. The Duke felt very cross as he handed his card out of his dark green brome, on the panel of which there was no blazing to tell the owner's rank. He was very cross. She had told him that she was always at home between four and six on a Thursday. He had condescended to remember the information, and had acted upon it. And now she was not at home. She was not at home, though he had come on a Thursday, at the very hour she had named to him. Any Duke would have been cross. But the Duke of Omnium was particularly cross. No. He certainly would give himself no further trouble by going to the cottage in Park Lane. And yet Madame Max Gisler had been in her own drawing-room, while the Duke was handing out his card from the brome below. On the next morning there came to him a note from the cottage, such a pretty note, so penitent, so full of remorse, and which was better still, so laden with disappointment, that he forgave her. My dear Duke, I hardly know how to apologise to you after having told you that I am always at home on Thursdays, and I was at home yesterday when you called, but I was unwell, and I had told the servant to deny me, not thinking how much I might be losing. Indeed, indeed, I would not have given way to a silly headache had I thought that your grace would have been here. I suppose that now I must not even hope for the photograph. Yours penitently, Marie M. G. The note-paper was very pretty note-paper, hardly scented, and yet, conveying a sense of something sweet. And the monogram was small and new, and fantastic, without being grotesque. And the writing was of that sort which the Duke, having much experience, had learned to like. And there was something in the signature which pleased him. So he wrote a reply. Dear Madame Max Gisler, I will call again next Thursday, or, if prevented, will let you know. Yours faithfully, O. When the green brome drew up at the door of the cottage on the next Thursday, Madame Gisler was at home, and had no headache. She was not at all penitent now. She had probably studied the subject, and had resolved that penitence was more alluring in a letter than when acted in person. She received her guest with perfect ease, and apologized for the injury done to him in the preceding week, with much self-complacency. I was so sorry when I got to your card, she said. And yet I am so glad now that you were refused. If you were ill, said the Duke, it was better. I was horribly ill, to tell the truth, as pale as a death's head, and without a word to say for myself. I was fit to see no one. Then of course you were right. But it flashed upon me immediately that I had named a day, and that you had been kind enough to remember it. But I did not think you came to London till the March winds were over. The March winds blow everywhere in this wretched island, Madame Gossler, and there is no escaping them. Youth may prevail against them, but on me they are so potent that I think they will succeed in driving me out of my country. I doubt whether an old man should ever live in England if he can help it. The Duke certainly was an old man. If a man turned of seventy be old. And he was a man too who did not bear his years with hearty strength. He moved slowly, and turned his limbs when he did turn them, as though the joints were stiff in their sockets. But there was nevertheless about him a dignity of demeanor, a majesty of person, and an upright carriage which did not leave an idea of old age as the first impress on the minds of those who encountered the Duke of Omnium. He was tall, and moved without a stoop. And though he moved slowly, he had learned to seem so to do, because it was the proper kind of movement for one so high up in the world as himself. And perhaps his tailor did something for him. He had not been long under Madame Max Gossler's eyes before she perceived that his tailor had done a good deal for him. When he alluded to his own age and to her youth, she said some pleasant little word as to the difference between oak trees and current bushes. And by that time she was seated comfortably on her sofa, and the Duke was on a chair before her, just as might have been any man who was not a Duke. After a little time the photograph was brought forth from his grace's pocket. But bringing out and giving of photographs, with the demand for counter-photographs, is the most absurd practice of the day. I don't think I look very nice, do I? Oh, yes, very nice, but a little too old, and certainly you haven't got those spots all over your forehead. These are the remarks which on such occasions are the most common. It may be said that to give a photograph or to take a photograph, without the utterance of some words which would be felt by a bystander to be absurd, is almost an impossibility. At this moment there was no bystander, and therefore the Duke and the Lady had no need for caution. Words were spoken that were very absurd. Madame Gossler protested that the Duke's photograph was more to her than the photographs of all the world beside, and the Duke declared that he would carry the Lady's picture next to his heart. I am afraid, he said, for ever and ever. Then he took her hand and pressed it, and was conscious that for a man over seventy years of age he did that kind of thing very well. You will come and the dine with me, Duke," she said, when he began to talk of going. I never dine out. That is just the reason you should dine with me. You shall meet nobody you do not wish to meet. I would so much rather see you in this way, I would indeed. I do dine out occasionally, but it is at big formal parties which I cannot escape without giving offence. And you cannot escape my little not formal party without giving offence." She looked into his face as she spoke, and he knew that she meant it. And he looked into hers, and thought that her eyes were brighter than any he was in the habit of seeing in these latter days. Name your own day, Duke, will a Sunday suit you? If I must come. You must come. As she spoke her eyes sparkled more and more, and her color went and came, and she shook her curls till they emitted through the air the same soft feeling of a perfume that her note had produced. Then her foot peeped out from beneath the black and yellow drapery of her dress, and the Duke saw that it was perfect. And she put out her finger and touched his arm as she spoke. Her hand was very fair, and her fingers were bright with rich gems.  You must come, she said, not imploring him now, but commanding him. Then I will come," he answered, and a certain Sunday was fixed. The arranging of the guests was a little difficulty, till Madame Gosler begged the Duke to bring with him Lady Glingora Palliser, his nephew's wife. This at last he agreed to do. As the wife of his nephew and heir, Lady Glingora was to the Duke all that a woman could be. She was everything that was proper as to her own conduct, and not obtrusive as to his. She did not bore him, and yet she was attentive. So in her husband's house she was a fierce politician. In his house she was simply an attractive woman. Ah, she is very clever," the Duke once said. She adapts herself. If she were to go from any one place to any other she would be at home in both. And the movement of his grace's hand as he spoke seemed to indicate the widest possible sphere for travelling, and the widest possible scope for adaptation. The dinner was arranged, and went off very pleasantly. Madame Gosler's eyes were not quite so bright as they were during that morning visit.  She was very quiet, allowing her guests to do most of the talking. But the dinner and the flowers and the wine were excellent, and the whole thing was so quiet that the Duke liked it. And now you must come and dine with me," the Duke said as he took his leave. A command through that effect will be one which I certainly shall not disobey, whispered Madame Gosler. I am afraid he is going to get fond of that woman. These words were spoken early on the following morning by Lady Glencora to her husband, Mr. Palacere. He is always getting fond of some woman, and he will to the end, said Mr. Palacere. But this Madame Max Gosler is very clever. So they tell me, I have generally thought that my uncle likes talking to a fool the best. Every man likes a clever woman the best," said Lady Glencora, if the clever woman only knows how to use her cleverness. I'm sure I hope he'll be amused, said Mr. Palacere innocently. A little amusement is all that he cares for now.  There is not a man in all England who thinks more of his own position than my uncle, said Mr. Palacere, somewhat proudly, almost with a touch of anger. That is all very well plantagenet, and true enough in a kind of way. But a child will sacrifice all that it has for the top brick of the chimney, and old men sometimes become children. You would not like to be told some morning that there was a little Lord Silverbridge in the world? Now the eldest son of the Duke of Omnium, when the Duke of Omnium had a son, was called the Earl of Silverbridge. And Mr. Palacere, when this question was asked him, became very pale. Mr. Palacere knew well how thoroughly the cunning of the serpent was joined to the purity of the dove in the person of his wife, and he was sure that there was cause for fear when she hinted at danger. Perhaps you had better keep your eye upon him, he said to his wife. And upon her, said Lady Glencora. When Madame Gussler dined at the Duke's house in St. James Square there was a large party, and Lady Glencora knew that there was no need for apprehension then. Indeed Madame Gussler was no more than any other guest, and the Duke hardly spoke to her. There was a duchess there, the duchess of St. Bungay, and old Lady Hartletop, who was a dowager Marchinesse, an old lady who pestered the Duke very sorely, and Madame Max Gussler received her reward, and knew that she was receiving it, in being asked to meet these people. Would not all these names, including her own, be blazoned to the world in the columns of the next day's morning post? There was no absolute danger here, as Lady Glencora knew, and Lady Glencora, who was tolerant and begrudged nothing to Madame Max except the one thing, was quite willing to meet the lady at such a grand affair as this. But the Duke, even should he become ever so childish a child in his old age, still would have that plain green brome at his command, and could go anywhere in that at any hour in the day.  