The Duke of Omnium presents his compliments to Mrs. Finn. As the Duke thinks that no good could result either to Mrs. Finn or to himself from an interview, he is obliged to say that he would rather not do as Mrs. Finn has requested.
But for the strength of this conviction the Duke would have waited upon Mrs. Finn most willingly.
Mrs. Finn when she received this was not surprised. She had felt sure that such would be the nature of the Duke's answer; but she was also sure that if such an answer did come she would not let the matter rest. The accusation1 was so bitter to her that she would spare nothing in defending herself,—nothing in labour and nothing in time. She would make him know that she was in earnest. As she could not succeed in getting into his presence she must do this by letter,—and she wrote her letter, taking two days to think of her words.
May 18, 18—.
My dear Duke of Omnium,
As you will not come to me, I must trouble your Grace to read what I fear will be a long letter. For it is absolutely necessary that I should explain my conduct to you. That you have condemned2 me I am sure you will not deny;—nor that you have punished me as far as the power of punishment was in your hands. If I can succeed in making you see that you have judged me wrongly, I think you will admit your error and beg my pardon. You are not one who from your nature can be brought easily to do this; but you are one who will certainly do it if you can be made to feel that by not doing so you would be unjust. I am myself so clear as to my own rectitude of purpose and conduct, and am so well aware of your perspicuity3, that I venture to believe that if you will read this letter I shall convince you.
Before I go any further I will confess that the matter is one,—I was going to say almost of life and death to me. Circumstances, not of my own seeking, have for some years past thrown me so closely into intercourse4 with your family that now to be cast off, and to be put on one side as a disgraced person,—and that so quickly after the death of her who loved me so dearly and who was so dear to me,—is such an affront5 as I cannot bear and hold up my head afterwards. I have come to be known as her whom your uncle trusted and loved, as her whom your wife trusted and loved,—obscure as I was before;—and as her whom, may I not say, you yourself trusted? As there was much of honour and very much of pleasure in this, so also was there something of misfortune. Friendships are safest when the friends are of the same standing6. I have always felt there was danger, and now the thing I feared has come home to me.
Now I will plead my case. I fancy, that when first you heard that I had been cognisant of your daughter's engagement, you imagined that I was aware of it before I went to Matching. Had I been so, I should have been guilty of that treachery of which you accuse me. I did know nothing of it till Lady Mary told me on the day before I left Matching. That she should tell me was natural enough. Her mother had known it, and for the moment,—if I am not assuming too much in saying so,—I was filling her mother's place. But, in reference to you, I could not exercise the discretion7 which a mother might have used, and I told her at once, most decidedly, that you must be made acquainted with the fact.
Then Lady Mary expressed to me her wish,—not that this matter should be kept any longer from you, for that it should be told she was as anxious as I was myself,—but that it should be told to you by Mr. Tregear. It was not for me to raise any question as to Mr. Tregear's fitness or unfitness,—as to which indeed I could know nothing. All I could do was to say that if Mr. Tregear would make the communication at once, I should feel that I had done my duty. The upshot was that Mr. Tregear came to me immediately on my return to London, and agreeing with me that it was imperative8 that you be informed, went to you and did inform you. In all of that, if I have told the story truly, where has been my offence? I suppose you will believe me, but your daughter can give evidence as to every word that I have written.
I think that you have got it into your mind that I have befriended Mr. Tregear's suit, and that, having received this impression, you hold it with the tenacity9 which is usual to you. There never was a greater mistake. I went to Matching as the friend of my dear friend;—but I stayed there at your request, as your friend. Had I been, when you asked me to do so, a participator in that secret I could not have honestly remained in the position you assigned to me. Had I done so, I should have deserved your ill opinion. As it is I have not deserved it, and your condemnation10 of me has been altogether unjust. Should I not now receive from you a full withdrawal11 of all charge against me, I shall be driven to think that after all the insight which circumstances have given me into your character, I have nevertheless been mistaken in the reading of it.
I remain,
Dear Duke of Omnium,
Yours truly,
M. Finn.
I find on looking over my letter that I must add one word further. It might seem that I am asking for a return of your friendship. Such is not my purpose. Neither can you forget that you have accused me,—nor can I. What I expect is that you should tell me that you in your conduct to me have been wrong and that I in mine to you have been right. I must be enabled to feel that the separation between us has come from injury done to me, and not by me.
