“He likes to be useful.”
“All that part of the business which distresses me is pleasant to him. He is fond of arrangements, and delights in little party successes. Either to effect or to avoid a count-out is a job of work to his taste, and he loves to get the better of the Opposition by keeping it in the dark. A successful plot is as dear to him as to a writer of plays. And yet he is never bitter as is Ratler, or unscrupulous as was poor Mr. Bonteen, or full of wrath as is Lord Fawn. Nor is he idle like Fitzgibbon. Erle always earns his salary.”
“When I said he was wasting his life, I meant that he did not marry. But perhaps a man in his position had better remain unmarried.” Phineas tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded well. “That, however, is a delicate subject, and we will not touch it now. If you won’t drink any wine we might as well go into the other room.”
Nothing had as yet been said on either of the subjects which had brought him to Saulsby, but there had been words which made the introduction of them peculiarly unpleasant. His tidings, however, must be told. “I shall not see Lord Brentford tonight?” he asked, when they were together in the drawing-room.
“If you wish it you can go up to him. He will not come down.”
“Oh, no. It is only because I must return tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, Phineas!”
“I must do so. I have pledged myself to see Mr. Monk—and others also.”
“It is a short visit to make to us on my first return home! I hardly expected you at Loughlinter, but I thought that you might have remained a few nights under my father’s roof.” He could only reassert his assurance that he was bound to be back in London, and explain as best he might that he had come to Saulsby for a single night, only because he would not refuse her request to him. “I will not trouble you, Phineas, by complaints,” she said.
“I would give you no cause for complaint if I could avoid it.”
“And now tell me what has passed between you and Mr. Gresham,” she said as soon as the servant had given them coffee. They were sitting by a window which opened down to the ground, and led on to the terrace and to the lawns below. The night was soft, and the air was heavy with the scent of many flowers. It was now past nine, and the sun had set; but there was a bright harvest moon, and the light, though pale, was clear as that of day. “Will you come and take a turn round the garden? We shall be better there than sitting here. I will get my hat; can I find yours for you?” So they both strolled out, down the terrace steps, and went forth, beyond the gardens, into the park, as though they had both intended from the first that it should be so. “I know you have not accepted Mr. Gresham’s offer, or you would have told me so.”
“I have not accepted.”
“Nor have you refused?”
“No; it is still open. I must send my answer by telegram tomorrow—Yes or No—Mr. Gresham’s time is too precious to admit of more.”
“Phineas, for Heaven’s sake do not allow little feelings to injure you at such a time as this. It is of your own career, not of Mr. Gresham’s manners, that you should think.”
“I have nothing to object to in Mr. Gresham. Yes or No will be quite sufficient.”
“It must be Yes.”
“It cannot be Yes, Lady Laura. That which I desired so ardently six months ago has now become so distasteful to me that I cannot accept it. There is an amount of hustling on the Treasury Bench which makes a seat there almost ignominious.”
“Do they hustle more than they did three years ago?”
“I think they do, or if not it is more conspicuous to my eyes. I do not say that it need be ignominious. To such a one as was Mr. Palliser it certainly is not so. But it becomes so when a man goes there to get his bread, and has to fight his way as though for bare life. When office first comes, unasked for, almost unexpected, full of the charms which distance lends, it is pleasant enough. The newcomer begins to feel that he too is entitled to rub his shoulders among those who rule the world of Great Britain. But when it has been expected, longed for as I longed for it, asked for by my friends and refused, when all the world comes to know that you are a suitor for that which should come without any suit—then the pleasantness vanishes.”
“I thought it was to be your career.”
“And I hoped so.”
“What will you do, Phineas? You cannot live without an income.”
“I must try,” he said, laughing.
“You will not share with your friend, as a friend should?”
“No, Lady Laura. That cannot be done.”
“I do not see why it cannot. Then you might be independent.”
“Then I should indeed be dependent.”
“You are too proud to owe me anything.”
He wanted to tell her that he was too proud to owe such obligation as she had suggested to any man or any woman; but he hardly knew how to do so, intending as he did to inform her before they returned to the house of his intention to ask Madame Goesler to be his wife. He could discern the difference between enjoying his wife’s fortune and taking gifts of money from one who was bound to him by no tie;—but to her in her present mood he could explain no such distinction. On a sudden he rushed at the matter in his mind. It had to be done, and must be done before he brought
