Phineas Finn

said truly, that he had incurred this responsibility⁠—a responsibility which he was altogether unequal to answer⁠—because he was so protected? He did feel that a certain consciousness of his privilege had been present to him when he had put his name across the paper, and there had been dishonesty in that very consciousness. And of what service would his privilege be to him, if this man could harass every hour of his life? The man was to be with him again in a day or two, and when the appointment had been proposed, he, Phineas, had not dared to negative it. And how was he to escape? As for paying the bill, that with him was altogether impossible. The man had told him⁠—and he had believed the man⁠—that payment by Fitzgibbon was out of the question. And yet Fitzgibbon was the son of a peer, whereas he was only the son of a country doctor! Of course Fitzgibbon must make some effort⁠—some great effort⁠—and have the thing settled. Alas, alas! He knew enough of the world already to feel that the hope was vain.

He went down from the Committee Room into the House, and he dined at the House, and remained there until eight or nine at night; but Fitzgibbon did not come. He then went to the Reform Club, but he was not there. Both at the club and in the House many men spoke to him about the debate of the previous night, expressing surprise that he had not spoken⁠—making him more and more wretched. He saw Mr. Monk, but Mr. Monk was walking arm in arm with his colleague, Mr. Palliser, and Phineas could do no more than just speak to them. He thought that Mr. Monk’s nod of recognition was very cold. That might be fancy, but it certainly was a fact that Mr. Monk only nodded to him. He would tell Mr. Monk the truth, and then, if Mr. Monk chose to quarrel with him, he at any rate would take no step to renew their friendship.

From the Reform Club he went to the Shakespeare, a smaller club to which Fitzgibbon belonged⁠—and of which Phineas much wished to become a member⁠—and to which he knew that his friend resorted when he wished to enjoy himself thoroughly, and to be at ease in his inn. Men at the Shakespeare could do as they pleased. There were no politics there, no fashion, no stiffness, and no rules⁠—so men said; but that was hardly true. Everybody called everybody by his Christian name, and members smoked all over the house. They who did not belong to the Shakespeare thought it an Elysium upon earth; and they who did, believed it to be among Pandemoniums the most pleasant. Phineas called at the Shakespeare, and was told by the porter that Mr. Fitzgibbon was upstairs. He was shown into the strangers room, and in five minutes his friend came down to him.

“I want you to come down to the Reform with me,” said Phineas.

“By jingo, my dear fellow, I’m in the middle of a rubber of whist.”

“There has been a man with me about that bill.”

“What;⁠—Clarkson?”

“Yes, Clarkson,” said Phineas.

“Don’t mind him,” said Fitzgibbon.

“That’s nonsense. How am I to help minding him? I must mind him. He is coming to me again on Tuesday morning.”

“Don’t see him.”

“How can I help seeing him?”

“Make them say you’re not at home.”

“He has made an appointment. He has told me that he’ll never leave me alone. He’ll be the death of me if this is not settled.”

“It shall be settled, my dear fellow. I’ll see about it. I’ll see about it and write you a line. You must excuse me now, because those fellows are waiting. I’ll have it all arranged.”

Again as Phineas went home he thoroughly wished that he had not seceded from Mr. Low.

XXII

Lady Baldock at Home

About the middle of March Lady Baldock came up from Baddingham to London, coerced into doing so, as Violet Effingham declared, in thorough opposition to all her own tastes, by the known wishes of her friends and relatives. Her friends and relatives, so Miss Effingham insinuated, were unanimous in wishing that Lady Baldock should remain at Baddingham Park, and therefore⁠—that wish having been indiscreetly expressed⁠—she had put herself to great inconvenience, and had come to London in March. “Gustavus will go mad,” said Violet to Lady Laura. The Gustavus in question was the Lord Baldock of the present generation, Miss Effingham’s Lady Baldock being the peer’s mother. “Why does not Lord Baldock take a house himself?” asked Lady Laura. “Don’t you know, my dear,” Violet answered, “how much we Baddingham people think of money? We don’t like being vexed and driven mad, but even that is better than keeping up two households.” As regarded Violet, the injury arising from Lady Baldock’s early migration was very great, for she was thus compelled to move from Grosvenor Place to Lady Baldock’s house in Berkeley Square. “As you are so fond of being in London, Augusta and I have made up our minds to come up before Easter,” Lady Baldock had written to her.

“I shall go to her now,” Violet had said to her friend, “because I have not quite made up my mind as to what I will do for the future.”

“Marry Oswald, and be your own mistress.”

“I mean to be my own mistress without marrying Oswald, though I don’t see my way quite clearly as yet. I think I shall set up a little house of my own, and let the world say what it pleases. I suppose they couldn’t make me out to be a lunatic.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if they were to try,” said Lady Laura.

“They could not prevent me in any other way. But I am in the dark as yet, and so I shall be obedient and go to my aunt.”

Miss Effingham went to Berkeley Square, and Phineas Finn was introduced to Lady Baldock. He had been often in