“Why not?”
“The man is a madman.”
“There’s nothing in the world easier than calling a man mad. It’s what we do to dogs when we want to hang them. I believe Mr. Kennedy has the management of his own property. He is not too mad for that. But just cast your eye down and read it.”
Phineas did cast his eye down, and read the whole letter;—nor as he read it could he bring himself to believe that the writer of it would be judged to be mad from its contents. Mr. Kennedy had told the whole story of his wrongs, and had told it well—with piteous truthfulness, as far as he himself knew and understood the truth. The letter was almost simple in its wailing record of his own desolation. With a marvellous absence of reticence he had given the names of all persons concerned. He spoke of his wife as having been, and being, under the influence of Mr. Phineas Finn;—spoke of his own former friendship for that gentleman, who had once saved his life when he fell among thieves, and then accused Phineas of treachery in betraying that friendship. He spoke with bitter agony of the injury done him by the Earl, his wife’s father, in affording a home to his wife, when her proper home was at Loughlinter. And then declared himself willing to take the sinning woman back to his bosom. “That she had sinned is certain,” he said; “I do not believe she has sinned as some sin; but, whatever be her sin, it is for a man to forgive as he hopes for forgiveness.” He expatiated on the absolute and almost divine right which it was intended that a husband should exercise over his wife, and quoted both the Old and New Testament in proof of his assertions. And then he went on to say that he appealed to public sympathy, through the public press, because, owing to some gross insufficiency in the laws of extradition, he could not call upon the magistracy of a foreign country to restore to him his erring wife. But he thought that public opinion, if loudly expressed, would have an effect both upon her and upon her father, which his private words could not produce. “I wonder very greatly that you should put such a letter as that into type,” said Phineas when he had read it all.
“Why shouldn’t we put it into type?”
“You don’t mean to say that you’ll publish it.”
“Why shouldn’t we publish it?”
“It’s a private quarrel between a man and his wife. What on earth have the public got to do with that?”
“Private quarrels between gentlemen and ladies have been public affairs for a long time past. You must know that very well.”
“When they come into court they are.”
“In court and out of court! The morale of our aristocracy—what you call the Upper Ten—would be at a low ebb indeed if the public press didn’t act as their guardians. Do you think that if the Duke of ⸻ beats his wife black and blue, nothing is to be said about it unless the Duchess brings her husband into court? Did you ever know of a separation among the Upper Ten, that wasn’t handled by the press one way or the other? It’s my belief that there isn’t a peer among ’em all as would live with his wife constant, if it was not for the press;—only some of the very old ones, who couldn’t help themselves.”
“And you call yourself a Conservative?”
“Never mind what I call myself. That has nothing to do with what we’re about now. You see that letter, Finn. There is nothing little or dirty about us. We go in for morals and purity of life, and we mean to do our duty by the public without fear or favour. Your name is mentioned there in a manner that you won’t quite like, and I think I am acting uncommon kind by you in showing it to you before we publish it.” Phineas, who still held the slip in his hand, sat silent thinking of the matter. He hated the man. He could not endure the feeling of being called Finn by him without showing his resentment. As regarded himself, he was thoroughly well inclined to kick Mr. Slide and his Banner into the street. But he was bound to think first of Lady Laura. Such a publication as this, which was now threatened, was the misfortune which the poor woman dreaded more than any other. He, personally, had certainly been faultless in the matter. He had never addressed a word of love to Mr. Kennedy’s wife since the moment in which she had told him that she was engaged to marry the Laird of Loughlinter. Were the letter to be published he could answer it, he thought, in such a manner as to defend himself and her without damage to either. But on her behalf he was bound to prevent this publicity if it could be prevented;—and he was bound also, for her sake, to allow himself to be called Finn by this most obnoxious editor. “In the ordinary course of things, Finn, it will come out tomorrow morning,” said the obnoxious editor.
“Every word of it is untrue,” said Phineas.
“You say that, of course.”
“And I should at once declare myself willing to make such a statement on oath. It is a libel of the grossest kind, and of course there would be a prosecution. Both Lord Brentford and I would be driven to that.”
“We should be quite indifferent. Mr. Kennedy would hold us harmless. We’re straightforward. My showing it to you would prove that.”
“What is it you want, Mr. Slide?”
“Want! You don’t suppose we want anything. If you think that the columns of the People’s Banner are to be bought, you must have opinions respecting the press of the day which make me pity you as one grovelling in
