“Rumours always lie,” said Phineas.
“Sometimes they do, of course; and I am not going to ask any indiscreet questions. But that is what we all hope. Mary was saying, only the other day, that if you were once married, we should all feel quite safe about you. And you know we all take the most lively interest in your welfare. It is not every day that a man from County Clare gets on as you have done, and therefore we are bound to think of you.” Thus Mrs. Flood Jones signified to Phineas Finn that she had forgiven him the thoughtlessness of his early youth—even though there had been something of treachery in that thoughtlessness to her own daughter; and showed him, also, that whatever Mary’s feelings might have been once, they were not now of a nature to trouble her. “Of course you will marry?” said Mrs. Flood Jones.
“I should think very likely not,” said Phineas, who perhaps looked farther into the mind of the lady than the lady intended.
“Oh, do,” said the lady. “Every man should marry as soon as he can, and especially a man in your position.”
When the ladies met together in the drawing-room after dinner, it was impossible but that they should discuss Mr. Monk. There was Mrs. Callaghan from the brewery there, and old Lady Blood, of Bloodstone—who on ordinary occasions would hardly admit that she was on dining-out terms with anyone in Killaloe except the bishop, but who had found it impossible to decline to meet a Cabinet Minister—and there was Mrs. Stackpoole from Sixmiletown, a faraway cousin of the Finns, who hated Lady Blood with a true provincial hatred.
“I don’t see anything particularly uncommon in him, after all,” said Lady Blood.
“I think he is very nice indeed,” said Mrs. Flood Jones.
“So very quiet, my dear, and just like other people,” said Mrs. Callaghan, meaning to pronounce a strong eulogium on the Cabinet Minister.
“Very like other people indeed,” said Lady Blood.
“And what would you expect, Lady Blood?” said Mrs. Stackpoole. “Men and women in London walk upon two legs, just as they do in Ennis.” Now Lady Blood herself had been born and bred in Ennis, whereas Mrs. Stackpoole had come from Limerick, which is a much more considerable town, and therefore there was a satire in this allusion to the habits of the men of Ennis which Lady Blood understood thoroughly.
“My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, I know how the people walk in London quite as well as you do.” Lady Blood had once passed three months in London while Sir Patrick had been alive, whereas Mrs. Stackpoole had never done more than visit the metropolis for a day or two.
“Oh, no doubt,” said Mrs. Stackpoole; “but I never can understand what it is that people expect. I suppose Mr. Monk ought to have come with his stars on the breast of his coat, to have pleased Lady Blood.”
“My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, Cabinet Ministers don’t have stars,” said Lady Blood.
“I never said they did,” said Mrs. Stackpoole.
“He is so nice and gentle to talk to,” said Mrs. Finn. “You may say what you will, but men who are high up do very often give themselves airs. Now I must say that this friend of my son’s does not do anything of that kind.”
“Not the least,” said Mrs. Callaghan.
“Quite the contrary,” said Mrs. Stackpoole.
“I dare say he is a wonderful man,” said Lady Blood. “All I say is, that I didn’t hear anything wonderful come out of his mouth; and as for people in Ennis walking on two legs, I have seen donkeys in Limerick doing just the same thing.” Now it was well known that Mrs. Stackpoole had two sons living in Limerick, as to neither of whom was it expected that he would set the Shannon on fire. After this little speech there was no further mention of Mr. Monk, as it became necessary that all the good-nature of Mrs. Finn and all the tact of Mrs. Flood Jones and all the energy of Mrs. Callaghan should be used, to prevent the raging of an internecine battle between Mrs. Stackpoole and Lady Blood.
LXVI
Victrix
Mr. Monk’s holiday programme allowed him a week at Killaloe, and from thence he was to go to Limerick, and from Limerick to Dublin, in order that, at both places, he might be entertained at a public dinner and make a speech about tenant-right. Foreseeing that Phineas might commit himself if he attended these meetings, Mr. Monk had counselled him to remain at Killaloe. But Phineas had refused to subject himself to such cautious abstinence. Mr. Monk had come to Ireland as his friend, and he would see him through his travels. “I shall not, probably, be asked to speak,” said Phineas, “and if I am asked, I need not say more than a few words. And what if I did speak out?”
“You might find it disadvantageous to you in London.”
“I must take my chance of that. I am not going to tie myself down forever and ever for the sake of being Undersecretary to the Colonies.” Mr. Monk said very much to him on the subject—was constantly saying very much to him about it; but in spite of all that Mr. Monk said, Phineas did make the journey to Limerick and Dublin.
He had not, since his arrival at Killaloe, been a moment alone with Mary Flood Jones till the evening before he started with Mr. Monk. She had kept out of his way successfully, though she had constantly been with him in company, and was beginning to plume herself on the strength and valour of her conduct. But her self-praise had in it nothing of joy, and her glory was very sad. Of course she would care for him no more—more especially as it was so very evident that he cared not at all for her. But the very fact of
