The Palliser Novels (398 page)

“That is untrue, Lady Laura.”

“But what difference does it make to me? I shall be sure that you will have bread to eat, and horses to ride, and a seat in Parliament without being forced to earn it by your labour. We shall meet no more, of course.”

“I do not think that you can mean that.”

“I will never receive that woman, nor will I cross the sill of her door. Why should I?”

“Should she become my wife, — that I would have thought might have been the reason why.”

“Surely, Phineas, no man ever understood a woman so ill as you do.”

“Because I would fain hope that I need not quarrel with my oldest friend?”

“Yes, sir; because you think you can do this without quarrelling. How should I speak to her of you; how listen to what she would tell me? Phineas, you have killed me at last.” Why could he not tell her that it was she who had done the wrong when she gave her hand to Robert Kennedy? But he could not tell her, and he was dumb. “And so it’s settled!”

“No; not settled.”

“Psha! I hate your mock modesty! It is settled. You have become far too cautious to risk fortune in such an adventure. Practice has taught you to be perfect. It was to tell me this that you came down here.”

“Partly so.”

“It would have been more generous of you, sir, to have remained away.”

“I did not mean to be ungenerous.”

Then she suddenly turned upon him, throwing her arms round his neck, and burying her face upon his bosom. They were at the moment in the centre of the park, on the grass beneath the trees, and the moon was bright over their heads. He held her to his breast while she sobbed, and then relaxed his hold as she raised herself to look into his face. After a moment she took his hat from his head with one hand, and with the other swept the hair back from his brow. “Oh, Phineas,” she said, “Oh, my darling! My idol that I have worshipped when I should have worshipped my God!”

After that they roamed for nearly an hour backwards and forwards beneath the trees, till at last she became calm and almost reasonable. She acknowledged that she had long expected such a marriage, looking forward to it as a great sorrow. She repeated over and over again her assertion that she could not “know” Madame Goesler as the wife of Phineas, but abstained from further evil words respecting the lady. “It is better that we should be apart,” she said at last. “I feel that it is better. When we are both old, if I should live, we may meet again. I knew that it was coming, and we had better part.” And yet they remained out there, wandering about the park for a long portion of the summer night. She did not reproach him again, nor did she speak much of the future; but she alluded to all the incidents of their past life, showing him that nothing which he had done, no words which he had spoken, had been forgotten by her. “Of course it has been my fault,” she said, as at last she parted with him in the drawing-room. “When I was younger I did not understand how strong the heart can be. I should have known it, and I pay for my ignorance with the penalty of my whole life.” Then he left her, kissing her on both cheeks and on her brow, and went to his bedroom with the understanding that he would start for London on the following morning before she was up.

As he took his ticket Phineas sent his message to the Prime Minister, taking that personage literally at his word. The message was, No. When writing it in the office it seemed to him to be uncourteous, but he found it difficult to add any other words that should make it less so. He supplemented it with a letter on his arrival in London, in which he expressed his regret that certain circumstances of his life which had occurred during the last month or two made him unfit to undertake the duties of the very pleasant office to which Mr. Gresham had kindly offered to appoint him. That done, he remained in town but one night, and then set his face again towards Matching. When he reached that place it was already known that he had refused to accept Mr. Gresham’s offer, and he was met at once with regrets and condolements. “I am sorry that it must be so,” said the Duke, — who was sorry, for he liked the man, but who said not a word more upon the subject. “You are still young, and will have further opportunities,” said Lord Cantrip, “but I wish that you could have consented to come back to your old chair.” “I hope that at any rate we shall not have you against us,” said Sir Harry Coldfoot. Among themselves they declared one to another that he had been so completely upset by his imprisonment and subsequent trial as to be unable to undertake the work proposed to him. “It is not a very nice thing, you know, to be accused of murder,” said Sir Gregory, “and to pass a month or two under the full conviction that you are going to be hung. He’ll come right again some day. I only hope it may not be too late.”

“So you have decided for freedom?” said Madame Goesler to him that evening, — the evening of the day on which he had returned.

“Yes, indeed.”

“I have nothing to say against your decision now. No doubt your feelings have prompted you right.”

“Now that it is done, of course I am full of regrets,” said Phineas.

“That is simple human nature, I suppose.”

“Simple enough; and the worst of it is that I cannot quite explain even to myself why I have done it. Every friend I had in the world told me that I was wrong, and yet I could not help myself. The thing was offered to me, not because I was thought to be fit for it, but because I had become wonderful by being brought near to a violent death! I remember once, when I was a child, having a rocking-horse given to me because I had fallen from the top of the house to the bottom without breaking my neck. The rocking-horse was very well then, but I don’t care now to have one bestowed upon me for any such reason.”

“Still, if the rocking-horse is in itself a good rocking-horse — “

“But it isn’t.”

“I don’t mean to say a word against your decision.”

“It isn’t good. It is one of those toys which look to be so very desirable in the shop-windows, but which give no satisfaction when they are brought home. I’ll tell you what occurred the other day. The circumstances happen to be known to me, though I cannot tell you my authority. My dear old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon, in the performance of his official duties, had to give an opinion on a matter affecting an expenditure of some thirty or forty thousand pounds of public money. I don’t think that Laurence has generally a very strong bias this way or that on such questions, but in the case in question he took upon himself to be very decided. He wrote, or got some one to write, a report proving that the service of the country imperatively demanded that the money should be spent, and in doing so was strictly within his duty.”

“I am glad to hear that he can be so energetic.”

“The Chancellor of the Exchequer got hold of the matter, and told Fitzgibbon that the thing couldn’t be done.”

“That was all right and constitutional, I suppose.”

