Phineas went forward immediately with his hand out to meet his visitor. “Chiltern,” he said, “I am very glad to see you.” But Lord Chiltern did not take his hand. Passing on to the table, with his hat still on his head, and with a dark scowl upon his brow, the young lord stood for a few moments perfectly silent. Then he chucked a letter across the table to the spot at which Phineas was standing. Phineas, taking up the letter, perceived that it was that which he, in his great attempt to be honest, had written from the inn at Loughton. “It is my own letter to you,” he said.
“Yes; it is your letter to me. I received it oddly enough together with your own note at Moroni’s—on Monday morning. It has been round the world, I suppose, and reached me only then. You must withdraw it.”
“Withdraw it?”
“Yes, sir, withdraw it. As far as I can learn, without asking any question which would have committed myself or the young lady, you have not acted upon it. You have not yet done what you there threaten to do. In that you have been very wise, and there can be no difficulty in your withdrawing the letter.”
“I certainly shall not withdraw it, Lord Chiltern.”
“Do you remember—what—I once—told you—about myself and Miss Effingham?” This question he asked very slowly, pausing between the words, and looking full into the face of his rival, towards whom he had gradually come nearer. And his countenance, as he did so, was by no means pleasant. The redness of his complexion had become more ruddy than usual; he still wore his hat as though with studied insolence; his right hand was clenched; and there was that look of angry purpose in his eye which no man likes to see in the eye of an antagonist. Phineas was afraid of no violence, personal to himself; but he was afraid of—of what I may, perhaps, best call “a row.” To be tumbling over the chairs and tables with his late friend and present enemy in Mrs. Bunce’s room would be most unpleasant to him. If there were to be blows he, too, must strike;—and he was very averse to strike Lady Laura’s brother, Lord Brentford’s son, Violet Effingham’s friend. If need be, however, he would strike.
“I suppose I remember what you mean,” said Phineas. “I think you declared that you would quarrel with any man who might presume to address Miss Effingham. Is it that to which you allude?”
“It is that,” said Lord Chiltern.
“I remember what you said very well. If nothing else was to deter me from asking Miss Effingham to be my wife, you will hardly think that that ought to have any weight. The threat had no weight.”
“It was not spoken as a threat, sir, and that you know as well as I do. It was said from a friend to a friend—as I thought then. But it is not the less true. I wonder what you can think of faith and truth and honesty of purpose when you took advantage of my absence—you, whom I had told a thousand times that I loved her better than my own soul! You stand before the world as a rising man, and I stand before the world as a man—damned. You have been chosen by my father to sit for our family borough, while I am an outcast from his house. You have Cabinet Ministers for your friends, while I have hardly a decent associate left to me in the world. But I can say of myself that I have never done anything unworthy of a gentleman, while this thing that you are doing is unworthy of the lowest man.”
“I have done nothing unworthy,” said Phineas. “I wrote to you instantly when I had resolved—though it was painful to me to have to tell such a secret to anyone.”
“You wrote! Yes; when I was miles distant; weeks, months away. But I did not come here to bullyrag like an old woman. I got your letter only on Monday, and know nothing of what has occurred. Is Miss Effingham to be—your wife?” Lord Chiltern had now come quite close to Phineas, and Phineas felt that that clenched fist might be in his face in half a moment. Miss Effingham of course was not engaged to him, but it seemed to him that if he were now so to declare, such declaration would appear to have been drawn from him by fear. “I ask you,” said Lord Chiltern, “in what position you now stand towards Miss Effingham. If you are not a coward you will tell me.”
“Whether I tell you or not, you know that I am not a coward,” said Phineas.
“I shall have to try,” said Lord Chiltern. “But if you please I will ask you for an answer to my question.”
Phineas paused for a moment, thinking what honesty of purpose and a high spirit would, when combined together, demand of him, and together with these requirements he felt that he was bound to join some feeling of duty towards Miss Effingham. Lord Chiltern was standing there, fiery red, with his hand still clenched, and his