He did read the letter more than once, and read it with tingling12 ears, and hot cheeks, and a knitted brow. As the letter went on, and as the woman's sense of wrong grew hot from her own telling of her own story, her words became stronger and still stronger, till at last they were almost insolent13 in their strength. Were it not that they came from one who did think herself to have been wronged, then certainly they would be insolent. A sense of injury, a burning conviction of wrong sustained, will justify14 language which otherwise would be unbearable15. The Duke felt that, and though his ears were tingling and his brow knitted, he could have forgiven the language, if only he could have admitted the argument. He understood every word of it. When she spoke16 of tenacity she intended to charge him with obstinacy17. Though she had dwelt but lightly on her own services she had made her thoughts on the matter clear enough. "I, Mrs. Finn, who am nobody, have done much to succour and assist you, the Duke of Omnium; and this is the return which I have received!" And then she told him to his face that unless he did something which it would be impossible that he should do, she would revoke18 her opinion of his honesty! He tried to persuade himself that her opinion about his honesty was nothing to him;—but he failed. Her opinion was very much to him. Though in his anger he had determined19 to throw her off from him, he knew her to be one whose good opinion was worth having.
Not a word of overt20 accusation had been made against his wife. Every allusion21 to her was full of love. But yet how heavy a charge was really made! That such a secret should be kept from him, the father, was acknowledged to be a heinous22 fault;—but the wife had known the secret and had kept it from him, the father! And then how wretched a thing it was for him that any one should dare to write to him about the wife that had been taken away from him! In spite of all her faults her name was so holy to him that it had never once passed his lips since her death, except in low whispers to himself,—low whispers made in the perfect, double-guarded seclusion23 of his own chamber24. "Cora, Cora," he had murmured, so that the sense of the sound and not the sound itself had come to him from his own lips. And now this woman wrote to him about her freely, as though there were nothing sacred, no religion in the memory of her.
"It was not for me to raise any question as to Mr. Tregear's fitness." Was it not palpable to all the world that he was unfit? Unfit! How could a man be more unfit? He was asking for the hand of one who was second only to royalty—who was possessed25 of everything, who was beautiful, well-born, rich, who was the daughter of the Duke of Omnium, and he had absolutely nothing of his own to offer.
But it was necessary that he should at last come to the consideration of the actual point as to which she had written to him so forcibly. He tried to set himself to the task in perfect honesty. He certainly had condemned her. He had condemned her and had no doubt punished her to the extent of his power. And if he could be brought to see that he had done this unjustly, then certainly must he beg her pardon. And when he considered it all, he had to own that her intimacy26 with his uncle and his wife had not been so much of her seeking as of theirs. It grieved him now that it should have been so, but so it was. And after all this,—after the affectionate surrender of herself to his wife's caprices which the woman had made,—he had turned upon her and driven her away with ignominy. That was all true. As he thought of it he became hot, and was conscious of a quivering feeling round his heart. These were bonds indeed; but they were bonds of such a nature as to be capable of being rescinded27 and cut away altogether by absolute bad conduct. If he could make it good to himself that in a matter of such magnitude as the charge of his daughter she had been untrue to him and had leagued herself against him, with an unworthy lover, then, then—all bonds would be rescinded! Then would his wrath28 be altogether justified29! Then would it have been impossible that he should have done aught else than cast her out! As he thought of this he felt sure that she had betrayed him! How great would be the ignominy to him should he be driven to own to himself that she had not betrayed him! "There should not have been a moment," he said to himself over and over again,—"not a moment!" Yes;—she certainly had betrayed him.
There might still be safety for him in that confident assertion of "not a moment;" but had there been anything of that conspiracy30 of which he had certainly at first judged her to be guilty? She had told her story, and had then appealed to Lady Mary for evidence. After five minutes of perfect stillness,—but five minutes of misery31, five minutes during which great beads32 of perspiration33 broke out from him and stood upon his brow, he had to confess to himself that he did not want any evidence. He did believe her story. When he allowed himself to think she had been in league with Tregear he had wronged her. He wiped away the beads from his brow, and again repeated to himself those words which were now his only comfort, "There should not have been a moment;—not a moment!"
It was thus and only thus that he was enabled to assure himself that there need be no acknowledgment of wrong done on his part. Having settled this in his own mind he forced himself to attend a meeting at which his assistance had been asked as to a complex question on Law Reform. The Duke endeavoured to give himself up entirely34 to the matter; but through it all there was the picture before him of Mrs. Finn waiting for an answer to her letter. If he should confirm himself in his opinion that he had been right, then would any answer be necessary? He might just acknowledge the letter, after the fashion which has come up in official life, than which silence is an insult much more bearable. But he did not wish to insult, nor to punish her further. He would willingly have withdrawn35 the punishment under which she was groaning36 could he have done so without self-abasement. Or he might write as she had done,—advocating his own cause with all his strength, using that last one strong argument,—"there should not have been a moment." But there would be something repulsive37 to his personal dignity in the continued correspondence which this would produce. "The Duke of Omnium regrets to say, in answer to Mrs. Finn's letter, that he thinks no good can be attained38 by a prolonged correspondence." Such, or of such kind, he thought must be his answer. But would this be a fair return for the solicitude39 shown by her to his uncle, for the love which had made her so patient a friend to his wife, for the nobility of her own conduct in many things? Then his mind reverted40 to certain jewels,—supposed to be of enormous value,—which were still in his possession though they were the property of this woman. They had been left to her by his uncle, and she had obstinately41 refused to take them. Now they were lying packed in the cellars of certain bankers,—but still they were in his custody42. What should he now do in this matter? Hitherto, perhaps once in every six months, he had notified to her that he was keeping them as her curator, and she had always repeated that it was a charge from which she could not relieve him. It had become almost a joke between them. But how could he joke with a woman with whom he had quarrelled after this internecine43 fashion?