A duchess of Omnium might be said to fill, in the estimation at any rate of English people, the highest position in the world short of royalty. And the reader will remember that Lady Glencora intended to be a duchess of Omnium herself, unless some very unexpected event should intrude itself. She intended also that her little boy, her fair-haired, curly-pated, bold-faced little boy, should be Earl of Silverbridge, when the sand of the old man should have run itself out. Heavens, what a blow it would be!    We can't prevent it if he chooses to do it," said her husband, who had his budget to bring forward that very night, and who in truth cared more for his budget than he did for his airship at that moment. But we must prevent it," said Lady Glencora. If I stick to him by the tail of his coat, I'll prevent it. At the time when she thus spoke, the dark green brome had been twice again brought up at the door in Park Lane. And the brome was standing there a third time. It was May now, the latter end of May, and the park opposite was beautiful with green things, and the air was soft and balmy, as it will be sometimes even in May. And the flowers in the balcony were full of perfume, and the charm of London, what London can be to the rich, was at its height. The Duke was sitting in Madame Gussler's drawing-room at some distance from her, for she had retreated. The Duke had a habit of taking her hand, which she never would permit for above a few seconds. At such times she would show no anger, but would retreat. "'Marie,' said the Duke, you will go abroad when the summer is over." As an old man he had taken the privilege of calling her Marie, and she had not forbidden it. "'Yes, probably, to Vienna. I have property in Vienna, you know, which must be looked after.' Do not mind Vienna this year. Come to Italy." "'What, in summer, Duke?' The lakes are charming in August. I have a villa on Como, which is empty now, and I think I shall go there. If you do not know the Italian lakes, I shall be so happy to show them to you.' "'I know them well, my lord. When I was young, I was on the Maggiore almost alone. One day I will tell you a history of what I was in those days. You shall tell it me there.' "'No, my lord, I fear not. I have no villa there.' "'Will you not accept the loan of mine? It shall be all your own while you use it.' "'My own?' To deny the right of entrance to its owner. If it so pleases you.' "'It would not please me. It would so far from please me that I will never put myself in a position that might make it possible for me to require to do so.' "'No, Duke. It behooves me to live in houses of my own. Women of whom more is known can afford to be your guests.' "'Marie, I would have no other guests than you.' "'It cannot be so, Duke.' "'And why not?' "'Why not?' "'Am I to be put to the blush by being made to answer such a question as that?' "'Because the world would say that the Duke of Omnium had a new mistress, and that Madame Gussler was the woman. Do you think that I would be any man's mistress, even yours? Or do you believe that for the sake of the softness of a summer evening on an Italian lake I would give cause to the tongues of the women here to say that I was such a thing? You would have me lose all that I have gained by steady years of sober work, for the sake of a week or two of dalliance such as that?' "'No, Duke. Not for your Duke-dumb.' How his grace might have got through his difficulty had they been left alone, cannot be told. For at this moment the door was opened, and Lady Glencora Palliser was announced. Come and see the country and judge for yourself,' said Phineas. "'I should like nothing better,' said Mr. Monk. "'It has often seemed to me that men in Parliament know less about Ireland than they do of the interior of Africa,' said Phineas. "'It is seldom that we know anything accurately on any subject that we have not made matter of careful study,' said Mr. Monk, and very often do not do so even then. We are very apt to think that we men and women understand one another, but most probably you know nothing, even of the modes of thought of the man who lives next door to you.' I suppose not. There are general laws current in the world as to morality, thou shalt not steal, for instance. That has necessarily been current as a law through all nations. But the first man you meet in the street will have ideas about theft so different from yours, that, if you knew them as you know your own, you would say that this law and yours were not even founded on the same principle. It is compatible with this man's honesty to cheat you in a matter of horse-flesh, with that man's in a traffic of railway shares, with that other man's as to a woman's fortune, with a force anything that may be done for a seat in Parliament, while the fifth man, who stands high among us and who implores his God every Sunday to write that law on his heart, spends every hour of his daily toil in a system of fraud and is regarded as a pattern of the national commerce. Mr. Munk and Phineas were dining together at Mr. Munk's house, and the elder politician of the two in this little speech had recurred to certain matters which had already been discussed between them. Mr. Munk was becoming somewhat sick of his place in the cabinet, though he had not as yet whispered a word of his sickness to any living ears, and he had begun to pine for the lost freedom of a seat below the gangway. He had been discussing political honesty with Phineas, and hence had come the sermon at which I have ventured to reproduce the concluding denunciations. Phineas was fond of such discussions and fond of holding them with Mr. Munk, in this matter fluttering like a moth round a candle. He would not perceive that as he had made up his mind to be a servant of the public in Parliament he must abandon all idea of independent action, and unless he did so he could be neither successful as regarded himself or useful to the public to whom he served. Would a man be honest in Parliament, and yet abandon all idea of independence? When he put such questions to Mr. Munk he did not get a direct answer, and indeed the question was never put directly. But the teaching which he received was ever of a nature to make him uneasy. It was always to this effect. You've taken up the trade now, and seem to be fit for success in it. You'd better give up thinking about its special honesty. And yet Mr. Munk would on occasion preach to him such a sermon as that which he had just uttered. Perhaps there is no question more difficult to a man's mind than that of expediency or inexpediency of scruples in political life. Whether what a candidate for office would be more liable to rejection from a leader because he was known to be scrupulous, or because he was known to be the reverse. But putting aside the fourth commandment and all the theories, you will come to Ireland, said Finneas. I shall be delighted. I don't live in a castle, you know. I thought everybody did live in a castle in Ireland, said Mr. Munk. They seemed to do when I was there twenty years ago. But for myself I prefer a cottage. This trip to Ireland had been proposed in consequence of certain ideas respecting tenant right which Mr. Munk was beginning to adopt, and as to which the minds of politicians were becoming moved. It had been all very well to put down phoenism and ribbon ban and repeal and everything that had been put down in Ireland in the way of rebellion for the last seventy-five years. England and Ireland had been apparently joined together by laws of nature so fixed that even politicians liberal, as was Mr. Munk, liberal as was Mr. Turnbull, could not trust themselves to think that disunion could be the good for the good of the Irish. They had taught themselves that it certainly could not be good for the English, but if it was encumbered on England to force upon Ireland the maintenance of the union for her own sake and for England's sake, because England could not afford independence established so close against her own ribs, it was at any rate necessary to England's character that the bride, thus bound in a compulsory wedlock, should be enjoyed with all the best privileges that a wife can enjoy, let her at least not be a kept mistress. Let it be bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, if we ought to live together in the married state.  But let there be that good understanding at bottom. What about this Protestant church, and what about this tenant-right? Mr. Munk had been asking himself these questions for some time past. In regard to the church he had long made up his mind that the establishment in Ireland was a crying sin. A man had married a woman whom he knew to be of a religion different from his own, and then insisted that his wife should say that she believed those things which he knew very well that she did not believe. But, as Mr. Munk well knew, the subject of the Protestant endowments in Ireland was so difficult that it would require almost more than human wisdom to adjust it. It was one of those matters which almost seemed to require the interposition of some higher power becoming of some apparently chance event to clear away the evil, as a far comes and pestilential allies are removed, as a famine comes a man had driven from want and ignorance and dirt to seek new homes and new thoughts across the broad waters, as a war comes and slavery is banished from the face of the earth. But in regard to tenant-right, to some arrangement by which a tenant in Ireland might be at least encouraged to lay out what little capital he might have in labour or money without being at once called upon to pay rent for that outcry which was his own, as well as for the land which was not his own, Mr. Munk thought that it was possible that if a man would look hard enough he might perhaps be able to see his way as to that. He had spoken to two of his colleagues on the subject, the two men in the cabinet whom he believed to be in the most thoroughly honest in their ideas as public servants, the Duke and Mr. Gresham.  