Phineas Finn

In what respect had Gatton and Old Sarum been worse than Loughton? Was he not himself false to his principle in sitting for such a borough as Loughton? He had spoken to Mr. Monk, and Mr. Monk had told him that Rome was not built in a day⁠—and had told him also that good things were most valued and were more valuable when they came by instalments. But then Mr. Monk himself enjoyed the satisfaction of sitting for a popular Constituency. He was not personally pricked in the conscience by his own parliamentary position. Now, however⁠—now that Phineas had consented to join the Government, any such considerations as these must be laid aside. He could no longer be a free agent, or even a free thinker. He had been quite aware of this, and had taught himself to understand that members of Parliament in the direct service of the Government were absolved from the necessity of freethinking. Individual freethinking was incompatible with the position of a member of the Government, and unless such abnegation were practised, no government would be possible. It was of course a man’s duty to bind himself together with no other men but those with whom, on matters of general policy, he could agree heartily;⁠—but having found that he could so agree, he knew that it would be his duty as a subaltern to vote as he was directed. It would trouble his conscience less to sit for Loughton and vote for an objectionable clause as a member of the Government, than it would have done to give such a vote as an independent member. In so resolving, he thought that he was simply acting in accordance with the acknowledged rules of parliamentary government. And therefore, when Lord Brentford spoke of Clause 72, he could answer pleasantly, “I think we shall carry it; and, you see, in getting it through committee, if we can carry it by one, that is as good as a hundred. That’s the comfort of close-fighting in committee. In the open House we are almost as much beaten by a narrow majority as by a vote against us.”

“Just so; just so,” said Lord Brentford, delighted to see that his young pupil⁠—as he regarded him⁠—understood so well the system of parliamentary management. “By the by, Finn, have you seen Chiltern lately?”

“Not quite lately,” said Phineas, blushing up to his eyes.

“Or heard from him?”

“No;⁠—nor heard from him. When last I heard of him he was in Brussels.”

“Ah⁠—yes; he is somewhere on the Rhine now. I thought that as you were so intimate, perhaps you corresponded with him. Have you heard that we have arranged about Lady Laura’s money?”

“I have heard. Lady Laura has told me.”

“I wish he would return,” said Lord Brentford sadly⁠—almost solemnly. “As that great difficulty is over, I would receive him willingly, and make my house pleasant to him, if I can do so. I am most anxious that he should settle, and marry. Could you not write to him?” Phineas, not daring to tell Lord Brentford that he had quarrelled with Lord Chiltern⁠—feeling that if he did so everything would go wrong⁠—said that he would write to Lord Chiltern.

As he went away he felt that he was bound to get an answer from Violet Effingham. If it should be necessary, he was willing to break with Lord Brentford on that matter⁠—even though such breaking should lose him his borough and his place;⁠—but not on any other matter.

XLIV

Phineas and His Friends

Our hero’s friends were, I think, almost more elated by our hero’s promotion than was our hero himself. He never told himself that it was a great thing to be a junior lord of the Treasury, though he acknowledged to himself that to have made a successful beginning was a very great thing. But his friends were loud in their congratulations⁠—or condolements as the case might be.

He had his interview with Mr. Mildmay, and, after that, one of his first steps was to inform Mrs. Bunce that he must change his lodgings. “The truth is, Mrs. Bunce, not that I want anything better; but that a better position will be advantageous to me, and that I can afford to pay for it.” Mrs. Bunce acknowledged the truth of the argument, with her apron up to her eyes. “I’ve got to be so fond of looking after you, Mr. Finn! I have indeed,” said Mrs. Bunce. “It is not just what you pays like, because another party will pay as much. But we’ve got so used to you, Mr. Finn⁠—haven’t we?” Mrs. Bunce was probably not aware herself that the comeliness of her lodger had pleased her feminine eye, and touched her feminine heart. Had anybody said that Mrs. Bunce was in love with Phineas, the scandal would have been monstrous. And yet it was so⁠—after a fashion. And Bunce knew it⁠—after his fashion. “Don’t be such an old fool,” he said, “crying after him because he’s six foot high.” “I ain’t crying after him because he’s six foot high,” whined the poor woman;⁠—“but one does like old faces better than new, and a gentleman about one’s place is pleasant.” “Gentleman be d⁠⸺⁠d,” said Bunce. But his anger was excited, not by his wife’s love for Phineas, but by the use of an objectionable word.

Bunce himself had been on very friendly terms with Phineas, and they two had had many discussions on matters of politics, Bunce taking up the cudgels always for Mr. Turnbull, and generally slipping away gradually into some account of his own martyrdom. For he had been a martyr, having failed in obtaining any redress against the policeman who had imprisoned him so wrongfully. The People’s Banner had fought for him manfully, and therefore there was a little disagreement between him and Phineas on the subject of that great organ of public opinion. And as Mr. Bunce thought that his lodger was very wrong to sit for Lord Brentford’s borough, subjects