“Down in Northamptonshire, staying at some inn from whence he hunts. He tells me that he is quite alone—that he never dines out, never has anyone to dine with him, that he hunts five or six days a week—and reads at night.”
“That is not a bad sort of life.”
“Not if the reading is any good. But I cannot bear that he should be so solitary. And if he breaks down in it, then his companions will not be fit for him. Do you ever hunt?”
“Oh yes—at home in county Clare. All Irishmen hunt.”
“I wish you would go down to him and see him. He would be delighted to have you.”
Phineas thought over the proposition before he answered it, and then made the reply that he had made once before. “I would do so, Lady Laura—but that I have no money for hunting in England.”
“Alas, alas!” said she, smiling. “How that hits one on every side!”
“I might manage it—for a couple of days—in March.”
“Do not do what you think you ought not to do,” said Lady Laura.
“No; certainly. But I should like it, and if I can I will.”
“He could mount you, I have no doubt. He has no other expense now, and keeps a stable full of horses. I think he has seven or eight. And now tell me, Mr. Finn; when are you going to charm the House? Or is it your first intention to strike terror?”
He blushed—he knew that he blushed as he answered. “Oh, I suppose I shall make some sort of attempt before long. I can’t bear the idea of being a bore.”
“I think you ought to speak, Mr. Finn.”
“I do not know about that, but I certainly mean to try. There will be lots of opportunities about the new Reform Bill. Of course you know that Mr. Mildmay is going to bring it in at once. You hear all that from Mr. Kennedy.”
“And papa has told me. I still see papa almost every day. You must call upon him. Mind you do.” Phineas said that he certainly would. “Papa is very lonely now, and I sometimes feel that I have been almost cruel in deserting him. And I think that he has a horror of the house—especially later in the year—always fancying that he will meet Oswald. I am so unhappy about it all, Mr. Finn.”
“Why doesn’t your brother marry?” said Phineas, knowing nothing as yet of Lord Chiltern and Violet Effingham. “If he were to marry well, that would bring your father round.”
“Yes—it would.”
“And why should he not?”
Lady Laura paused before she answered; and then she told the whole story. “He is violently in love, and the girl he loves has refused him twice.”
“Is it with Miss Effingham?” asked Phineas, guessing the truth at once, and remembering what Miss Effingham had said to him when riding in the wood.
“Yes;—with Violet Effingham; my father’s pet, his favourite, whom he loves next to myself—almost as well as myself; whom he would really welcome as a daughter. He would gladly make her mistress of his house, and of Saulsby. Everything would then go smoothly.”
“But she does not like Lord Chiltern?”
“I believe she loves him in her heart; but she is afraid of him. As she says herself, a girl is bound to be so careful of herself. With all her seeming frolic, Violet Effingham is very wise.”
Phineas, though not conscious of anything akin to jealousy, was annoyed at the revelation made to him. Since he had heard that Lord Chiltern was in love with Miss Effingham, he did not like Lord Chiltern quite as well as he had done before. He himself had simply admired Miss Effingham, and had taken pleasure in her society; but, though this had been all, he did not like to hear of another man wanting to marry her, and he was almost angry with Lady Laura for saying that she believed Miss Effingham loved her brother. If Miss Effingham had twice refused Lord Chiltern, that ought to have been sufficient. It was not that Phineas was in love with Miss Effingham himself. As he was still violently in love with Lady Laura, any other love was of course impossible; but, nevertheless, there was something offensive to him in the story as it had been told. “If it be wisdom on her part,” said he, answering Lady Laura’s last words, “you cannot find fault with her for her decision.”
“I find no fault;—but I think my brother would make her happy.”
Lady Laura, when she was left alone, at once reverted to the tone in which Phineas Finn had answered her remarks about Miss Effingham. Phineas was very ill able to conceal his thoughts, and wore his heart almost upon his sleeve. “Can it be possible that he cares for her himself?” That was the nature of Lady Laura’s first question to herself upon the matter. And in asking herself that question, she thought nothing of the disparity in rank or fortune between Phineas Finn and Violet Effingham. Nor did it occur to her as at all improbable that Violet might accept the love of him who had so lately been her own lover. But the idea grated against her wishes on two sides. She was most anxious that Violet should ultimately become her brother’s wife—and she could not be pleased that Phineas should be able to love any woman.
I must beg my readers not to be carried away by those last words into any erroneous conclusion. They must not suppose that Lady Laura Kennedy, the lately married bride, indulged a guilty passion for the young man who had loved her. Though she had probably thought often of Phineas Finn since her marriage, her thoughts had never been of a nature to disturb her rest. It had never occurred to her even to think that she regarded him with any feeling that was an offence to her husband. She would have hated herself had any such idea presented itself to her mind. She prided