“Quite right and constitutional. But something had to be said about it in the House, and Laurence, with all his usual fluency and beautiful Irish brogue, got up and explained that the money would be absolutely thrown away if expended on a purpose so futile as that proposed. I am assured that the great capacity which he has thus shown for official work and official life will cover a multitude of sins.”

“You would hardly have taken Mr. Fitzgibbon as your model statesman.”

“Certainly not; — and if the story affected him only it would hardly be worth telling. But the point of it lies in this; — that he disgusted no one by what he did. The Chancellor of the Exchequer thinks him a very convenient man to have about him, and Mr. Gresham feels the comfort of possessing tools so pliable.”

“Do you think that public life then is altogether a mistake, Mr. Finn?”

“For a poor man I think that it is, in this country. A man of fortune may be independent; and because he has the power of independence those who are higher than he will not expect him to be subservient. A man who takes to parliamentary office for a living may live by it, but he will have but a dog’s life of it.”

“If I were you, Mr. Finn, I certainly would not choose a dog’s life.”

He said not a word to her on that occasion about herself, having made up his mind that a certain period of the following day should be chosen for the purpose, and he had hardly yet arranged in his mind what words he would use on that occasion. It seemed to him that there would be so much to be said that he must settle beforehand some order of saying it. It was not as though he had merely to tell her of his love. There had been talk of love between them before, on which occasion he had been compelled to tell her that he could not accept that which she offered to him. It would be impossible, he knew, not to refer to that former conversation. And then he had to tell her that he, now coming to her as a suitor and knowing her to be a very rich woman, was himself all but penniless. He was sure, or almost sure, that she was as well aware of this fact as he was himself; but, nevertheless, it was necessary that he should tell her of it, — and if possible so tell her as to force her to believe him when he assured her that he asked her to be his wife, not because she was rich, but because he loved her. It was impossible that all this should be said as they sat side by side in the drawing-room with a crowd of people almost within hearing, and Madame Goesler had just been called upon to play, which she always did directly she was asked. He was invited to make up a rubber, but he could not bring himself to care for cards at the present moment. So he sat apart and listened to the music.

If all things went right with him to-morrow that music, — or the musician who made it, — would be his own for the rest of his life. Was he justified in expecting that she would give him so much? Of her great regard for him as a friend he had no doubt. She had shown it in various ways, and after a fashion that had made it known to all the world. But so had Lady Laura regarded him when he first told her of his love at Loughlinter. She had been his dearest friend, but she had declined to become his wife; and it had been partly so with Violet Effingham, whose friendship to him had been so sweet as to make him for a while almost think that there was more than friendship. Marie Goesler had certainly once loved him; — but so had he once loved Laura Standish. He had been wretched for a while because Lady Laura had refused him. His feelings now were altogether changed, and why should not the feelings of Madame Goesler have undergone a similar change? There was no doubt of her friendship; but then neither was there any doubt of his for Lady Laura. And in spite of her friendship, would not revenge be dear to her, — revenge of that nature which a slighted woman must always desire? He had rejected her, and would it not be fair also that he should be rejected? “I suppose you’ll be in your own room before lunch to-morrow,” he said to her as they separated for the night. It had come to pass from the constancy of her visits to Matching in the old Duke’s time, that a certain small morning-room had been devoted to her, and this was still supposed to be her property, — so that she was not driven to herd with the public or to remain in her bedroom during all the hours of the morning. “Yes,” she said; “I shall go out immediately after breakfast, but I shall soon be driven in by the heat, and then I shall be there till lunch. The Duchess always comes about half-past twelve, to complain generally of the guests.” She answered him quite at her ease, making arrangement for privacy if he should desire it, but doing so as though she thought that he wanted to talk to her about his trial, or about politics, or the place he had just refused. Surely she would hardly have answered him after such a fashion had she suspected that he intended to ask her to be his wife.

At a little before noon the next morning he knocked at her door, and was told to enter. “I didn’t go out after all,” she said. “I hadn’t courage to face the sun.”

“I saw that you were not in the garden.”

“If I could have found you I would have told you that I should be here all the morning. I might have sent you a message, only — only I didn’t.”

“I have come — “

“I know why you have come.”

“I doubt that. I have come to tell you that I love you.”

“Oh Phineas; — at last, at last!” And in a moment she was in his arms.

It seemed to him that from that moment all the explanations, and all the statements, and most of the assurances were made by her and not by him. After this first embrace he found himself seated beside her, holding her hand. “I do not know that I am right,” said he.

“Why not right?”

“Because you are rich and I have nothing.”

“If you ever remind me of that again I will strike you,” she said, raising up her little fist and bringing it down with gentle pressure on his shoulder. “Between you and me there must be nothing more about that. It must be an even partnership. There must be ever so much about money, and you’ll have to go into dreadful details, and make journeys to Vienna to see that the houses don’t tumble down; — but there must be no question between you and me of whence it came.”

“You will not think that I have to come to you for that?”

“Have you ever known me to have a low opinion of myself? Is it probable that I shall account myself to be personally so mean and of so little value as to imagine that you cannot love me? I know you love me. But Phineas, I have not been sure till very lately that you would ever tell me so. As for me — ! Oh, heavens! when I think of it.”

“Tell me that you love me now.”

“I think I have said so plainly enough. I have never ceased to love you since I first knew you well enough for love. And I’ll tell you more, — though perhaps I shall say what you will think condemns me; — you are the only man I ever loved. My husband was very good to me, — and I was, I think, good to him. But he was many years my senior, and I cannot say I loved him, — as I do you.” Then she turned to him, and put her head on his shoulder. “And I loved the old Duke, too, after a fashion. But it was a different thing from this. I will tell you something about him some day that I have never yet told to a human being.”