Phineas Finn

his familiar guest, and he would have been connected with half a score of peers. A seat in Parliament would be simply his proper place, and even Undersecretaryships of State might soon come to be below him. He was playing a great game, but hitherto he had played it with so much success⁠—with such wonderful luck! that it had seemed to him that all things were within his reach. Nothing more had been wanting to him than Violet’s hand for his own comfort, and Violet’s fortune to support his position; and these, too, had almost seemed to be within his grasp. His goddess had indeed refused him⁠—but not with disdain. Even Lady Laura had talked of his marriage as not improbable. All the world, almost, had heard of the duel; and all the world had smiled, and seemed to think that in the real fight Phineas Finn would be the victor⁠—that the lucky pistol was in his hands. It had never occurred to anyone to suppose⁠—as far as he could see⁠—that he was presuming at all, or pushing himself out of his own sphere, in asking Violet Effingham to be his wife. No;⁠—he would trust his luck, would persevere, and would succeed. Such had been his resolution on that very morning⁠—and now there had come this letter to dash him to the ground.

There were moments in which he declared to himself that he would not believe the letter⁠—not that there was any moment in which there was in his mind the slightest spark of real hope. But he would tell himself that he would still persevere. Violet might have been driven to accept that violent man by violent influence⁠—or it might be that she had not in truth accepted him, that Chiltern had simply so asserted. Or, even if it were so, did women never change their minds? The manly thing would be to persevere to the end. Had he not before been successful, when success seemed to be as far from him? But he could buoy himself up with no real hope. Even when these ideas were present to his mind, he knew⁠—he knew well⁠—at those very moments, that his back was broken.

Someone had come in and lighted the candles and drawn down the blinds while he was sitting there, and now, as he looked at his watch, he found that it was past five o’clock. He was engaged to dine with Madame Max Goesler at eight, and in his agony he half-resolved that he would send an excuse. Madame Max would be full of wrath, as she was very particular about her little dinner-parties;⁠—but, what did he care now about the wrath of Madame Max Goesler? And yet only this morning he had been congratulating himself, among his other successes, upon her favour, and had laughed inwardly at his own falseness⁠—his falseness to Violet Effingham⁠—as he did so. He had said something to himself jocosely about lovers’ perjuries, the remembrance of which was now very bitter to him. He took up a sheet of notepaper and scrawled an excuse to Madame Goesler. News from the country, he said, made it impossible that he should go out tonight. But he did not send the note. At about half-past five he opened the door of his private secretary’s room and found the young man fast asleep, with a cigar in his mouth. “Halloa, Charles,” he said.

“All right!” Charles Standish was a first cousin of Lady Laura’s, and, having been in the office before Phineas had joined it, and being a great favourite with his cousin, had of course become the Undersecretary’s private secretary. “I’m all here,” said Charles Standish, getting up and shaking himself.

“I am going. Just tie up those papers⁠—exactly as they are. I shall be here early tomorrow, but I shan’t want you before twelve. Good night, Charles.”

“Ta, ta,” said his private secretary, who was very fond of his master, but not very respectful⁠—unless upon express occasions.

Then Phineas went out and walked across the park; but as he went he became quite aware that his back was broken. It was not the less broken because he sang to himself little songs to prove to himself that it was whole and sound. It was broken, and it seemed to him now that he never could become an Atlas again, to bear the weight of the world upon his shoulders. What did anything signify? All that he had done had been part of a game which he had been playing throughout, and now he had been beaten in his game. He absolutely ignored his old passion for Lady Laura as though it had never been, and regarded himself as a model of constancy⁠—as a man who had loved, not wisely perhaps, but much too well⁠—and who must now therefore suffer a living death. He hated Parliament. He hated the Colonial Office. He hated his friend Mr. Monk; and he especially hated Madame Max Goesler. As to Lord Chiltern⁠—he believed that Lord Chiltern had obtained his object by violence. He would see to that! Yes;⁠—let the consequences be what they might, he would see to that!

He went up by the Duke of York’s column, and as he passed the Athenaeum he saw his chief, Lord Cantrip, standing under the portico talking to a bishop. He would have gone on unnoticed, had it been possible; but Lord Cantrip came down to him at once. “I have put your name down here,” said his lordship.

“What’s the use?” said Phineas, who was profoundly indifferent at this moment to all the clubs in London.

“It can’t do any harm, you know. You’ll come up in time. And if you should get into the ministry, they’ll let you in at once.”

“Ministry!” ejaculated Phineas. But Lord Cantrip took the tone of voice as simply suggestive of humility, and suspected nothing of that profound indifference to all ministers and ministerial honours which Phineas had intended to express. “By the by,” said Lord Cantrip, putting his arm through that of