As to his bosom friendship with Mr Kennedy, that of course troubled him. Ought he not to be driving a poniard into Mr Kennedy’s heart? The conventions of life forbade that; and therefore the bosom friendship was to be excused. If not an enemy to the death, then there could be no reason why he should not be a bosom friend.
He went over to Ireland, staying but one night with Mrs Bunce, and came down upon them at Killaloe like a god out of the heavens. Even his father was well-nigh overwhelmed by admiration8, and his mother and sisters thought themselves only fit to minister to his pleasures. He had learned, if he had learned nothing else, to look as though he were master of the circumstances around him, and was entirely9 free from internal embarrassment10. When his father spoke11 to him about his legal studies, he did not exactly laugh at his father’s ignorance, but he recapitulated12 to his father so much of Mr Monk’s wisdom at second hand — showing plainly that it was his business to study the arts of speech and the technicalities of the House, and not to study law — that his father had nothing further to say. He had become a man of such dimensions that an ordinary father could hardly dare to inquire into his proceedings13; and as for an ordinary mother — such as Mrs Finn certainly was — she could do no more than look after her son’s linen14 with awe15.
Mary Flood Jones — the reader I hope will not quite have forgotten Mary Flood Jones — was in a great tremor16 when first she met the hero of Loughshane after returning from the honours of his first session. She had been somewhat disappointed because the newspapers had not been full of the speeches he had made in Parliament. And indeed the ladies of the Finn household had all been ill at ease on this head. They could not imagine why Phineas had restrained himself with so much philosophy. But Miss Flood Jones in discussing the matter with the Miss Finns had never expressed the slightest doubt of his capacity or his judgment17. And when tidings came — the tidings came in a letter from Phineas to his father — that he did not intend to speak that session, because speeches from a young member on his first session were thought to be inexpedient, Miss Flood Jones and the Miss Finns were quite willing to accept the wisdom of this decision, much as they might regret the effect of it. Mary, when she met her hero, hardly dared to look him in the face, but she remembered accurately18 all the circumstances of her last interview with him. Could it be that he wore that ringlet near his heart? Mary had received from Barbara Finn certain hairs supposed to have come from the head of Phineas, and these she always wore near her own. And moreover, since she had seen Phineas she had refused an offer of marriage from Mr Elias Bodkin — had refused it almost ignominiously19 — and when doing so had told herself that she would never be false to Phineas Finn.
“We think it so good of you to come to see us again,” she said.
“Good to come home to my own people?”
“Of course you might be staying with plenty of grandees20 if you liked it.”
“No, indeed, Mary. It did happen by accident that I had to go to the house of a man whom perhaps you would call a grandee21, and to meet grandees there. But it was only for a few days, and I am very glad to be taken in again here, I can assure you.”
“You know how very glad we all are to have you.”
“Are you glad to see me, Mary?”
“Very glad. Why should I not be glad, and Barbara the dearest friend I have in the world? Of course she talks about you — and that makes me think of you.”
“If you knew, Mary, how often I think about you.” Then Mary, who was very happy at hearing such words, and who was walking in to dinner with him at the moment, could not refrain herself from pressing his arm with her little fingers. She knew that Phineas in his position could not marry at once; but she would wait for him — oh, for ever, if he would only ask her. He of course was a wicked traitor22 to tell her that he was wont23 to think of her. But Jove smiles at lovers’ perjuries24 — and it is well that he should do so, as such perjuries can hardly be avoided altogether in the difficult circumstances of a successful gentleman’s life. Phineas was a traitor, of course, but he was almost forced to be a traitor, by the simple fact that Lady Laura Standish was in London, and Mary Flood Jones in Killaloe.
He remained for nearly five months at Killaloe, and I doubt whether his time was altogether well spent. Some of the books recommended to him by Mr Monk he probably did read, and was often to be found encompassed25 by blue books. I fear that there was a grain of pretence26 about his blue books and parliamentary papers, and that in these days he was, in a gentle way, something of an impostor. “You must not be angry with me for not going to you,” he said once to Mary’s mother when he had declined an invitation to drink tea; “but the fact is that my time is not my own.” “Pray don’t make any apologies. We are quite aware that we have very little to offer,” said Mrs Flood Jones, who was not altogether happy about Mary, and who perhaps knew more about members of Parliament and blue books than Phineas Finn had supposed. “Mary, you are a fool to think of that man,” the mother said to her daughter the next morning. “I don’t think of him, mamma; not particularly.” “He is no better than anybody else that I can see, and he is beginning to give himself airs,” said Mrs Flood Jones. Mary made no answer; but she went up into her room and swore before a figure of the Virgin27 that she would be true to Phineas for ever and ever, in spite of her mother, in spite of all the world — in spite, should it be necessary, even of himself.
