He was frequently with Lord Brentford, who talked to him constantly on matters connected with his parliamentary life. After having been the intimate friend of the daughter and of the son, it now seemed to be his lot to be the intimate friend of the father. The Earl had constantly discussed with him his arrangements with his son, and had lately expressed himself as only half satisfied with such reconciliation as had taken place. And Phineas could perceive that from day to day the Earl was less and less satisfied. He would complain bitterly of his son—complain of his silence, complain of his not coming to London, complain of his conduct to Violet, complain of his idle indifference to anything like proper occupation; but he had never as yet said a word to show that there had been any quarrel between Violet and her lover, and Phineas had felt that he could not ask the question. “Mr. Finn,” said the Earl to him one morning, as soon as he entered the room, “I have just heard a story which has almost seemed to me to be incredible.” The nobleman’s manner was very stern, and the fact that he called his young friend “Mr. Finn,” showed at once that something was wrong.
“What is it you have heard, my lord?” said Phineas.
“That you and Chiltern went over—last year to—Belgium, and fought—a duel there!”
Now it must have been the case that, in the set among which they all lived—Lord Brentford and his son and daughter and Phineas Finn—the old lord was the only man who had not heard of the duel before this. It had even penetrated to the dull ears of Mr. Kennedy, reminding him, as it did so, that his wife had—told him a lie! But it was the fact that no rumour of the duel had reached the Earl till this morning.
“It is true,” said Phineas.
“I have never been so much shocked in my life;—never. I had no idea that you had any thought of aspiring to the hand of Miss Effingham.” The lord’s voice as he said this was very stern.
“As I aspired in vain, and as Chiltern has been successful, that need not now be made a reproach against me.”
“I do not know what to think of it, Mr. Finn. I am so much surprised that I hardly know what to say. I must declare my opinion at once, that you behaved—very badly.”
“I do not know how much you know, my lord, and how much you do not know; and the circumstances of the little affair do not permit me to be explicit about them; but, as you have expressed your opinion so openly you must allow me to express mine, and to say that, as far as I can judge of my own actions, I did not behave badly at all.”
“Do you intend to defend duelling, sir?”
“No. If you mean to tell me that a duel is of itself sinful, I have nothing to say. I suppose it is. My defence of myself merely goes to the manner in which this duel was fought, and the fact that I fought it with your son.”
“I cannot conceive how you can have come to my house as my guest, and stood upon my interest for my borough, when you at the time were doing your very best to interpose yourself between Chiltern and the lady whom you so well knew I wished to become his wife.” Phineas was aware that the Earl must have been very much moved indeed when he thus permitted himself to speak of “his” borough. He said nothing now, however, though the Earl paused;—and then the angry lord went on. “I must say that there was something—something almost approaching to duplicity in such conduct.”
“If I were to defend myself by evidence, Lord Brentford, I should have to go back to exact dates—and dates not of facts which I could verify, but dates as to my feelings which could not be verified—and that would be useless. I can only say that I believe I know what the honour and truth of a gentleman demand—even to the verge of self-sacrifice, and that I have done nothing that ought to place my character as a gentleman in jeopardy. If you will ask your son, I think he will tell you the same.”
“I have asked him. It was he who told me of the duel.”
“When did he tell you, my lord?”
“Just now; this morning.” Thus Phineas learned that Lord Chiltern was at this moment in the house—or at least in London.
“And did he complain of my conduct?”
“I complain of it, sir. I complain of it very bitterly. I placed the greatest confidence in you, especially in regard to my son’s affairs, and you deceived me.” The Earl was very angry, and was more angry from the fact that this young man who had offended him, to whom he had given such vital assistance when assistance was needed, had used that assistance to its utmost before his sin was found out. Had Phineas still been sitting for Loughton, so that the Earl could have said to him, “You are now bound to retreat from this borough because you have offended me, your patron,” I think that he would have forgiven the offender and allowed him to remain in his seat. There would have been a scene, and the Earl would have been pacified. But now the offender was beyond his reach altogether, having used the borough as a most convenient stepping-stone over his difficulties, and having so used it just at the time when he was committing this sin. There was a good fortune about Phineas which
