Mr. Bonteen, to tell the truth, was becoming sick of it. When Emilius, or Mealyus, was supposed to have absconded, Lady Eustace left Mr. Bonteen’s house, and located herself at one of the large London hotels; but when the man came back, bolder than ever, she again betook herself to the shelter of Mr. Bonteen’s roof. She expressed the most lavish affection for Mrs. Bonteen, and professed to regard Mr. Bonteen as almost a political god, declaring her conviction that he, and he alone, as Prime Minister, could save the country, and became very loud in her wrath when he was robbed of his seat in the Cabinet. Lizzie Eustace, as her ladyship had always been called, was a clever, pretty, coaxing little woman, who knew how to make the most of her advantages. She had not been very wise in her life, having lost the friends who would have been truest to her, and confided in persons who had greatly injured her. She was neither true of heart or tongue, nor affectionate, nor even honest. But she was engaging; she could flatter; and could assume a reverential admiration which was very foreign to her real character. In these days she almost worshipped Mr. Bonteen, and could never be happy except in the presence of her dearest darling friend Mrs. Bonteen. Mr. Bonteen was tired of her, and Mrs. Bonteen was becoming almost sick of the constant kisses with which she was greeted; but Lizzie Eustace had got hold of them, and they could not turn her off.
“You saw The People’s Banner, Mrs. Bonteen, on Monday?” Lady Eustace had been reading the paper in her friend’s drawing-room. “They seem to think that Mr. Bonteen must be Prime Minister before long.”
“I don’t think he expects that, my dear.”
“Why not? Everybody says The People’s Banner is the cleverest paper we have now. I always hated the very name of that Phineas Finn.”
“Did you know him?”
“Not exactly. He was gone before my time; but poor Lord Fawn used to talk of him. He was one of those conceited Irish upstarts that are never good for anything.”
“Very handsome, you know,” said Mrs. Bonteen.
“Was he? I have heard it said that a good many ladies admired him.”
“It was quite absurd; with Lady Laura Kennedy it was worse than absurd. And there was Lady Glencora, and Violet Effingham, who married Lady Laura’s brother, and that Madame Goesler, whom I hate—and ever so many others.”
“And is it true that it was he who got Mr. Bonteen so shamefully used?”
“It was his faction.”
“I do so hate that kind of thing,” said Lady Eustace, with righteous indignation; “I used to hear a great deal about Government and all that when the affair was on between me and poor Lord Fawn, and that kind of dishonesty always disgusted me. I don’t know that I think so much of Mr. Gresham after all.”
“He is a very weak man.”
“His conduct to Mr. Bonteen has been outrageous; and if he has done it just because that Duchess of Omnium has told him, I really do think that he is not fit to rule the nation. As for Mr. Phineas Finn, it is dreadful to think that a creature like that should be able to interfere with such a man as Mr. Bonteen.”
This was on Wednesday afternoon—the day on which members of Parliament dine out—and at that moment Mr. Bonteen entered the drawing-room, having left the House for his half-holiday at six o’clock. Lady Eustace got up, and gave him her hand, and smiled upon him as though he were indeed her god. “You look so tired and so worried, Mr. Bonteen.”
“Worried;—I should think so.”
“Is there anything fresh?” asked his wife.
“That fellow Finn is spreading all manner of lies about me.”
“What lies, Mr. Bonteen?” asked Lady Eustace. “Not new lies, I hope.”
“It all comes from Carlton Terrace.” The reader may perhaps remember that the young Duchess of Omnium lived in Carlton Terrace. “I can trace it all there. I won’t stand it if it goes on like this. A clique of stupid women to take up the cudgels for a coal-heaving sort of fellow like that, and sting one like a lot of hornets! Would you believe it?—the Duke almost refused to speak to me just now—a man for whom I have been working like a slave for the last twelve months!”
“I would not stand it,” said Lady Eustace.
“By the by, Lady Eustace, we have had news from Prague.”
“What news?” said she, clasping her hands.
“That fellow Pratt we sent out is dead.”
“No!”
“Not a doubt but what he was poisoned; but they seem to think that nothing can be proved. Coulson is on his way out, and I shouldn’t wonder if they served him the same.”
“And it might have been you!” said Lady Eustace, taking hold of her friend’s arm with almost frantic affection.
Yes, indeed. It might have been the lot of Mr. Bonteen to have died at Prague—to have been poisoned by the machinations of the former Mrs. Mealyus, if such really had been the fortune of the unfortunate Mr. Pratt. For he had been quite as busy at Prague as his successor in the work. He had found out much, though not everything. It certainly had been believed that Yosef Mealyus was a married man, but he had brought the woman with him to Prague, and had certainly not married her in the city. She was believed to have come from Krakow, and Mr. Bonteen’s zeal on behalf of his friend had not been sufficient to carry him so far East. But he had learned from various sources that the man and woman had been supposed to be married—that she had borne the man’s name, and that he had taken upon himself authority as her husband. There had been written communications with Krakow, and information was received
