house.
“It won’t make a bit of change in him,” Barbara Finn said to her friend Mary, up in some bedroom privacy before the tea-drinking ceremonies had altogether commenced.
“Oh, it must,” said Mary.
“I tell you it won’t, my dear; he is so good and so true.”
“I know he is good, Barbara; and as for truth, there is no question about it, because he has never said a word to me that he might not say to any girl.”
“That’s nonsense, Mary.”
“He never has, then, as sure as the blessed Virgin watches over us;—only you don’t believe she does.”
“Never mind about the Virgin now, Mary.”
“But he never has. Your brother is nothing to me, Barbara.”
“Then I hope he will be before the evening is over. He was walking with you all yesterday and the day before.”
“Why shouldn’t he,—and we that have known each other all our lives? But, Barbara, pray, pray never say a word of this to any one!”
“Is it I? Wouldn’t I cut out my tongue first?”
“I don’t know why I let you talk to me in this way. There has never been anything between me and Phineas,—your brother I mean.”
“I know whom you mean very well.”
“And I feel quite sure that there never will be. Why should there? He’ll go out among great people and be a great man; and I’ve already found out that there’s a certain Lady Laura Standish whom he admires very much.”
“Lady Laura Fiddlestick!”
“A man in Parliament, you know, may look up to anybody,” said Miss Mary Flood Jones.
“I want Phin to look up to you, my dear.”
“That wouldn’t be looking up. Placed as he is now, that would be looking down; and he is so proud that he’ll never do that. But come down, dear, else they’ll wonder where we are.”
Mary Flood Jones was a little girl about twenty years of age, with the softest hair in the world, of a colour varying between brown and auburn,—for sometimes you would swear it was the one and sometimes the other; and she was as pretty as ever she could be. She was one of those girls, so common in Ireland, whom men, with tastes that way given, feel inclined to take up and devour on the spur of the moment; and when she liked her lion, she had a look about her which seemed to ask to be devoured. There are girls so cold-looking,—pretty girls, too, ladylike, discreet, and armed with all accomplishments,—whom to attack seems to require the same sort of courage, and the same sort of preparation, as a journey in quest of the northwest passage. One thinks of a pedestal near the Athenaeum as the most appropriate and most honourable reward of such courage. But, again, there are other girls to abstain from attacking whom is, to a man of any warmth of temperament, quite impossible. They are like water when one is athirst, like plovers’ eggs in March, like cigars when one is out in the autumn. No one ever dreams of denying himself when such temptation comes in the way. It often happens, however, that in spite of appearances, the water will not come from the well, nor the egg from its shell, nor will the cigar allow itself to be lit. A girl of such appearance, so charming, was Mary Flood Jones of Killaloe, and our hero Phineas was not allowed to thirst in vain for a drop from the cool spring.
When the girls went down into the drawing-room Mary was careful to go to a part of the room quite remote from Phineas, so as to seat herself between Mrs. Finn and Dr. Finn’s young partner, Mr. Elias Bodkin, from Ballinasloe. But Mrs. Finn and the Miss Finns and all Killaloe knew that Mary had no love for Mr. Bodkin, and when Mr. Bodkin handed her the hot cake she hardly so much as smiled at him. But in two minutes Phineas was behind her chair, and then she smiled; and in five minutes more she had got herself so twisted round that she was sitting in a corner with Phineas and his sister Barbara; and in two more minutes Barbara had returned to Mr. Elias Bodkin, so that Phineas and Mary were uninterrupted. They manage these things very quickly and very cleverly in Killaloe.
“I shall be off tomorrow morning by the early train,” said Phineas.
“So soon;—and when will you have to begin,—in Parliament, I mean?”
“I shall have to take my seat on Friday. I’m going back just in time.”
“But when shall we hear of your saying something?”
“Never, probably. Not one in ten who go into Parliament ever do say anything.”
“But you will; won’t you? I hope you will. I do so hope you will distinguish yourself;—because of your sister, and for the sake of the town, you know.”
“And is that all, Mary?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“You don’t care a bit about myself, then?”
“You know that I do. Haven’t we been friends ever since we were children? Of course it will be a great pride to me that a person whom I have known so intimately should come to be talked about as a great man.”
“I shall never be talked about as a great man.”
“You’re a great man to me already, being in Parliament. Only think;—I never saw a member of Parliament in my life before.”
“You’ve seen the bishop scores of times.”
“Is he in Parliament? Ah, but not like you. He couldn’t come to be a Cabinet Minister, and one never reads anything about him in the newspapers. I shall expect to see your name, very often, and I shall always look for it. ‘Mr. Phineas Finn paired off with Mr. Mildmay.’ What is the meaning of pairing off?”
“I’ll explain it all to you when I come back, after learning my lesson.”
“Mind you do come back. But I don’t suppose you ever will. You will be going somewhere to see Lady Laura Standish when you are not wanted in Parliament.”
“Lady Laura Standish!”
“And why shouldn’t you? Of course, with your prospects, you should go as much as possible among people of that sort. Is Lady Laura very pretty?”
“She’s about six feet high.”
“Nonsense. I don’t believe that.”
“She would look as though she were, standing by you.”
“Because I am so insignificant and small.”
“Because your figure is perfect, and because she is straggling. She is as unlike you as possible in everything. She has thick lumpy red hair, while yours is all silk and softness. She has large hands and feet, and—”
“Why, Phineas, you are making her out to be an ogress, and yet I know that you admire her.”
“So I do, because she possesses such an appearance of power. And after all, in spite of the lumpy hair,
