Phineas Finn

to bed. He was very miserable, and nothing would comfort him but sympathy. Was there anyone who would listen to his abuse of himself, and would then answer him with kindly apologies for his own weakness? Mrs. Bunce would do it if she knew how, but sympathy from Mrs. Bunce would hardly avail. There was but one person in the world to whom he could tell his own humiliation with any hope of comfort, and that person was Lady Laura Kennedy. Sympathy from any man would have been distasteful to him. He had thought for a moment of flinging himself at Mr. Monk’s feet and telling all his weakness;⁠—but he could not have endured pity even from Mr. Monk. It was not to be endured from any man.

He thought that Lady Laura Kennedy would be at home, and probably alone. He knew, at any rate, that he might be allowed to knock at her door, even at that hour. He had left Mr. Kennedy in the House, and there he would probably remain for the next hour. There was no man more constant than Mr. Kennedy in seeing the work of the day⁠—or of the night⁠—to its end. So Phineas walked up Victoria Street, and from thence into Grosvenor Place, and knocked at Lady Laura’s door. “Yes; Lady Laura was at home; and alone.” He was shown up into the drawing-room, and there he found Lady Laura waiting for her husband.

“So the great debate is over,” she said, with as much of irony as she knew how to throw into the epithet.

“Yes; it is over.”

“And what have they done⁠—those leviathans of the people?”

Then Phineas told her what was the majority.

“Is there anything the matter with you, Mr. Finn?” she said, looking at him suddenly. “Are you not well?”

“Yes; I am very well.”

“Will you not sit down? There is something wrong, I know. What is it?”

“I have simply been the greatest idiot, the greatest coward, the most awkward ass that ever lived!”

“What do you mean?”

“I do not know why I should come to tell you of it at this hour at night, but I have come that I might tell you. Probably because there is no one else in the whole world who would not laugh at me.”

“At any rate, I shall not laugh at you,” said Lady Laura.

“But you will despise me.”

“That I am sure I shall not do.”

“You cannot help it. I despise myself. For years I have placed before myself the ambition of speaking in the House of Commons;⁠—for years I have been thinking whether there would ever come to me an opportunity of making myself heard in that assembly, which I consider to be the first in the world. Today the opportunity has been offered to me⁠—and, though the motion was nothing, the opportunity was great. The subject was one on which I was thoroughly prepared. The manner in which I was summoned was most flattering to me. I was especially called on to perform a task which was most congenial to my feelings;⁠—and I declined because I was afraid.”

“You had thought too much about it, my friend,” said Lady Laura.

“Too much or too little, what does it matter?” replied Phineas, in despair. “There is the fact. I could not do it. Do you remember the story of Conachar in the Fair Maid of Perth;⁠—how his heart refused to give him blood enough to fight? He had been suckled with the milk of a timid creature, and, though he could die, there was none of the strength of manhood in him. It is about the same thing with me, I take it.”

“I do not think you are at all like Conachar,” said Lady Laura.

“I am equally disgraced, and I must perish after the same fashion. I shall apply for the Chiltern Hundreds in a day or two.”

“You will do nothing of the kind,” said Lady Laura, getting up from her chair and coming towards him. “You shall not leave this room till you have promised me that you will do nothing of the kind. I do not know as yet what has occurred tonight; but I do know that that modesty which has kept you silent is more often a grace than a disgrace.”

This was the kind of sympathy which he wanted. She drew her chair nearer to him, and then he explained to her as accurately as he could what had taken place in the House on this evening⁠—how he had prepared his speech, how he had felt that his preparation was vain, how he perceived from the course of the debate that if he spoke at all his speech must be very different from what he had first intended; how he had declined to take upon himself a task which seemed to require so close a knowledge of the ways of the House and of the temper of the men, as the defence of such a man as Mr. Monk. In accusing himself he, unconsciously, excused himself, and his excuse, in Lady Laura’s ears, was more valid than his accusation.

“And you would give it all up for that?” she said.

“Yes; I think I ought.”

“I have very little doubt but that you were right in allowing Mr. Bonteen to undertake such a task. I should simply explain to Mr. Monk that you felt too keen an interest in his welfare to stand up as an untried member in his defence. It is not, I think, the work for a man who is not at home in the House. I am sure Mr. Monk will feel this, and I am quite certain that Mr. Kennedy will think that you have been right.”

“I do not care what Mr. Kennedy may think.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Finn? That is not courteous.”

“Simply because I care so much what Mr. Kennedy’s wife may think. Your opinion is all in all to me⁠—only that I know you are too kind to me.”

“He would not be too kind to you. He