I will endeavour to study it, said Mr. Munk. If you can see your way, do, said Mr. Gresham, but of course we cannot bind ourselves. I should be glad to see it named in the Queen's speech at the beginning of the next session, said Mr. Munk. That is a long way off as yet, said Mr. Gresham, laughing. Who will be in then, and who will be out? So the matter was disposed of at the time, but Mr. Munk did not abandon his idea. He rather felt himself the more bound to cling to it because he received so little encouragement. What was a seat in the cabinet to him that he should on that account omit a duty? He had not taken up politics as a trade. He had sat far behind the treasury bench or below the gangway for many a year without any man a shilling, and could afford to do so again. But it was different with Phineas Finn, as Mr. Munk himself understood, and, understanding this, he felt himself bound to caution his young friend. But it may be a question whether his cautions did not do more harm than good. I shall be delighted, he said, to go over with you in August, but I do not think that if I were you, I would take up this matter. And why not you don't want to fight the battle single-handed? No, I desire no such glory, and would wish to have no better lieutenant than you, but you have a subject of which you are really fond, which you are beginning to understand, and in regard to which you can make yourself useful. You mean this Canada business? Yes. And that will grow to other matters as regards the colonies. There is nothing so important to a public man as that he should have his own subject, the thing which he understands and in respect of which he can make himself really useful. Then there comes a change. Yes. And a man who has half learned how to have a ship built without waste, is sent into opposition, and is then brought back to look after regiments, or perhaps has to take up that beautiful subject, a study of the career of India. But nevertheless, if you have a subject, stick to it at any rate as long as it will stick to you. But said Phineas, if a man takes up his own subject independent of the government, no man can drive him from it. And how often does he do anything? Look at the annual motions which come forward in the hands of private men, Maynooth and the Barrett, for instance. It is becoming more and more apparent every day that all legislation must be carried by the government, and must be carried in obedience to the expressed wish of the people. The truest democracy that ever had a chance of living is that which we are now establishing in Great Britain. Then leave tenant right to the people of the cabinet. Why should you take it up? Mr. Munk paused a moment or two before he replied. If I choose to run amuck, there is no reason why you should follow me. I am old, and you are young.  Moreover, you have a congenial subject where you are in need of not to disturb yourself. For myself, I tell you, in confidence, that I cannot speak so comfortably of my own position. We will go and see at any rate, said Phineas. Yes, said Mr. Munk. We will go and see. And thus, in the month of May, it was settled between them, that as soon as the session should be over, and the incidental work of his office should allow Phineas to pack up and be off. They too should start together for Ireland. Phineas felt rather proud, as he wrote to his father, and asked permission to bring home with him a cabinet minister as a visitor. At this time, the reputation of Phineas at Killaloe, as well as in the minds of the Killaloeans generally, as in those of the inhabitants of the paternal house, stood very high indeed. How could a father think that a son had done badly when before he was thirty years of age he was earning two thousand pounds a year? And how could a father not think well of a son who is absolutely paid back certain monies into the paternal coffers? The monies so repaid have not been much, but the repayment of any such money at Killaloe have been regarded as little short of miraculous. The news of Mr. Monk's coming flew about the town, about the county, about the diocese, and all people began to say all good things about the old doctor's only son. Mrs. Phine had long since been quite sure that a real black swan had been sent forth out of her nest, and the sisters Phine, for some time past, had felt in all social gatherings they stood quite on a different footing than formerly because of their brother. They were asked about in the county, and two of them had been staying only last Easter with the monies—the monies of Paul Doody.   And yet she took joy in his swanhood, and swore that she would love him still, that she would love him always. Might he bring home with him to Killilow Mr. Monk, the cabinet minister? Of course he might. When Mrs. Phine first heard of this august arrival, she felt as though she would like to expend herself in entertaining, though but an hour, the whole cabinet. Phineus, during the spring, had of course met Mr. Kennedy frequently in and about the house, and had become aware that Lady Laura's husband, from time to time, made little overtures of civility to him, taking him known again by the buttonhole, walking home with him as far as that joint path is allowed, and asking him once or twice to come and dine in Grosvenor Place. These little advances towards a repetition of the old friendship Phineus would have avoided altogether had it been possible. The invitation to Mr. Kennedy's house he did refuse, leading himself positively bound to do so by Lady Laura's command, let the consequences be what they might. When he did refuse, Mr. Kennedy would assume a lot of displeasure and leave him, and Phineus would hope that the work was done. Then there would come another encounter, and the invitation would be repeated. At last, about the middle of May, there came another note. Dear Phine, would you dimer this on Wednesday the 28th? I give you a long notice, because you seem to have so many appointments. Yours always, Robert Kennedy. He had no alternative. He must refuse, even though double the notice had been given. He could only think that Mr. Kennedy was a very obtuse man, and one who would not take a hint, and hope that he might succeed at last. Say he wrote an answer not intended to be conciliatory. My dear Kennedy, I am sorry to say that I am engaged on the 28th. Yours always, Phineus Phine. At this period, he did his best to keep out of Mr. Kennedy's way, and would be very cunning in his maneuvers that they should not be alone together. It was difficult, as they sat on the same bench in the house and consequently saw each other almost every day of their lives. Nevertheless, he thought that with a little cunning he might prevail, especially as he was not unwilling to give so much of a fence as might assist his own object. But when Mr. Kennedy called upon him at his office the day after he had written the above note, he had no means of escape. I am sorry you cannot count us on the 28th, Mr. Kennedy said, as soon as he was seated. Phineus was taken so much by surprise that all his cunning failed him. Well, yes, said he, I was very sorry indeed. It seems to me, Phine, that you have had some reason for avoiding me of late. I do not know that I have done anything to offend you. Nothing on earth, said Phineus. I am wrong then in supposing that anything beyond mere chance has prevented you from coming to my house. Phineus felt that he was in a terrible difficulty, and he felt also that he was being rather ill-used in being thus cross-examined as to his reasons for not going to a gentleman's dinner. He thought that a man ought to be allowed to choose where he would go and where he would not go, and that questions such as these were very uncommon. Mr. Kennedy was sitting opposite to him, looking more grave and more sour than usual, and now his own countenance also became a little solemn. It was impossible that he should use Lady Laura's name, and yet he must, in some way, let his persecuting friend know that no further invitation would be of any use that there was something beyond mere chance and is not going to grove no place. But how was he to do this? The difficulty was so great that he could not see his way out of it. So he sat silent with a solemn face. Mr. Kennedy then asked him another question, which made the difficulty ten times greater. Has my wife asked you not to come to our house? It was necessary now that you should make a rush and get out of his trouble in some way. To tell you the truth, Kennedy, I don't think she wants to see me there. That does not answer my question. Has she asked you not to come? She said that which left on my mind an impression that she would sooner that I did not come. What did she say? How can I answer such a question as that, Kennedy? Is it fair to ask it? Oh, quite fair, I think. I think it quite unfair, and I must decline to answer it. I cannot imagine what you expect to gain by crossing questioning me in this way. Of course, no man likes to go to a house if he does not believe that everybody there will make him welcome. You and Lady Laura used to be great friends. I hope we are not enemies now, but things will occur that cause friendships to grow cool. Have you quarreled with her father? With Lord Brentford? No. Or with her brother, since it's the duel, I mean. Upon my word and honour, I cannot stand this, and I will not. I have not as yet quarreled with anybody, but I must quarrel with you if you go on in this way. It is quite unusual that a man should be put through his facings after such a fashion, and I must beg that there may be an end of it. Then I must ask, Lady Laura. You can say what you like to your wife, of course. I cannot hinder you. Upon that, Mr. Kennedy formally shook hands with him in token that there was no positive breach between them. As two nations may still maintain their alliance, though they have made up their minds to hate each other and fought each other at every turn, and took his leave. Phineas, as he sat at his window, looking out into the park and thinking of what had passed, could not but reflect that disagreeable as Mr. Kennedy had been to him, he would probably make himself much more disagreeable to his wife. And for himself, he thought that he'd got out of the scrape very well by the exhibition of a little mock anger. End of Chapter 58. Recording by Simon Evers. Chapter 59 of Phineas Finn. This is the 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 59. The Earl's Roth. The reader may remember that a rumour had been conveyed to Phineas—a rumour, indeed, which reached him from a source which he regarded as very untrustworthy—that violent effingham had quarrelled with her lover. He would probably have paid no attention to the rumour, beyond that which necessarily attached itself to any tidings as to a matter so full of interest to him, had it not been repeated to him in another quarter.  