The upshot of the Dublin meeting was that he also positively pledged himself to support during the next session of Parliament a bill advocating tenant-right. “I am sorry you went so far as that,” Mr. Monk said to him almost as soon as the meeting was over. They were standing on the pier at Kingstown, and Mr. Monk was preparing to return to England.
“And why not I as far as you?”
“Because I had thought about it, and I do not think that you have. I am prepared to resign my office tomorrow; and directly that I can see Mr. Gresham and explain to him what I have done, I shall offer to do so.”
“He won’t accept your resignation.”
“He must accept it, unless he is prepared to instruct the Irish Secretary to bring in such a bill as I can support.”
“I shall be exactly in the same boat.”
“But you ought not to be in the same boat;—nor need you. My advice to you is to say nothing about it till you get back to London, and then speak to Lord Cantrip. Tell him that you will not say anything on the subject in the House, but that in the event of there being a division you hope to be allowed to vote as on an open question. It may be that I shall get Gresham’s assent, and if so we shall be all right. If I do not, and if they choose to make it a point with you, you must resign also.”
“Of course I shall,” said Phineas.
“But I do not think they will. You have been too useful, and they will wish to avoid the weakness which comes to a ministry from changing its team. Goodbye, my dear fellow; and remember this—my last word of advice to you is to stick by the ship. I am quite sure it is a career which will suit you. I did not begin it soon enough.”
Phineas was rather melancholy as he returned alone to Killaloe. It was all very well to bid him stick to the ship, and he knew as well as anyone could tell him how material the ship was to him; but there are circumstances in which a man cannot stick to his ship—cannot stick, at least, to this special Government ship. He knew that whither Mr. Monk went, in this session, he must follow. He had considerable hope that when Mr. Monk explained his purpose to the Prime Minister, the Prime Minister would feel himself obliged to give way. In that case Phineas would not only be able to keep his office, but would have such an opportunity of making a speech in Parliament as circumstances had never yet given to him. When he was again at home he said nothing to his father or to the Killaloeians as to the danger of his position. Of what use would it be to make his mother and sisters miserable, or to incur the useless counsels of the doctor? They seemed to think his speech at Dublin very fine, and were never tired of talking of what Mr. Monk and Phineas were going to do; but the idea had not come home to them that if Mr. Monk or Phineas chose to do anything on their own account, they must give up the places which they held under the Crown.
It was September when Phineas found himself back at Killaloe, and he was due to be at his office in London in November. The excitement of Mr. Monk’s company was now over, and he had nothing to do but to receive pouches full of official papers from the Colonial Office, and study all the statistics which came within his reach in reference to the proposed new law for tenant-right. In the meantime Mary was still living with her mother at Killaloe, and still kept herself somewhat aloof from the man she loved. How could it be possible for him not to give way in such circumstances as those?
One day he found himself talking to her about himself, and speaking to her of his own position with more frankness than he ever used with his own family. He had begun by reminding her of that conversation which they had had before he went away with Mr. Monk, and by reminding her also that she had promised to return to her old friendly ways with him.
“Nay, Phineas; there was no promise,” she said.
“And are we not to be friends?”
“I only say that I made no particular promise. Of course we are friends. We have always been friends.”
“What would you say if you heard that I had resigned my office and given up my seat?” he asked. Of course she expressed her surprise, almost her horror, at such an idea, and then he told her everything. It took long in the telling, because it was necessary that he should explain to her the working of the system which made it impossible for him, as a member of the Government, to entertain an opinion of his own.
“And do you mean that you would lose your salary?” she asked.
“Certainly I should.”
“Would not that be very dreadful?”
He laughed as he acknowledged that it would be dreadful. “It is very dreadful, Mary, to have nothing to eat and drink. But what is a man to do? Would you recommend me to say that black is white?”
“I am sure you will never do that.”
“You see, Mary, it is very nice to be called by a big name and to have a salary, and it is very comfortable to be envied by one’s friends and enemies;—but there are drawbacks. There is this especial drawback.” Then he paused for a moment before he went on.
“What
