known that he had none;—that if he could not get on with the late House, he certainly could not get on with a new House. We let him have his own way as far as we could in February. We had failed last summer, and if he could get along he was welcome. But he could not get along.”
“I must say I think he was right to dissolve,” said Lady Laura.
“And we are right to force the consequences upon him as quickly as we can. He practically lost nine seats by his dissolution. Look at Loughshane.”
“Yes; look at Loughshane,” said Miss Fitzgibbon. “The country at any rate has gained something there.”
“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, Mr. Finn,” said the Earl.
“What on earth is to become of poor George?” said Mr. Fitzgibbon. “I wonder whether any one knows where he is. George wasn’t a bad sort of fellow.”
“Roby used to think that he was a very bad fellow,” said Mr. Bonteen. “Roby used to swear that it was hopeless trying to catch him.” It may be as well to explain that Mr. Roby was a Conservative gentleman of great fame who had for years acted as Whip under Mr. Daubeny, and who now filled the high office of Patronage Secretary to the Treasury. “I believe in my heart,” continued Mr. Bonteen, “that Roby is rejoiced that poor George Morris should be out in the cold.”
“If seats were halveable, he should share mine, for the sake of auld lang syne,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon.
“But not tomorrow night,” said Barrington Erle; “the division tomorrow will be a thing not to be joked with. Upon my word I think they’re right about old Moody. All private considerations should give way. And as for Gunning, I’d have him up or I’d know the reason why.”
“And shall we have no defaulters, Barrington?” asked Lady Laura.
“I’m not going to boast, but I don’t know of one for whom we need blush. Sir Everard Powell is so bad with gout that he can’t even bear any one to look at him, but Ratler says that he’ll bring him up.” Mr. Ratler was in those days the Whip on the liberal side of the House.
“Unfortunate wretch!” said Miss Fitzgibbon.
“The worst of it is that he screams in his paroxysms,” said Mr. Bonteen.
“And you mean to say that you’ll take him into the lobby,” said Lady Laura.
“Undoubtedly,” said Barrington Erle. “Why not? He has no business with a seat if he can’t vote. But Sir Everard is a good man, and he’ll be there if laudanum and bath-chair make it possible.”
The same kind of conversation went on during the whole of dinner, and became, if anything, more animated when the three ladies had left the room. Mr. Kennedy made but one remark, and then he observed that as far as he could see a majority of nineteen would be as serviceable as a majority of twenty. This he said in a very mild voice, and in a tone that was intended to be expressive of doubt; but in spite of his humility Barrington Erle flew at him almost savagely,—as though a liberal member of the House of Commons was disgraced by so mean a spirit; and Phineas found himself despising the man for his want of zeal.
“If we are to beat them, let us beat them well,” said Phineas.
“Let there be no doubt about it,” said Barrington Erle.
“I should like to see every man with a seat polled,” said Bonteen.
“Poor Sir Everard!” said Lord Brentford. “It will kill him, no doubt, but I suppose the seat is safe.”
“Oh, yes; Llanwrwsth is quite safe,” said Barrington, in his eagerness omitting to catch Lord Brentford’s grim joke.
Phineas went up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after dinner, and was eagerly desirous of saying a few more words,—he knew not what words,—to Lady Laura. Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Bonteen had left the dining-room first, and Phineas again found Mr. Kennedy standing close to Lady Laura’s shoulder. Could it be possible that there was anything in it? Mr. Kennedy was an unmarried man, with an immense fortune, a magnificent place, a seat in Parliament, and was not perhaps above forty years of age. There could be no reason why he should not ask Lady Laura to be his wife,—except, indeed, that he did not seem to have sufficient words at command to ask anybody for anything. But could it be that such a woman as Lady Laura could accept such a man as Mr. Kennedy because of his wealth, and because of his fine place,—a man who had not a word to throw to a dog, who did not seem to be possessed of an idea, who hardly looked like a gentleman;—so Phineas told himself. But in truth Mr. Kennedy, though he was a plain, unattractive man, with nothing in his personal appearance to call for remark, was not unlike a gentleman in his usual demeanour. Phineas himself, it may be here said, was six feet high, and very handsome, with bright blue eyes, and brown wavy hair, and light silken beard. Mrs. Low had told her husband more than once that he was much too handsome to do any good. Mr. Low, however, had replied that young Finn had never shown himself to be conscious of his own personal advantages. “He’ll learn it soon enough,” said Mrs. Low. “Some woman will tell him, and then he’ll be spoilt.” I do not think that Phineas depended much as yet on his own good looks, but he felt that Mr. Kennedy ought to be despised by such a one as Lady Laura Standish, because his looks were not good. And she must despise him! It could not be that a woman so full of life should be willing to put up with a man who absolutely seemed to have no life within him. And yet why was he there, and why was he allowed to hang about just over her shoulders? Phineas Finn began to feel himself to be an injured man.
But Lady Laura had the power of dispelling instantly this sense of injury. She had done it effectually in the dining-room by calling him to the seat by her side, to the express exclusion of the millionaire, and she did it again now by walking away from Mr. Kennedy to the spot on which Phineas had placed himself somewhat sulkily.
“Of course you’ll be at the club on Friday morning after the division,” she said.
“No doubt.”
“When you leave it, come and tell me what are your impressions, and what you think of Mr. Daubeny’s speech. There’ll be nothing done in the House before four, and you’ll be able to run up to me.”
“Certainly I will.”
“I have asked Mr. Kennedy to come, and Mr. Fitzgibbon. I am so anxious about it, that I want to hear what different people say. You know, perhaps, that papa is to be in the Cabinet if there’s a change.”
“Is he indeed?”
“Oh yes;—and you’ll come up?”
“Of course I will. Do you expect to hear much of an opinion from Mr. Kennedy?”
“Yes, I do. You don’t quite know Mr. Kennedy yet. And you must remember that he will say more to me than he will to you. He’s not quick, you know, as you are, and he has no enthusiasm on any subject;—but he has opinions, and sound opinions too.” Phineas felt that Lady Laura was in a slight degree scolding him for the disrespectful manner in which he had spoken of Mr. Kennedy; and he felt also that he had committed himself,—that he had shown himself to be sore, and that she had seen and understood his soreness.
“The truth is I do not know him,” said he, trying to correct his blunder.
“No;—not as yet. But I hope that you may some day, as he is one of