Madam Gersler said to him one day. What bird, he asked. Ah, that I cannot tell you, but this I will confess to you, that these birds which tell us news of a seldom very credible and are often not very creditable. You must take a bird's word for what it may be worth. It is said that they have quarrelled. I dare say, if the truth were known, they are billy and cooing in each other's arms at this moment. Phineas did not like to be told of their billing and cooing, did not like to be told even of their quarrelling. Though they were to quarrel, he would do him no good. He would rather that nobody should mention their names to him, so that his back, which had been so utterly broken, might in process of time get itself cured. From what he knew of our late he thought it very improbable that, even worse, he to quarrel with her one lover, she would have once throw herself into the arms of another. And he did feel, too, that there would be some meanness in taking her, were she willing to be so taken. But nevertheless these rumours, coming to him in this way from different sources, almost made it incumbent on him to find out the truth. He began to think that his broken back was not cured, that perhaps after all he was not in the way of being cured. And was it not possible that there might be explanations? Then he went to work and built castles in the air, so constructed as to omit the possibility of Violet Ethicum becoming his wife. This had been in April, and at that time all that he knew of Violet was that she was not yet in London. And he thought that he knew the same as to Lord Chilton. The Earl had told him that Chilton was not in town, nor expected him in town as yet. And in saying so had seemed to express displeasure against his son. Phineas had met Lady Baldock at some house which he frequented, and had been quite surprised to find himself graciously received by the old woman. She had said not a word of Violet, but had spoken of Lord Chilton, mentioning his name in bitter wrath. But he is a friend of mine, said Phineas, smiling. A friend indeed, Mr Finn, I know what sort of a friend. I don't believe that you are his friend. I am afraid he is not worthy of having any friend. Phineas did not quite understand from this that Lady Baldock was signifying to him that, badly as she had thought of him as a suit of her niece, she would have preferred him, especially now when people were beginning to speak well of him, to that terrible young man who, from his youth upwards, had been to her a cause of fear and trembling. Of course, it was desirable that Violet should marry an elder son and appear as heir. All that kind of thing in Lady Baldock's eyes was most desirable, but nevertheless anything was better than Lord Chilton. If Violet would not take Mr Appledom or Lord Fawn, in heaven's name let her take this young man who was kind, worthy and steady, who was civilized in his manners, there would no doubt be amenable in regard to settlements. Lady Baldock had so far fallen in the world, that she would have considered to make a bargain with her niece, almost any bargain, so long as Lord Chilton was excluded. Phineas did not quite understand all this. But when Lady Baldock asked him to come to Barkley Square, he perceived that help was being profited to him, where he certainly had not looked for help.  After having been the intimate friend of the daughter and of the son, he now seemed to be his lot to be the intimate friend of the father. The Earl had constantly discussed with him his arrangements with his son, and had lately expressed himself as only half-satisfied with such reconciliation as had taken place. And Phineas could perceive that, from day to day, the Earl was less and less satisfied. He would complain bitterly of his son, complain of his silence, complain of his not coming to London, complain of his conduct of violet, complain of his idle indifference to anything like proper occupation. But he had never as yet said a word to show that there had been any quarrel between violet and her lover, and Phineas had felt that he could not ask the question. Mr. Phine, said the Earl to him one morning as soon as he entered the room, I have just heard a story which has almost seemed to me to be incredible. The nobleman's manner was very stern, and the fact that he called his young friend Mr. Phine showed at once that something was wrong. What is it you have heard, my Lord? said Phineas, that you and Chilton went over last year to Belgium and fought a duel there. Now, it must have been the case that, in the set among which they all lived, Lord Brentford and his son and daughter and Phineas Phine, the old Lord was the only man who had not heard of the duel before this. It had even penetrated into the dial ears of Mr. Kennedy, reminding him, as he did say, that his wife had told him a lie. But it was the fact that no rumour of the duel had reached the Earl till this morning. It is true, said Phineas. I have never been so much shocked in my life, never! I had no idea that you had any thought of aspiring to the hand of Miss Effingham. The Lord's voice, as he said this, was very stern. As I aspired in vain, and as Chilton has been successful, that need not now be made a reproach against me. I do not know what to think of it, Mr. Phine. I am so very much surprised that I hardly know what to say. I must declare my opinion at once that you behaved very badly. I do not know how much you know, my Lord, and how much you do not know. And the circumstances of the little affair do not permit me to be explicit about them. But as you expressed your opinion so openly, you must allow me to express mine. And to say that, as far as I can judge of my own actions, I did not behave badly at all. Do you intend to defend dueling, sir? No. If you mean to tell me that a duel is of itself sinful, I have nothing to say. I suppose it is. My defence of myself merely goes to the manner in which this duel was fought, and the fact that I fought it with your son. I cannot conceive how you could have come into my house as my guest, and stood upon my interest from my borough, when you at the time were doing your very best to interpose yourself between Chilton and the lady whom you so well knew I wished to become his wife. Phineas was aware that the Earl must have been very much moved indeed when he thus permitted himself to speak of his borough. He said nothing now, however, though the Earl paused. And then the angry Lord went on. I must say that there was something, something almost approaching to duplicity in such conduct. If I were to defend myself by evidence, Lord Brentford, I should have to go back to exact dates, and dates not of facts which I could verify, but dates as to my feelings which could not be verified, and that would be useless. I can only say that I believe I know what the honour and truth of a gentleman demand, even to the verge of self-sacrifice, and that I have done nothing that ought to place my character as a gentleman in jeopardy. If you will ask your son, I think he will tell you the same. I have asked him. It was he who told me of the duel. When did he tell you my Lord? Just now, this morning. Thus Phineas learned that Lord Chilton was at this moment in the house, or at least in London. And did he complain of my conduct? I complained of it, sir. I complained of it very bitterly. I placed the greatest confidence in you, especially in regard to my son's affairs, and you deceived me. The Earl was very angry, and was more angry from the fact that this young man who had offended him, to whom he had given such vital assistance when assistance was needed, had used that assistance to his utmost before his sin was found out. Had Phineas still been sitting for Louton, so that the Earl could have said to him, you are now bound to retreat from this borough because you have offended me or patron, I think that he would have forgiven the offender, and allowed him to remain in his seat. There would have been a scene, and the Earl would have been pacified. But now the offender was beyond his reach altogether, having used the borough as a most convenient stepping-stone over his difficulties, and for having so used it just at the time when he was committing this sin. There was a good fortune about Phineas which added greatly to the Lord's wrath. And then to tell the truth, he had not that rich consolation for which Phineas gave him credit. Lord Chilton had told him that morning that the engagement between him and Vard was at an end. You have so preached to her my Lord about my duties, the son had said to his father, that she finds herself obliged to give me your sermons at second hand till I can bear them no longer. But this Phineas knew nothing as yet. The Earl, however, was so imprudent to his anger that before this interview was over, he had told the whole story. Yes, you deceived me, he continued, and I can never trust you again. Was it for me, my Lord, to tell you of that which would have increased your anger against your own son? When he wanted me to fight, was I to come like a sneak at school and tell you the story? I know what you would have thought of me had I done so. And when it was over, was I to come and tell you then? Think what you yourself would have done when you were young, and you may be quite sure that I did the same. What have I gained? He's got all that he wanted, and you've also got all that you wanted, and I've helped you both. Lord Brentford, I could put my hand on my heart and say that I have been honest to you. I have got nothing that I wanted, said the Earl, in his despair. Lord Shelton, is that thing a woman would be man and wife? No, they were not. He is quarrel with her. He's obstinate that she will not bear with him. Then it was all true, even though the rumours had reached him through Lawrence Fitzgibbon and Madame Max Gersler. At any rate, my Lord, that is not being my fault, he said after a moment's hesitation. The Earl was walking up and down the room, angry with himself at his own mistake in having told the story, and not knowing