What if he were to consult Lady Cantrip? He could not do so without a pang44 that would be very bitter to him,—but any agony would be better than that arising from a fear that he had been unjust to one who had deserved well of him. No doubt Lady Cantrip would see it in the same light as he had done. And then he would be able to support himself by the assurance that that which he had judged to be right was approved of by one whom the world would acknowledge to be a good judge on such a matter.
When he got home he found his son's letter telling him of the election at Silverbridge. There was something in it which softened45 his heart to the young man,—or perhaps it was that in the midst of his many discomforts46 he wished to find something which at least was not painful to him. That his son and his heir should insist on entering political life in opposition47 to him was of course a source of pain; but, putting that aside, the thing had been done pleasantly enough, and the young member's letter had been written with some good feeling. So he answered the letter as pleasantly as he knew how.
My dear Silverbridge,
I am glad that you are in Parliament and am glad also that you should have been returned by the old borough48; though I would that you could have reconciled yourself to adhering to the politics of your family. But there is nothing disgraceful in such a change, and I am able to congratulate you as a father should a son and to wish you long life and success as a legislator.
There are one or two things I would ask you to remember;—and firstly this, that as you have voluntarily undertaken certain duties you are bound as an honest man to perform them as scrupulously49 as though you were paid for doing them. There was no obligation in you to seek the post;—but having sought it and acquired it you cannot neglect the work attached to it without being untrue to the covenant50 you have made. It is necessary that a young member of Parliament should bear this in his mind, and especially a member who has not worked his way up to notoriety outside the House, because to him there will be great facility for idleness and neglect.
And then I would have you always remember the purport51 for which there is a Parliament elected in this happy and free country. It is not that some men may shine there, that some may acquire power, or that all may plume52 themselves on being the elect of the nation. It often appears to me that some members of Parliament so regard their success in life,—as the fellows of our colleges do too often, thinking that their fellowships were awarded for their comfort and not for the furtherance of any object as education or religion. I have known gentlemen who have felt that in becoming members of Parliament they had achieved an object for themselves instead of thinking that they had put themselves in the way of achieving something for others. A member of Parliament should feel himself to be the servant of his country,—and like every other servant, he should serve. If this be distasteful to a man he need not go into Parliament. If the harness gall53 him he need not wear it. But if he takes the trappings, then he should draw the coach. You are there as the guardian54 of your fellow-countrymen,—that they may be safe, that they may be prosperous, that they may be well governed and lightly burdened,—above all that they may be free. If you cannot feel this to be your duty, you should not be there at all.
And I would have you remember also that the work of a member of Parliament can seldom be of that brilliant nature which is of itself charming; and that the young member should think of such brilliancy as being possible to him only at a distance. It should be your first care to sit and listen so that the forms and methods of the House may as it were soak into you gradually. And then you must bear in mind that speaking in the House is but a very small part of a member's work, perhaps that part which he may lay aside altogether with the least strain on his conscience. A good member of Parliament will be good upstairs in the Committee Rooms, good down-stairs to make and to keep a House, good to vote, for his party if it may be nothing better, but for the measures also which he believes to be for the good of his country.
Gradually, if you will give your thoughts to it, and above all your time, the theory of legislation will sink into your mind, and you will find that there will come upon you the ineffable55 delight of having served your country to the best of your ability.
It is the only pleasure in life which has been enjoyed without alloy56 by your affectionate father,
Omnium.
The Duke in writing this letter was able for a few moments to forget Mrs. Finn, and to enjoy the work which he had on hand.
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1
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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3
perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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4
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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6
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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7
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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8
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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9
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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12
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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13
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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15
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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16
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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revoke
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| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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rescinded
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| v.废除，取消( rescind的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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29
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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30
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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31
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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32
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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34
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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35
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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36
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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38
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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40
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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41
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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42
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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43
internecine
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| adj.两败俱伤的 | |
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44
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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45
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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46
discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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47
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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48
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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49
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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50
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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51
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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52
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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53
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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54
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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55
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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56
alloy
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| n.合金，(金属的)成色 | |
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