The Palliser Novels (204 page)

“Does she know that he is here?” Lady Baldock asked her daughter.

“Not yet, mamma.”

“Oh dear, oh dear! I suppose she ought to see him. She has given him so much encouragement!”

“I suppose she will do as she pleases, mamma.”

“Augusta, how can you talk in that way? Am I to have no control in my own house?” It was, however, soon apparent to her that in this matter she was to have no control.

“Lord Chiltern is down-stairs,” said Violet, coming into the room abruptly.

“So Augusta tells me. Sit down, my dear.”

“I cannot sit down, aunt, — not just now. I have sent down to say that I would be with him in a minute. He is the most impatient soul alive, and I must not keep him waiting.”

“And you mean to see him?”

“Certainly I shall see him,” said Violet, as she left the room.

“I wonder that any woman should ever take upon herself the charge of a niece!” said Lady Baldock to her daughter in a despondent tone, as she held up her hands in dismay. In the meantime, Violet had gone down-stairs with a quick step, and had then boldly entered the room in which her lover was waiting to receive her.

“I have to thank you for coming to me, Violet,” said Lord Chiltern. There was still in his face something of savagery, — an expression partly of anger and partly of resolution to tame the thing with which he was angry. Violet did not regard the anger half so keenly as she did that resolution of taming. An angry lord, she thought, she could endure, but she could not bear the idea of being tamed by any one.

“Why should I not come?” she said. “Of course I came when I was told that you were here. I do not think that there need be a quarrel between us, because we have changed our minds.”

“Such changes make quarrels,” said he.

“It shall not do so with me, unless you choose that it shall,” said Violet. “Why should we be enemies, — we who have known each other since we were children? My dearest friends are your father and your sister. Why should we be enemies?”

“I have come to ask you whether you think that I have ill-used you?”

“Ill-used me! Certainly not. Has any one told you that I have accused you?”

“No one has told me so.”

“Then why do you ask me?”

“Because I would not have you think so, — if I could help it. I did not intend to be rough with you. When you told me that my life was disreputable — “

“Oh, Oswald, do not let us go back to that. What good will it do?”

“But you said so.”

“I think not.”

“I believe that that was your word, — the harshest word that you could use in all the language.”

“I did not mean to be harsh. If I used it, I will beg your pardon. Only let there be an end of it. As we think so differently about life in general, it was better that we should not be married. But that is settled, and why should we go back to words that were spoken in haste, and which are simply disagreeable?”

“I have come to know whether it is settled.”

“Certainly. You settled it yourself, Oswald. I told you what I thought myself bound to tell you. Perhaps I used language which I should not have used. Then you told me that I could not be your wife; — and I thought you were right, quite right.”

“I was wrong, quite wrong,” he said impetuously. “So wrong, that I can never forgive myself, if you do not relent. I was such a fool, that I cannot forgive myself my folly. I had known before that I could not live without you; and when you were mine, I threw you away for an angry word.”

“It was not an angry word,” she said.

“Say it again, and let me have another chance to answer it.”

“I think I said that idleness was not, — respectable, or something like that, taken out of a copy-book probably. But you are a man who do not like rebukes, even out of copy-books. A man so thin-skinned as you are must choose for himself a wife with a softer tongue than mine.”

“I will choose none other!” he said. But still he was savage in his tone and in his gestures. “I made my choice long since, as you know well enough. I do not change easily. I cannot change in this. Violet, say that you will be my wife once more, and I will swear to work for you like a coal-heaver.”

“My wish is that my husband, — should I ever have one, — should work, not exactly as a coal-heaver.”

“Come, Violet,” he said, — and now the look of savagery departed from him, and there came a smile over his face, which, however, had in it more of sadness than of hope or joy, — “treat me fairly, — or rather, treat me generously if you can. I do not know whether you ever loved me much.”

“Very much, — years ago, when you were a boy.”

“But not since? If it be so, I had better go. Love on one side only is a poor affair at best.”

“A very poor affair.”

“It is better to bear anything than to try and make out life with that. Some of you women never want to love any one.”

“That was what I was saying of myself to Laura but the other day. With some women it is so easy. With others it is so difficult, that perhaps it never comes to them.”

“And with you?”