what further to say to his visitor. He'd been in the habit of talking so freely to Phineas about his son that he could hardly resist the temptation of doing so still, yet it was impossible that he could swallow his anger and continue in the same strain. My Lord, said Phineas after a while, I can assure you that I grieve that you should be grieved. I have received so much undeserved favour from your family that I owe you a debt which I can never pay. I'm sorry that you should be angry with me now, but I hope that a time may come when you will think less severely of my conduct. He was about to leave the room when the Earl stopped him. Will you give me your word, said the Earl, that you will think no more of Miss Effingham? Phineas stood silent, considering how he might answer this proposal, resolving that nothing should bring him to such a pledge as that suggested, while there was yet a ledge for hope to stand on. Say that, Mr Finn, and I will forgive everything. I cannot acknowledge that I have done anything to be forgiven. Say that, repeated the Earl, and everything shall be forgotten. There need be no cause for alarm, my Lord, said Phineas. You may be sure that Miss Effingham will not think of me. Will you give me your word? No, my Lord, certainly not. You have no right to ask it, and the pursuit is open to me as to any other man who may choose to follow it. I'm hardly a vestige of a hope of success. It is barely possible that I should succeed. But if it be true that Miss Effingham is be disengaged, I shall endeavour to find an opportunity of urging my suit. I will give everything that I have, my seat in Parliament, all the ambition of my life, for the barest chance of success. When you accepted your son, I desisted, of course. I have now heard, from more sources than one, that she, or he, or both of them have chained their minds. If this be so, I am free to try again. The Earl stood opposite to him, scowling at him, but said nothing. Good morning, my Lord. Good morning, sir. I am afraid it must be good-bye for some long days to come. Good morning, sir! said the Earl as he spoke, rang the bell. Then Phineas took up his hat and departed. As he walked away, his mind filled itself gradually with various ideas all springing from the words which Lord Brentford had spoken. What account had Lord Chilton given to his father of the duel? Achere was a man very sensitive as to the good opinion of others, and in spite of his bold assertion of his own knowledge of what became a gentleman, was beyond measure solicitous that others should acknowledge his claim at any rate to that title. He thought that he had been generous to Lord Chilton, and as he went back in his memory over almost every word that had been spoken in the interview that had just passed, he fancied that he was able to collect evidence that his antagonist of Blankenburg had not spoken ill of him. As to the charge of deceit which the Earl had made against him, he told himself that the Earl had made it in anger. He would not even think hardly of the Earl who had been so good a friend to him, but he believed in his heart that the Earl had made the accusation out of his wrath, and not out of his judgment. He cannot think that I had been false to him, Phineas said to himself. But it was very sad to him that he should have to quarrel with all of the family of the Standishes, as he could not but feel that it was they who put him on his feet. It seemed as though he were never to see Lady Laura again, except when they chanced to meet in company, on which occasions he simply bowed to her. Now the Earl had almost turned him out of his house, and though there had been to a certain extent a reconciliation between him and Lord Chilton, he in those days never saw the friend who once put him up upon Brainbreaker, and now that Violet Effingham was again free, how was it possible to avoid some renewal of enmity between them? He would, however, endeavour to see Lord Chilton at once. And then he thought of Violet. Of Violet again free, of Violet as again a possible wife for himself, of Violet to whom he might address himself at any rate without any scruple as to his own unworthiness. Everybody concerned, and many who were not concerned at all, were aware that he had been among her lovers, and he thought that he could perceive that those who interested themselves on the subject had regarded him as the only horse in the race likely to run with success against Lord Chilton. She herself had received his offers without scorn, and had always treated him as though he were a favoured friend, though not favoured as a lover. And now even Lady Baldock was smiling upon him and asking him to her house, as though the red-faced porter in the hall in Barclay Square had never been ordered to refuse him a moment's admission inside the doors. He had been very humble in speaking of his own hopes to the Earl, but surely there might be a chance.  When he got to his lodgings he found a card from Lady Baldock, informing him that Lady Baldock would be at home on a certain night, and that there would be music. He could not go to Lady Baldock's on the night named, as it would be necessary that he should be in the house, nor did he much care to go there, as Violet Effingham was not in town. But he would call and explain and endeavour to curry favour that way. He at once wrote a note to Lord Chilton, which he addressed to Portman Square. As you are in town, can we not meet? Come and dine with me at the club on Saturday. That was the note. After a few days he received the following answer dated from the Bull at Willingford. Why on earth should Chilton be staying at the Bull of Willingford in May? Friday. Dear Phineas, I can't dine with you because I'm down here looking after the cripples and writing a sporting novel. They tell me I ought to do something, so I'm going to do that. I hope you don't think I turned in former against you in telling the earl of our pleasant little meeting on the sands. It had become necessary, and you are too much of a man to care much for any truth being told. He was terribly angry both with me and with you. But the fact is he is so blindly unreasonable that one cannot regard his anger. I endeavour to tell the story truly, and so told it certainly should not have injured you in his estimation. But it did. Very sorry, old fellow, and I hope you'll get over it. It's a good deal more important to me than to you. There was not a word about violet. But then it was hardly to be expected that there should be words about violet. It was not likely that a man should write to his rival of his own failure. But yet there was a flavour of violet in the letter which would not have been there, so Phineas thought, if the writer had been despondent. The pleasant little meeting on the sands had been convened altogether in respect of violet, and the telling of the story to the earl must have arisen from discussions about violet. Lord Chilton must have told his father that Phineas was his rival. Could the rejected suitor have written on such a subject in such a strain to such a correspondent if he believed his own rejection to be certain? But then Lord Chilton was not like anybody else in the world, and it was impossible to judge of him by one's experience of the motives of others. Shortly afterwards Phineas did call in Barclay Square, and was shown up at once into Lady Baldock's drawing-room. The whole aspect of the porter's countenance was changed towards him, and from this too he gathered good auguries. This had surprised him, but his surprise was far greater when, on entry in the room, he found violet effingham there alone. A little fresh colour came to her face as she greeted him, though it cannot be said that she blushed. She behaved herself admirably, not endeavouring to conceal some little emotion of thus meeting him, but betraying none that was injurious to her composure. I am so glad to see you, Mr. Phine, she said. My aunt has just left me, and will be back directly. He was by no means her equal in his management of himself on the occasion, but perhaps it may be acknowledged that his position was the more difficult of the two. He had not seen her since her engagement had been proclaimed to the world, and now he had heard from a source which was not to be doubted that it had been broken off. Of course, there was nothing to be said on that matter. He could not have congratulated her in the one case, nor could he either congratulate her or condol with her on the other. And yet he did not know how to speak to her, as though no such events had occurred. I did not know that you were in town, he said. I only came yesterday. I have been, you know, at Rome with the effinghams. And since that I have been, but indeed I have been such a vagrant that I cannot tell you of all my comings and goings. And you? You are hard at work. Oh, yes, always. That is right. I wish I could be something, if it were only a stick-in-waiting or a doorkeeper. It's so good to be something. Was it some such teaching as this that a jarred against Lord Chilton's susceptibilities, and it seemed to him to be a repetition of his father's sermons? A man should try to be something, said Phineas. And a woman must be content to be nothing, unless Mr. Milken pull us through. And now tell me, have you seen Lady Laura? Not lately. Nor Mr. Kennedy. I sometimes see him in the house. The visit to the colonial office of which the reader had been made aware had not at that time as yet been made. I am sorry for all that, she said, upon which Phineas smiled and shook his head. I am very sorry that there should be a quarrel between you two. There is no quarrel. I used to think that you and he might do so much for each other. That is, of course, if you could make a friend of him. He is a man of whom it is very hard to make a friend, said Phineas, feeling that he was dishonest to Mr. Kennedy in saying so, but thinking that such dishonesty was justified by what he owed to Lady Laura. Yes, he is hard on what I call ungenial. We won't say anything about him, will we? Have you seen much of the earl? This, she asked, as though such a question had no reference whatever to Lord Chilton. Oh, dear Alas! Alas! You have not quarrelled with him, too. He has quarrelled with me. He has heard, Miss Effingham, of what happened last year, and he thinks that I was wrong. Of