“Never again, my Lord;—never again.”
“And leave all questions of firearms to be arranged between the Horse Guards and the War Office. I have heard a good deal about it since I saw you, and I retract a part of what I said. But a duel is a foolish thing—a very foolish thing. Come;—here is dinner.” And the Earl walked off with Lady Cantrip, and Lord Cantrip walked off with Lady Laura. Barrington Erle followed, and Phineas had an opportunity of saying a word to his friend, Lord Chiltern, as they went down together.
“It’s all right between you and your father?”
“Yes;—after a fashion. There is no knowing how long it will last. He wants me to do three things, and I won’t do any one of them.”
“What are the three?”
“To go into Parliament, to be an owner of sheep and oxen, and to hunt in his own county. I should never attend the first, I should ruin myself with the second, and I should never get a run in the third.” But there was not a word said about his marriage.
There were only seven who sat down to dinner, and the six were all people with whom Phineas was or had been on most intimate terms. Lord Cantrip was his official chief, and, since that connection had existed between them, Lady Cantrip had been very gracious to him. She quite understood the comfort which it was to her husband to have under him, as his representative in the House of Commons, a man whom he could thoroughly trust and like, and therefore she had used her woman’s arts to bind Phineas to her lord in more than mere official bondage. She had tried her skill also upon Laurence Fitzgibbon—but altogether in vain. He had eaten her dinners and accepted her courtesies, and had given for them no return whatever. But Phineas had possessed a more grateful mind, and had done all that had been required of him;—had done all that had been required of him till there had come that terrible absurdity in Ireland. “I knew very well what sort of things would happen when they brought such a man as Mr. Monk into the Cabinet,” Lady Cantrip had said to her husband.
But though the party was very small, and though the guests were all his intimate friends, Phineas suspected nothing special till an attack was made upon him as soon as the servants had left the room. This was done in the presence of the two ladies, and, no doubt, had been preconcerted. There was Lord Cantrip there, who had already said much to him, and Barrington Erle who had said more even than Lord Cantrip. Lord Brentford, himself a member of the Cabinet, opened the attack by asking whether it was actually true that Mr. Monk meant to go on with his motion. Barrington Erle asserted that Mr. Monk positively would do so. “And Gresham will oppose it?” asked the Earl. “Of course he will,” said Barrington. “Of course he will,” said Lord Cantrip. “I know what I should think of him if he did not,” said Lady Cantrip. “He is the last man in the world to be forced into a thing,” said Lady Laura. Then Phineas knew pretty well what was coming on him.
Lord Brentford began again by asking how many supporters Mr. Monk would have in the House. “That depends upon the amount of courage which the Conservatives may have,” said Barrington Erle. “If they dare to vote for a thoroughly democratic measure, simply for the sake of turning us out, it is quite on the cards that they may succeed.” “But of our own people?” asked Lord Cantrip. “You had better inquire that of Phineas Finn,” said Barrington. And then the attack was made.
Our hero had a bad half hour of it, though many words were said which must have gratified him much. They all wanted to keep him—so Lord Cantrip declared, “except one or two whom I could name, and who are particularly anxious to wear his shoes,” said Barrington, thinking that certain reminiscences of Phineas with regard to Mr. Bonteen and others might operate as strongly as any other consideration to make him love his place. Lord Brentford declared that he could not understand it—that he should find himself lost in amazement if such a man as his young friend allowed himself to be led into the outer wilderness by such an ignis-fatuus of light as this. Lord Cantrip laid down the unwritten traditional law of Government officials very plainly. A man in office—in an office which really imposed upon him as much work as he could possibly do with credit to himself or his cause—was dispensed from the necessity of a conscience with reference to other matters. It was for Sir Walter Morrison to have a conscience about Irish tenant-right, as no doubt he had—just as Phineas Finn had a conscience about Canada, and Jamaica, and the Cape. Barrington Erle was very strong about parties in general, and painted the comforts of official position in glowing colours. But I think that the two ladies were more efficacious than even their male relatives in the arguments which they used. “We have been so happy to have you among us,” said Lady Cantrip, looking at him with beseeching, almost loving eyes. “Mr. Finn knows,” said Lady Laura, “that since he first came into Parliament I have always believed in his success, and I have been very proud to see it.” “We shall weep over him, as over a fallen angel, if he leaves us,” said Lady Cantrip. “I won’t say that I will weep,” said Lady Laura, “but I do not know anything of the kind that would so truly make me unhappy.”
What was he to say in answer to applications so flattering and so pressing? He would have said nothing, had that been possible, but he felt himself obliged to reply. He replied very weakly—of course, not