“Oh, with me — . But it is better in these matters to confine oneself to generalities. If you please, I will not describe myself personally. Were I to do so, doubtless I should do it falsely.”

“You love no one else, Violet?”

“That is my affair, my lord.”

“By heavens, and it is mine too. Tell me that you do, and I will go away and leave you at once. I will not ask his name, and I will trouble you no more. If it is not so, and if it is possible that you should forgive me — “

“Forgive you! When have I been angry with you?”

“Answer me my question, Violet.”

“I will not answer you your question, — not that one.”

“What question will you answer?”

“Any that may concern yourself and myself. None that may concern other people.”

“You told me once that you loved me.”

“This moment I told you that I did so, — years ago.”

“But now?”

“That is another matter.”

“Violet, do you love me now?”

“That is a point-blank question at any rate,” she said.

“And you will answer it?”

“I must answer it, — I suppose.”

“Well, then?”

“Oh, Oswald, what a fool you are! Love you! of course I love you. If you can understand anything, you ought to know that I have never loved any one else; — that after what has passed between us, I never shall love any one else. I do love you. There. Whether you throw me away from you, as you did the other day, — with great scorn, mind you, — or come to me with sweet, beautiful promises, as you do now, I shall love you all the same. I cannot be your wife, if you will not have me; can I? When you run away in your tantrums because I quote something out of the copy-book, I can’t run after you. It would not be pretty. But as for loving you, if you doubt that, I tell you, you are a — fool.” As she spoke the last words she pouted out her lips at him, and when he looked into her face he saw that her eyes were full of tears. He was standing now with his arm round her waist, so that it was not easy for him to look into her face.

“I am a fool,” he said.

“Yes; — you are; but I don’t love you the less on that account.”

“I will never doubt it again.”

“No; — do not; and, for me, I will not say another word, whether you choose to heave coals or not. You shall do as you please. I meant to be very wise; — I did indeed.”

“You are the grandest girl that ever was made.”

“I do not want to be grand at all, and I never will be wise any more. Only do not frown at me and look savage.” Then she put up her hand to smooth his brow. “I am half afraid of you still, you know. There. That will do. Now let me go, that I may tell my aunt. During the last two months she has been full of pity for poor Lord Chiltern.”

“It has been poor Lord Chiltern with a vengeance!” said he.

“But now that we have made it up, she will be horrified again at all your wickednesses. You have been a turtle dove lately; — now you will be an ogre again. But, Oswald, you must not be an ogre to me.”

As soon as she could get quit of her lover, she did tell her tale to Lady Baldock. “You have accepted him again!” said her aunt, holding up her hands. “Yes, — I have accepted him again,” replied Violet. “Then the responsibility must be on your own shoulders,” said her aunt; “I wash my hands of it.” That evening, when she discussed the matter with her daughter, Lady Baldock spoke of Violet and Lord Chiltern, as though their intended marriage were the one thing in the world which she most deplored.

The day of the debate had come, and Phineas Finn was still sitting in his room at the Colonial Office. But his resignation had been sent in and accepted, and he was simply awaiting the coming of his successor. About noon his successor came, and he had the gratification of resigning his arm-chair to Mr. Bonteen. It is generally understood that gentlemen leaving offices give up either seals or a portfolio. Phineas had been put in possession of no seal and no portfolio; but there was in the room which he had occupied a special arm-chair, and this with much regret he surrendered to the use and comfort of Mr. Bonteen. There was a glance of triumph in his enemy’s eyes, and an exultation in the tone of his enemy’s voice, which were very bitter to him. “So you are really going?” said Mr. Bonteen. “Well; I dare say it is all very proper. I don’t quite understand the thing myself, but I have no doubt you are right.” “It isn’t easy to understand; is it?” said Phineas, trying to laugh. But Mr. Bonteen did not feel the intended satire, and poor Phineas found it useless to attempt to punish the man he hated. He left him as quickly as he could, and went to say a few words of farewell to his late chief.

“Good-bye, Finn,” said Lord Cantrip. “It is a great trouble to me that we should have to part in this way.”

“And to me also, my lord. I wish it could have been avoided.”

“You should not have gone to Ireland with so dangerous a man as Mr. Monk. But it is too late to think of that now.”

“The milk is spilt; is it not?”