course you were wrong, Mr. Phine. Very likely. To him I chose to defend myself, but I certainly shall not do so to you. At any rate, you did not think it necessary to quarrel with me. I ought to have done so. I wonder why my aunt does not come. Then she rang the bell. Now I have told you all about myself, said he. You should tell me something of yourself. About me I am like the knife-grinder who had no story to tell, none at least to be told. We have all no doubt got our own little stories, interesting enough to ourselves. But your story, Miss Effingham, he said, is of such intense interest to me. At that moment, luckily, Lady Ballock came into the room, and Phineas was saved from the necessity of making a declaration at a moment which would have been most inopportune. Lady Ballock was exceedingly gracious to him, bidding Violet use her influence to persuade him to come to the gathering. Pursuade him to desert his work to come and hear some fiddlers, said Miss Effingham. Indeed, I shall not art. Who can tell but what the colonies might suffer from it through centuries, and that such a lapse of duty might drive a province or two into the arms of our mortal enemies? Hermol is coming, said Lady Ballock, and so is Senior Scrooby and Pijinxxt, who they say is the greatest man living on the flageolet. Have you ever heard Pijinxxt, Mr Phine? Phineas never had heard Pijinxxt. But as for Hermol, there is nothing equal to him this year, at least. Lady Ballock had taken up music this season, but all her enthusiasm was unable to shake the conscientious zeal of the young Undersecretary of State. At such a gathering, he would have been unable to say a word in private to Violet Effingham. End of Chapter 59 Recording by Simon Evers CHAPTER XIX It may be remembered that when Lady Glencora Palisair was shown into Madame Grisler's room, Madame Grisler had just explained somewhat forcibly to the Duke of Omnium her reasons for refusing the loan of his Grace's villa at Como. She had told the Duke, in so many words, that she did not mean to give the world an opportunity of maligning her, and it would then have been left to the Duke to decide, whether any other arrangements might have been made for taking Madame Grisler to Como, had he not been interrupted. That he was very anxious to take her was certain. The Green Brome had already been often enough at the door in Park Lane to make his Grace feel that Madame Grisler's company was very desirable. Was perhaps of all things left for his enjoyment the one thing the most desirable. Lady Glencora had spoken to her husband of children crying for the top brick of the chimney. Now it had come to this—that in the eyes of the Duke of Omnium Marie Max Grisler was the top brick of the chimney.  She had a beauty which he had learned to think more alluring than other beauty.  Madame Grisler's eyes sparkled as other eyes did not sparkle. And there was something of the vagueness of mystery in the very blackness and gloss and abundance of her hair. As though her beauty was the beauty of some world which he had not yet known. And there was a quickness and yet a grace of motion about her which was quite new to him. The ladies upon whom the Duke had of late most often smiled had been somewhat slow—perhaps almost heavy—though no doubt graceful with all. In his early youth he remembered to have seen, somewhere in Greece, such a hurry as was this Madame Grisler. The hurry in that case had run off with the captain of a Russian vessel engaged in the tallow trade. But not the less was there left on his grace's mind some dreamy memory of charms which had impressed him very strongly when he was simply a young Mr. Palliser, and had had at his command not so convenient a mode of sudden abduction as the Russian captain's tallow ship. Pressed hard by such circumstances as these, there is no knowing how the Duke might have got out of his difficulties had not Lady Glencora appeared upon the scene. Since the future little Lord Silverbridge had been born, the Duke had been very constant in his worship of Lady Glencora, and as from year to year a little brother was added, thus making the family very strong and stable, his acts of worship had increased. But with his worship there had come of late something almost of dread—something almost of obedience—which had made those who were immediately about the Duke declare that his grace was a good deal changed. For hitherto whatever may have been the Duke's weaknesses he certainly had known no master. His heir, Plantagenet Palliser, had been always subject to him. His other relations had been kept at such a distance as hardly to be more than recognized, and though his grace no doubt had had his intimacies, they who had been intimate with him had either never tried to obtain ascendancy or had failed. Lady Glencora, whether with or without a struggle, had succeeded, and people about the Duke said that the Duke was much changed. Mr. Father Gill, who was his grace's man of business, and who was not a favorite with Lady Glencora, said that he was very much changed indeed. Finding his grace so much changed, Mr. Father Gill had made a little attempt at dictation himself, but had receded with fingers very much scorched in the attempt. It was indeed possible that the Duke was becoming, in the slightest degree, weary of Lady Glencora's thralldom, and that he thought that Madam Max Goesler might be more tender with him. Madam Max Goesler, however, intended to be tender only on one condition. When Lady Glencora entered the room, Madam Goesler received her beautifully. How lucky that you should have come just when his grace is here, she said. I saw my uncle's carriage, and of course I knew it, said Lady Glencora. Then the favor is to him, said Madam Goesler, smiling. No, indeed, I was coming. If my word is to be doubted in that point, I must insist on having the servant up, I must, certainly. I told him to drive to this door as far back as Groverner Street. Did I not, Planty? Planty was the little Lord Silverbridge as was to be, if nothing unfortunate intervened, who was now sitting on his grand-uncle's knee. Doe said to the little house in Park Lane, said the boy. Yes, because I forgot the number. And it is the smallest house in Park Lane. So the evidence is complete, said Madam Goesler. Lady Glencora had not cared much for evidence to convince Madam Goesler, but she had not wished her uncle to think that he was watched and hunted down. It might be necessary that he should know that he was watched, but things had not come to that as yet. How is Plantagenet? asked the Duke. Answer for Papa, said Lady Glencora to her child. Papa is very well, but he almost never comes home. He is working for his country, said the Duke.  But Papa is not a Duke. He will be some day, and that probably before long, my boy. He will be a Duke, quite as soon as he wants to be a Duke. He likes the house of commons better than the strawberry leaves, I fancy. There is not a man in England less in a hurry than he is. No, indeed, said Lady Glencora. How nice that is, said Madam Goesler. And I ain't in a hurry either, am I, Mama? said the little future Lord Silverbridge.  At this moment Lady Glencora was, no doubt, thinking how necessary it was that she should be careful to see that things did turn out in the manner proposed, so that people who had waited should not be disappointed. And the Duke was perhaps thinking that he was not absolutely bound to his nephew by any law of God or man. And Madam Max Goesler. I wonder whether her thoughts were injurious to the prospects of that handsome, bold-faced little boy. Lady Glencora rose to take her leave first. It was not for her to show any anxiety to force the Duke out of the lady's presence. If the Duke were resolved to make a fool of himself, nothing that she could do would prevent it. But she thought that this little inspection might possibly be of service, and that her uncle's ardor would be cooled by the interruption to which he had been subjected. So she went, and immediately afterwards the Duke followed her. The interruption had, at any rate, saved him on that occasion from making the highest bid for the pleasure of Madam Goesler's company at Como. The Duke went down with the little boy in his hand, so that there was not an opportunity for a single word of interest between the gentleman and the lady. Madam Goesler, when she was alone, seated herself on her sofa, tucking her feet up under her as though she were seated somewhere in the east, pushed her ringlets back roughly from her face, and then placed her two hands to her sides, so that her thumbs rested lightly on her girdle. When alone, with something weighty on her mind, she would sit in this form for the hour together, resolving, or trying to resolve, what should be her conduct. She did few things without much thinking, and though she walked very boldly, she walked warily. She often told herself that such success, as she had achieved, could not have been achieved without much caution. And yet she was ever discontented with herself, telling herself that all that she had done was nothing, or worse than nothing. What was it all? To have a Duke and to have lords dining with her, to dine with lords or with a Duke itself, if life were dull with her, and the hours hung heavy. Life with her was dull, and the hours did hang heavy. And what if she caught this old man, and became herself a duchess, caught him by means of his weakness, to the inexpressible dismay of all those who were bound to him by ties of blood. Would that make her life happier, or her hours less tedious? That prospect of a life on the Italian lakes, with an old man tied to her side, was not so charming in her eyes as it was in those of the Duke. Were she to succeed, and to be blazoned forth to the world as duchess of omnium, what would she have gained? She perfectly understood the motive of Lady Glencora's visit, and thought that she would, at any rate, gain something in the very triumph of baffling the maneuvers of so clever a woman. Let Lady Glencora throw her ages before the Duke, and it would be something to carry off his grace from beneath the protection of so thick a shield. The very flavor of the contest was pleasing to Madame Gersler. But the victory gained, what then would remain to her? Money she had already. Position too she had of her own. She