There was a great injustice in all this; at least so Phineas thought;—injustice, not only from the hands of Mr. Slide, who was unjust as a matter of course, but also from those who ought to have been his staunch friends. He had been enticed over to England almost with a promise of office, and he was sure that he had done nothing which deserved punishment, or even censure. He could not condescend to complain—nor indeed as yet could he say that there was ground for complaint. Nothing had been done to him. Not a word had been spoken—except those lying words in the newspapers which he was too proud to notice. On one matter, however, he was determined to be firm. When Barrington Erle had absolutely insisted that he should vote upon the Church Bill in opposition to all that he had said upon the subject at Tankerville, he had stipulated that he should have an opportunity in the great debate which would certainly take place of explaining his conduct—or, in other words, that the privilege of making a speech should be accorded to him at a time in which very many members would no doubt attempt to speak and would attempt in vain. It may be imagined—probably still is imagined by a great many—that no such pledge as this could be given, that the right to speak depends simply on the Speaker’s eye, and that energy at the moment in attracting attention would alone be of account to an eager orator. But Phineas knew the House too well to trust to such a theory. That some preliminary assistance would be given to the travelling of the Speaker’s eye, in so important a debate, he knew very well; and he knew also that a promise from Barrington Erle or from Mr. Ratler would be his best security. “That will be all right, of course,” said Barrington Erle to him on the evening the day before the debate: “We have quite counted on your speaking.” There had been a certain sullenness in the tone with which Phineas had asked his question as though he had been labouring under a grievance, and he felt himself rebuked by the cordiality of the reply. “I suppose we had better fix it for Monday or Tuesday,” said the other. “We hope to get it over by Tuesday, but there is no knowing. At any rate you shan’t be thrown over.” It was almost on his tongue—the entire story of his grievance, the expression of his feeling that he was not being treated as one of the chosen; but he restrained himself. He liked Barrington Erle well enough, but not so well as to justify him in asking for sympathy.
Nor had it been his wont in any of the troubles of his life to ask for sympathy from a man. He had always gone to some woman;—in old days to Lady Laura, or to Violet Effingham, or to Madame Goesler. By them he could endure to be petted, praised, or upon occasion even pitied. But pity or praise from any man had been distasteful to him. On the morning of the 1st of April he again went to Park Lane, not with any formed plan of telling the lady of his wrongs, but driven by a feeling that he wanted comfort, which might perhaps be found there. The lady received him very kindly, and at once inquired as to the great political tournament which was about to be commenced. “Yes; we begin today,” said Phineas. “Mr. Daubeny will speak, I should say, from half-past four till seven. I wonder you don’t go and hear him.”
“What a pleasure! To hear a man speak for two hours and a half about the Church of England. One must be very hard driven for amusement! Will you tell me that you like it?”
“I like to hear a good speech.”
“But you have the excitement before you of making a good speech in answer. You are in the fight. A poor woman, shut up in a cage, feels there more acutely than anywhere else how insignificant a position she fills in the world.”
“You don’t advocate the rights of women, Madame Goesler?”
“Oh, no. Knowing our inferiority I submit without a grumble; but I am not sure that I care to go and listen to the squabbles of my masters. You may arrange it all among you, and I will accept what you do, whether it be good or bad—as I must; but I cannot take so much interest in the proceeding as to