About Christmas time there came a discussion between Phineas and his father about money. “I hope you find you get on pretty well,” said the doctor, who thought that he had been liberal.
“It’s a tight fit,” said Phineas — who was less afraid of his father than he had been when he last discussed these things.
“I had hoped it would have been ample,” said the doctor.
“Don’t think for a moment, sir, that I am complaining,” said Phineas, “I know it is much more than I have a right to expect.”
The doctor began to make an inquiry28 within his own breast as to whether his son had a right to expect anything — whether the time had not come in which his son should be earning his own bread. “I suppose,” he said, after a pause, “there is no chance of your doing anything at the bar now?”
“Not immediately. It is almost impossible to combine the two studies together.” Mr Low himself was aware of that, “But you are not to suppose that I have given the profession up.”
“I hope not — after all the money it has cost us.”
“By no means, sir. And all that I am doing now will, I trust, be of assistance to me when I shall come back to work at the law. Of course it is on the cards that I may go into office — and if so, public business will become my profession.”
“And be turned out with the Ministry29!”
“Yes; that is true, sir. I must run my chance. If the worst comes to the worst, I hope I might be able to secure some permanent place. I should think that I can hardly fail to do so. But I trust I may never be driven to want it. I thought, however, that we had settled all this before.” Then Phineas assumed a look of injured innocence30, as though his father was driving him too hard.
“And in the mean time your money has been enough?” said the doctor, after a pause.
“I had intended to ask you to advance me a hundred pounds,” said Phineas. “There were expenses to which I was driven on first entering Parliament.”
“A hundred pounds.”
“If it be inconvenient31, sir, I can do without it.” He had not as yet paid for his gun, or for that velvet32 coat in which he had been shooting, or, most probably, for the knickerbockers. He knew he wanted the hundred pounds badly; but he felt ashamed of himself in asking for it. If he were once in office — though the office were but a sorry junior lordship — he would repay his father instantly.
“You shall have it, of course,” said the doctor; but do not let the necessity for asking for more hundreds come oftener than you can help.” Phineas said that he would not, and then there was no further discourse33 about money. It need hardly be said that he told his father nothing of that bill which he had endorsed34 for Laurence Fitzgibbon.
At last came the time which called him again to London and the glories of London life — to lobbies, and the clubs, and the gossip of men in office, and the chance of promotion35 for himself; to the glare of the gas-lamps, the mock anger of rival debaters, and the prospect36 of the Speaker’s wig37. During the idleness of the recess38 he had resolved at any rate upon this — that a month of the session should not have passed by before he had been seen upon his legs in the House — had been seen and heard. And many a time as he had wandered alone, with his gun, across the bogs39 which lie on the other side of the Shannon from Killaloe, he had practised the sort of address which he would make to the House. He would be short — always short; and he would eschew40 all action and gesticulation; Mr Monk had been very urgent in his instructions to him on that head; but he would be especially careful that no words should escape him which had not in them some purpose. He might be wrong in his purpose, but purpose there should be. He had been twitted more than once at Killaloe with his silence — for it had been conceived by his fellow-townsmen that he had been sent to Parliament on the special ground of his eloquence41. They should twit him no more on his next return. He would speak and would carry the House with him if a human effort might prevail.
So he packed up his things, and started again for London in the beginning of February. “Goodbye, Mary,” he said with his sweetest smile. But on this occasion there was no kiss, and no culling42 of locks. “I know he cannot help it,” said Mary to herself. “ It is his position. But whether it be for good or evil, I will be true to him.”
“I am afraid you are unhappy,” Babara Finn said to her on the next morning.
“No; I am not unhappy — not at all. I have a deal to make me happy and proud. I don’t mean to be a bit unhappy.” Then she turned away and cried heartily43, and Barbara Finn cried with her for company.
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1
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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3
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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8
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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9
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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12
recapitulated
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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15
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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20
grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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21
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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23
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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perjuries
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| n.假誓，伪证，伪证罪( perjury的名词复数 ) | |
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25
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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27
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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28
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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29
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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30
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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31
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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33
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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35
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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38
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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39
bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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40
eschew
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| v.避开，戒绝 | |
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41
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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42
culling
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| n.选择，大批物品中剔出劣质货v.挑选，剔除( cull的现在分词 ) | |
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43
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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