was free as air, and should it suit her at any time to go off to some lake of Como, in society that would personally be more agreeable to her than that of the Duke of Omnium, there was nothing to hinder her for a moment. And then came a smile over her face. But the saddest smile. As she thought of one with whom it might be pleasant to look at the color of Italian skies, and feel the softness of Italian breezes. In feigning to like to do this with an old man, in acting the raptures of love on behalf of a worn-out Duke, who at the best would scarce believe in her acting, there would not be much delight for her. She had never yet known what it was to have anything of the pleasure of love. She had grown, as she often told herself, to be a hard, cautious, selfish, successful woman, without any interference or assistance from such pleasure. Might there not be yet time left for her to try it without selfishness, with an absolute devotion of self? If only she could find the right companion. There was one who might be such a companion, but the Duke of Omnium certainly could not be such a one. But to be Duchess of Omnium. After all, success in this world is everything. Is, at any rate, the only thing the pleasure of which will endure? There was the name of many a woman written in a black list within Madame Gussler's breast, written there because of scorn, because of rejected overtures, because of deep social injury. And Madame Gussler told herself often that it would be a pleasure to her to use the list, and to be revenge on those who had ill-used and scornfully treated her. She did not readily forgive those who had injured her. As Duchess of Omnium, she thought, that probably she might use that list with efficacy. Lady Glencora had treated her well, and she had no such feeling against Lady Glencora. As Duchess of Omnium, she would accept Lady Glencora as her dearest friend, if Lady Glencora would admit it. But, if it should be necessary, that there should be a little duel between them, as to which of them should take the Duke in hand, the duel must, of course, be fought. In a matter so important, one woman would, of course, expect no false sentiment from another. She and Lady Glencora would understand each other. And, no doubt, respect each other. I have said that she would sit there resolving or trying to resolve. There is nothing in the world so difficult as that task of making up one's mind. Who is there that has not longed that the power and privilege of selection among alternatives should be taken away from him in some important crisis of his life, and that his conduct should be arranged for him, either this way or that, by some divine power, if it were possible, by some patriarchal power in the absence of divinity, or by chance even, if nothing better than chance could be found to do it? But no one dares to cast the die and to go honestly by the hazard. There must be the actual necessity of obeying the die, before even the die can be of any use. As it was when Madame Gussler had sat there for an hour till her legs were tired beneath her, she had not resolved. It must be as her impulse should direct her when the important moment came. There was not a soul on earth to whom she could go for counsel, and when she asked herself for counsel, the counsel would not come. Two days afterwards the duke called again. He would come generally on a Thursday, early, so that he might be there before other visitors. And he had already quite learned that when he was there other visitors would probably be refused admittance. How Lady Glencora had made her way in, telling the servant that her uncle was there he had not understood. That visit had been made on the Thursday. But now he came on the Saturday, having, I regret to say, sent down some early fruit from his own hothouses, or from Covent Garden, with a little note on the previous day. The grapes might have been pretty well, but the note was injudicious. There were three lines about the grapes, as to which there was some special history, the vine having been brought from the garden of some villa in which some ill-used queen had lived and died. And then there was a post-script in one line to say that the duke would call on the following morning. I do not think that he had meant to add this when he began his note. But then children, who want the top brick, want it so badly, and cry for it so perversely. Of course, Madam Gussler was at home. But even then she had not made up her mind. She had made up her mind only to this—that he should be made to speak plainly, and that she would take time for her reply. Not even with such a gem as the duke's coronet before her eyes would she jump at it. Where there was so much doubt, there need at least be no impatience. You ran away the other day, Duke, because you could not resist the charm of that little boy. She said, laughing.  But it was not that. He answered. Then what was it?  She was come and gone, taking you with her in half a minute. She had disturbed me when I was thinking of something, said the duke. Things shouldn't be thought of, not so deeply as that.  And he thought that he had never seen a woman so graceful and yet so natural. Will you not eat your own grapes with me? They are delicious, flavored with the poor queen's sorrows. He shook his head, knowing that it did not suit his gastric juices to have to deal with fruit eaten at odd times. Never think, Duke, I am convinced that it does no good. It simply means doubting, and doubt always leads to error. The safest way in the world is to do nothing. I believe so, said the duke. Much the safest. But if you have not sufficient command over yourself, to enable you to sit in repose, always quiet, never committing yourself to the chance of any danger, then take a leap in the dark, or rather many leaps. A stumbling horse regains his footing by persevering in his onward course. As for moving cautiously, that I detest. And yet one must think, for instance, whether one will succeed or not. Take that for granted always. Remember, I do not recommend motion at all. Repose is my idea of life. Repose and grapes. The duke sat for a while silent, taking his repose as far as the outer man was concerned. Looking at his top brick of the chimney, as from time to time she ate one of his grapes. Probably she did not eat above half a dozen of them altogether, but he thought that the grapes must have been made for the woman. She was so pretty in the eating of them. But it was necessary that he should speak at last. Have you been thinking of coming to Como? he said. I told you that I never think. But I want an answer to my proposition. I thought I had answered your grace on that question. Then she put down the grapes and moved herself on her chair, so that she sat with her face turned away from him. But a request to a lady may be made twice. Oh, yes, and I am grateful, knowing how far it is from your intention to do me any harm. And I am somewhat ashamed of my warmth on the other day. But still there can be but one answer. There are delights which a woman must deny herself. Let them be ever so delightful. I had thought. The Duke began, and then he stopped himself. Your grace was saying that you thought. Marie, a man at my age does not like to be denied. What man likes to be denied anything by a woman at any age? A woman who denies anything is called cruel at once, even though it be her very soul. She had turned round upon him now, and was leaning forward towards him from her chair, so that he could touch her if he put out his hand. He put out his hand and touched her. Marie, he said, Will you deny me if I ask? Nay, my lord, how shall I say? There is many a trifle I would deny you. There is many a great gift I would give you willingly. But the greatest gift of all? My lord, if you have anything to say, you must say it plainly. There never was a woman worse than I am at the reading of riddles. Could you endure to live in the quietude of an Italian lake with an old man? Now he touched her again, and had taken her hand. No, my lord, nor with a young one, for all my days. But I do not know that age would guide me. Then the duke rose, and made his proposition in form. Marie, you know that I love you. Why it is that I, at my age, should feel so sore a love, I cannot say. So sore a love? So sore if it be not gratified. Marie, I ask you to be my wife. Duke of Omnium, this from you? Yes, from me. My cornet is at your feet. If you will allow me to raise it, I will place it on your brow. Then she went away from him, and seated herself at a distance. After a moment or two he followed her. And stood with his arm upon her shoulder. You will give me an answer, Marie? You cannot have thought of this, my lord. Nay, I have thought of it much. And your friends? My dear, I may venture to please myself in this, as in everything. Will you not answer me? Certainly not on the spur of the moment, my lord. Think how high is the position you offer me? And how immense is the change you propose to me? Allow me two days, and I will answer you by letter. I am so fluttered now that I must leave you. Then he came to her, took her hand, kissed her brow, and opened the door for her. End of Chapter 60. Recording by Laura Koskinen. Chapter 61 of Phineas Finn. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, contact LibriVox.org. Phineas Finn by Antony Trollop. Chapter 61. Another Duel. It happened that there were, at this time, certain matters of business to be settled between the Duke of Omnium and his nephew, Mr. Palacere, respecting which the latter called upon his uncle on the morning after the Duke had committed himself by his offer. Mr. Palacere had come by appointment made with Mr. Father Gill, the Duke's man of business, and had expected to meet Mr. Father Gill. Mr. Father Gill, however, was not with the Duke, and the uncle told the nephew that the business had been postponed. Then Mr. Palacere asked some question as to the reason of such postponement, not meaning much by his question. And the Duke, after a moment's hesitation, answered him, meaning very much by his answer. The truth is, Plantagenet, that it is possible that I may marry, and if so, this arrangement would not suit me. Are you going to be married? asked the astonished nephew. It is not exactly that, but it is possible that I may do so. Since I proposed this matter to Father Gill, I have been thinking over it, and I have changed my mind.  