“But these terrible rendings asunder never last very long,” said Lord Cantrip, “unless a man changes his opinions altogether. How many quarrels and how many reconciliations we have lived to see! I remember when Gresham went out of office, because he could not sit in the same room with Mr. Mildmay, and yet they became the fastest of political friends. There was a time when Plinlimmon and the Duke could not stable their horses together at all; and don’t you remember when Palliser was obliged to give up his hopes of office because he had some bee in his bonnet?” I think, however, that the bee in Mr. Palliser’s bonnet to which Lord Cantrip was alluding made its buzzing audible on some subject that was not exactly political. “We shall have you back again before long, I don’t doubt. Men who can really do their work are too rare to be left long in the comfort of the benches below the gangway.” This was very kindly said, and Phineas was flattered and comforted. He could not, however, make Lord Cantrip understand the whole truth. For him the dream of a life of politics was over for ever. He had tried it, and had succeeded beyond his utmost hopes; but, in spite of his success, the ground had crumbled to pieces beneath his feet, and he knew that he could never recover the niche in the world’s gallery which he was now leaving.

That same afternoon he met Mr. Gresham in one of the passages leading to the House, and the Prime Minister put his arm through that of our hero as they walked together into the lobby. “I am sorry that we are losing you,” said Mr. Gresham.

“You may be sure that I am sorry to be so lost,” said Phineas.

“These things will occur in political life,” said the leader; “but I think that they seldom leave rancour behind them when the purpose is declared, and when the subject of disagreement is marked and understood. The defalcation which creates angry feeling is that which has to be endured without previous warning, — when a man votes against his party, — or a set of men, from private pique or from some cause which is never clear.” Phineas, when he heard this, knew well how terribly this very man had been harassed, and driven nearly wild, by defalcation, exactly of that nature which he was attempting to describe. “No doubt you and Mr. Monk think you are right,” continued Mr. Gresham.

“We have given strong evidence that we think so,” said Phineas. “We give up our places, and we are, both of us, very poor men.”

“I think you are wrong, you know, not so much in your views on the question itself — which, to tell the truth, I hardly understand as yet.”

“We will endeavour to explain them.”

“And will do so very clearly, no doubt. But I think that Mr. Monk was wrong in desiring, as a member of a Government, to force a measure which, whether good or bad, the Government as a body does not desire to initiate, — at any rate, just now.”

“And therefore he resigned,” said Phineas.

“Of course. But it seems to me that he failed to comprehend the only way in which a great party can act together, if it is to do any service in this country. Don’t for a moment think that I am blaming him or you.”

“I am nobody in this matter,” said Phineas.

“I can assure you, Mr. Finn, that we have not regarded you in that light, and I hope that the time may come when we may be sitting together again on the same bench.”

Neither on the Treasury bench nor on any other in that House was he to sit again after this fashion! That was the trouble which was crushing his spirit at this moment, and not the loss of his office! He knew that he could not venture to think of remaining in London as a member of Parliament with no other income than that which his father could allow him, even if he could again secure a seat in Parliament. When he had first been returned for Loughshane he had assured his friends that his duty as a member of the House of Commons would not be a bar to his practice in the Courts. He had now been five years a member, and had never once made an attempt at doing any part of a barrister’s work. He had gone altogether into a different line of life, and had been most successful; — so successful that men told him, and women more frequently than men, that his career had been a miracle of success. But there had been, as he had well known from the first, this drawback in the new profession which he had chosen, that nothing in it could be permanent. They who succeed in it, may probably succeed again; but then the success is intermittent, and there may be years of hard work in opposition, to which, unfortunately, no pay is assigned. It is almost imperative, as he now found, that they who devote themselves to such a profession should be men of fortune. When he had commenced his work, — at the period of his first return for Loughshane, — he had had no thought of mending his deficiency in this respect by a rich marriage. Nor had it ever occurred to him that he would seek a marriage for that purpose. Such an idea would have been thoroughly distasteful to him. There had been no stain of premeditated mercenary arrangement upon him at any time. But circumstances had so fallen out with him, that as he won his spurs in Parliament, as he became known, and was placed first in one office and then in another, prospects of love and money together were opened to him, and he ventured on, leaving Mr. Low and the law behind him, — because these prospects were so alluring. Then had come Mr. Monk and Mary Flood Jones, — and everything around him had collapsed.