I am not thinking of the money, Duke, said Plantagenet Palacere. Of what then were you thinking? Simply, of what you told me, I do not in the least mean to interfere. I hope not, Plantagenet. But I could not hear such a statement from you without some surprise. Whatever you do, I hope will tend to make you happy. So much passed between the uncle and the nephew. And what the uncle told to the nephew, the nephew, of course, told to his wife. He was with her again yesterday, said Lady Glencora, for more than an hour, and he had been half the morning dressing himself before he went to her. He is not engaged to her, or he would have told me, said Plantagenet Palacere. I think he would, but there is no knowing. At the present moment I have only one doubt, whether to act upon him or upon her. I do not see that you can do good by going to either. Well, we will see. If she be the woman I take her to be, I think I could do something with her. I have never supposed her to be a bad woman, never. I will think of it. Then Lady Glencora left her husband, and did not consult him afterwards as to the course she would pursue. He had his budget to manage, and his speeches to make. The little affair of the Duke and Madame Gösler she thought it best to take into her own hands without any assistance from him. What a fool I was, she said to herself, to have her down there when the Duke was at matching. Madame Gösler, when she was left alone, felt that now indeed she must make up her mind. She had asked for two days. The intervening day was a Sunday, and on the Monday she must send her answer. She might doubt at any rate for this one night, the Saturday night, and sit playing, as it were, with the coronet of a duchess in her lap. She had been born the daughter of a small country attorney, and now a Duke had asked her to be his wife, and a Duke who was acknowledged to stand above other Dukes. Nothing at any rate could rob her of that satisfaction. Whatever resolution she might form at last, she had, by her own resources, reached a point of success in remembering which there would always be a keen gratification. It would be much to be duchess of Omnium, but it would be something also to have refused to be a duchess of Omnium. During that evening, that night, and the next morning, she remained playing with the coronet in her lap. She would not go to church. What good could any sermon do her while that bobble was dangling before her eyes? After church time, about two o'clock, Phineus Finn came to her. Just at this period Phineus would come to her often, sometimes full of a new decision to forget Violet Effingham altogether, and others minded to continue his siege, let the hope of success be ever so small. He had now heard that Violet and Lord Chiltern had in truth quarrelled, and was, of course, anxious to be advised to continue the siege. When he first came in, and spoke a word or two in which there was no reference to Violet Effingham, there came upon Madame Goesler a strong wish to decide at once that she would play no longer with the coronet, that the gem was not worth the cost she would be called upon to pay for it. There was something in the world better for her than the coronet, if only it might be had. But within ten minutes he had told her the whole tale about Lord Chiltern, and how he had seen Violet at Lady Baldock's, and how there might yet be hope for him. What would she advise him to do? Go home, Mr. Finn, she said, and write a sonnet to her eyebrow. See if that will have any effect. Ah, well, it is natural that you should laugh at me, but somehow I did not expect it from you. Do not be angry with me. What I mean is that such little things seem to influence this Violet of yours. Do they? I have not found that they do so. If she had loved Lord Chiltern, she would not have quarreled with him for a few words. If she had loved you, she would not have accepted Lord Chiltern. If she loves neither of you, she should say so. I am losing my respect for her. Do not say that, Madam Goesler. I respect her as strongly as I love her. Then Madam Goesler almost made up her mind that she would have the coronet. There was a substance about the coronet that would not elude her grasp. Late that afternoon, while she was still hesitating, there came another caller to the cottage in Park Lane. She was still hesitating, feeling that she had as yet another night before her. Should she be Duchess of Omnium or not? All that she wished to be, she could not be, but to be Duchess of Omnium was within her reach. Then she began to ask herself various questions. Would the Queen refuse to accept her in her new rank? Refuse. How could any Queen refuse to accept her? She had not done ought a miss in life. There was no slur on her name, no stain on her character.  She had broken no law of God or man, had been accused of breaking no law, which breaking or which accusation need stand in the way of her being as good a Duchess as any other woman. She was sitting, thinking of this, almost angry with herself at the awe with which the proposed rank inspired her, when Lady Glencora was announced to her. Madam Gussler, said Lady Glencora, I am very glad to find you. And I, more than equally so, to be found, said Madam Gussler, smiling with all her grace. My uncle has been with you since I saw you last. Oh, yes, more than once, if I remember right. He was here yesterday at any rate. He comes often to you then? Not so often as I would wish, Lady Glencora. The Duke is one of my dearest friends. It has been a quick friendship. Yes, a quick friendship, said Madam Gussler. Then there was a pause for some moments which Madam Gussler was determined that she would not break. It was clear to her now on what ground Lady Glencora had come to her, and she was fully minded that if she could bear the full light of the God himself in all his glory, she would not allow herself to be scorched by any reflected heat coming from the God's knees. She thought she could endure anything that Lady Glencora might say, but she would wait and hear what might be said. I think, Madam Gussler, that I had better hurry on to my subject at once, said Lady Glencora, almost hesitating as she spoke, and feeling that the color was rushing up to her cheeks and covering her brow. Of course what I have to say will be disagreeable. Of course I shall offend you, and yet I do not mean it. I shall be offended at nothing, Lady Glencora, unless I think that you mean to offend me. I protest that I do not. You have seen my little boy? Yes, indeed, the sweetest child. God never gave me anything half so precious as that. He is the Duke's heir. So I understand. For myself, by my honor as a woman, I care nothing. I am rich, and have all that the world can give me. For my husband, in this matter, I care nothing. His career he will make for himself, and it will depend on no title. Why all this to me, Lady Glencora? What have I to do with your husband's titles? Much. If it be true that there is an idea of marriage between you and the Duke of Omnium, Shah, said Madame Goesler, with all the scorn of which she was mistress. It is untrue, then? asked Lady Glencora. No. It is not untrue. There is an idea of such a marriage. And are you engaged to him? No. I am not engaged to him. Has he asked you? Lady Glencora, I really must say that such a cross-questioning from one lady to another is very unusual. I have promised not to be offended, unless I thought that you wished to offend me, but do not drive me too far. Madame Goesler, if you will tell me that I am mistaken, I will beg your pardon, and offer to you the most sincere friendship which one woman can give another. Lady Glencora, I can tell you nothing of the kind. Then it is to be so, and have you thought what you would gain? I have thought much of what I should gain, and something also of what I should lose. You have money? Yes, indeed, plenty, for once so moderate as mine. And position? Well, yes, a sort of position, not such as yours, Lady Glencora, that if it be not borne to a woman, can only come to her from a husband. She cannot win it for herself. You are free as air, going where you like, and doing what you like. Too free sometimes, said Madame Goesler. And what will you gain by changing all this simply for a title? But for such a title, Lady Glencora, it may be little to you to be Duchess of Omnium, but think what it must be to me. And for this you will not hesitate to rob him of all his friends, to embitter his future life, to degrade him among his peers. Degrade him? Who dares say that I shall degrade him? He will exalt me, but I shall no quit degrade him. You forget yourself, Lady Glencora. Ask any one. It is not that I despise you. If I did, would I offer you my hand in friendship? But an old man, over seventy, carrying the weight and burden of such rank as his, will degrade himself in the eyes of his fellows, if he marries a young woman without rank. Let her be ever so clever, ever so beautiful. A Duke of Omnium may not do as he pleases, as may another man. It may be well, Lady Glencora, for other dukes, and for the daughters and heirs and cousins of other dukes, that his grace should try that question. I will, if you wish it, argue this matter with you on many points. But I will not allow you to say that I should degrade any man whom I might marry. My name is as unstained as your own. I meant nothing of that, said Lady Glencora. For him, I certainly would not willingly injure him, who wishes to injure a friend. And, in truth, I have so little to gain, that the temptation to do him an injury, if I thought it one, is not strong. For your little boy, Lady Glencora, I think your fears are premature? As she said this, there came a smile over her face, which threatened to break from control and almost become laughter. But, if you will allow me to say so, my mind will not be turned against this marriage, half so strongly, by any arguments you can use, as by those which I can adduce myself. You have nearly driven me into it by telling me I should degrade his house. It is almost incumbent on me to prove that you are wrong. But you had better leave me to settle the matter in my own bosom. You had indeed. After a while Lady Glencora did leave her, to settle the matter within her own bosom, having no other alternative.