The Mousetrap
Phineas had certainly no desire to make love by an ambassador,--at
second-hand. He had given no commission to Lady Laura, and was, as
the reader is aware, quite ignorant of what was being done and said
on his behalf. He had asked no more from Lady Laura than an
opportunity of speaking for himself, and that he had asked almost
with a conviction that by so asking he would turn his friend into an
enemy. He had read but little of the workings of Lady Laura’s heart
towards himself, and had no idea of the assistance she was anxious to
give him. She had never told him that she was willing to sacrifice
her brother on his behalf, and, of course, had not told him that she
was willing also to sacrifice herself. Nor, when she wrote to him one
June morning and told him that Violet would be found in Portman
Square, alone, that afternoon,--naming an hour, and explaining that
Miss Effingham would be there to meet herself and her father, but
that at such an hour she would be certainly alone,--did he even then
know how much she was prepared to do for him. The short note was
signed “L.,” and then there came a long postscript. “Ask for me,” she
said in a postscript. “I shall be there later, and I have told them
to bid you wait. I can give you no hope of success, but if you choose
to try,--you can do so. If you do not come, I shall know that you
have changed your mind. I shall not think the worse of you, and your
secret will be safe with me. I do that which you have asked me to
do,--simply because you have asked it. Burn this at once,--because I
ask it.” Phineas destroyed the note, tearing it into atoms, the
moment that he had read it and re-read it. Of course he would go to
Portman Square at the hour named. Of course he would take his chance.
He was not buoyed up by much of hope;--but even though there were no
hope, he would take his chance.
When Lord Brentford had first told Phineas of his promotion, he had
also asked the new Lord of the Treasury to make a certain
communication on his behalf to his son. This Phineas had found
himself obliged to promise to do;--and he had done it. The letter had
been difficult enough to write,--but he had written it. After having
made the promise, he had found himself bound to keep it.
“Dear Lord Chiltern,” he had commenced, “I will not think that there
was anything in our late encounter to prevent my so addressing you. I
now write at the instance of your father, who has heard nothing of
our little affair.” Then he explained at length Lord Brentford’s
wishes as he understood them. “Pray come home,” he said, finishing
his letter. “Touching V. E., I feel that I am bound to tell you that
I still mean to try my fortune, but that I have no ground for hoping
that my fortune will be good. Since the day on the sands, I have
never met her but in society. I know you will be glad to hear that my
wound was nothing; and I think you will be glad to hear that I have
got my foot on to the ladder of promotion.--Yours always,
“PHINEAS FINN.”
Now he had to try his fortune,--that fortune of which he had told
Lord Chiltern that he had no reason for hoping that it would be good.
He went direct from his office at the Treasury to Portman Square,
resolving that he would take no trouble as to his dress, simply
washing his hands and brushing his hair as though he were going down
to the House, and he knocked at the Earl’s door exactly at the hour
named by Lady Laura.
“Miss Effingham,” he said, “I am so glad to find you alone.”
“Yes,” she said, laughing. “I am alone,--a poor unprotected female.
But I fear nothing. I have strong reason for believing that Lord
Brentford is somewhere about. And Pomfret the butler, who has known
me since I was a baby, is a host in himself.”
“With such allies you can have nothing to fear,” he replied,
attempting to carry on her little jest.
“Nor even without them, Mr. Finn. We unprotected females in these
days are so self-reliant that our natural protectors fall off from
us, finding themselves to be no longer wanted. Now with you,--what
can I fear?”
“Nothing,--as I hope.”
“There used to be a time, and that not so long ago either, when young
gentlemen and ladies were thought to be very dangerous to each other
if they were left alone. But propriety is less rampant now, and upon
the whole virtue and morals, with discretion and all that kind of
thing, have been the gainers. Don’t you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“All the same, but I don’t like to be caught in a trap, Mr. Finn.”
“In a trap?”
“Yes;--in a trap. Is there no trap here? If you will say so, I will
acknowledge myself to be a dolt, and will beg your pardon.”
“I hardly know what you call a trap.”
“You were told that I was here?”
He paused a moment before he replied. “Yes, I was told.”
“I call that a trap.”
“Am I to blame?”
“I don’t say that you set it,--but you use it.”
“Miss Effingham, of course I have used it. You must know,--I think
you must know that I have that to say to you which has made me long
for such an opportunity as this.”
“And therefore you have called in the assistance of your friend.”
“It is true.”
“In such matters you should never talk to any one, Mr. Finn. If you
cannot fight your own battle, no one can fight it for you.”
“Miss Effingham, do you remember our ride at Saulsby?”
“Very well;--as if it were yesterday.”
“And do you remember that I asked you a question which you have never
answered?”
“I did answer it,--as well as I knew how, so that I might tell you a
truth without hurting you.”
“It was necessary,--is necessary that I should be hurt sorely, or
made perfectly happy. Violet Effingham, I have come to you to ask you
to be my wife;--to tell you that I love you, and to ask for your love
in return. Whatever may be my fate, the question must be asked, and
an answer must be given. I have not hoped that you should tell me
that you loved me--”
“For what then have you hoped?”
“For not much, indeed;--but if for anything, then for some chance
that you might tell me so hereafter.”
“If I loved you, I would tell you so now,--instantly. I give you my
word of that.”
“Can you never love me?”
“What is a woman to answer to such a question? No;--I believe never.
I do not think I shall ever wish you to be my husband. You ask me to
be plain, and I must be plain.”
“Is it because--?” He paused, hardly knowing what the question was
which he proposed to himself to ask.
“It is for no because,--for no cause except that simple one which
should make any girl refuse any man whom she did not love. Mr.
Finn, I could say pleasant things to you on any other subject than
this,--because I like you.”
“I know that I have nothing to justify my suit.”
“You have everything to justify it;--at least I am bound to presume
that you have. If you love me,--you are justified.”
“You know that I love you.”
“I am sorry that it should ever have been so,--very sorry. I can only
hope that I have not been in fault.”
“Will you try to love me?”
“No;--why should I try? If any trying were necessary, I would try
rather not to love you. Why should I try to do that which would
displease everybody belonging to me? For yourself, I admit your right
to address me,--and tell you frankly that it would not be in vain, if
I loved you. But I tell you as frankly that such a marriage would not
please those whom I am bound to try to please.”
He paused a moment before he spoke further. “I shall wait,” he said,
“and come again.”
“What am I to say to that? Do not tease me, so that I be driven to
treat you with lack of courtesy. Lady Laura is so much attached to
you, and Mr. Kennedy, and Lord Brentford,--and indeed I may say,
I myself also, that I trust there may be nothing to mar our good
fellowship. Come, Mr. Finn,--say that you will take an answer, and
I will give you my hand.”
“Give it me,” said he. She gave him her hand, and he put it up to his
lips and pressed it. “I will wait and come again,” he said. “I will
assuredly come again.” Then he turned from her and went out of the
house. At the corner of the square he saw Lady Laura’s carriage, but
did not stop to speak to her. And she also saw him.
“So you have had a visitor here,” said Lady Laura to Violet.
“Yes;--I have been caught in the trap.”
“Poor mouse! And has the cat made a meal of you?”
“I fancy he has, after his fashion. There be cats that eat their mice
without playing,--and cats that play with their mice, and then eat
them; and cats again which only play with their mice, and don’t care
to eat them. Mr. Finn is a cat of the latter kind, and has had his
afternoon’s diversion.”
“You wrong him there.”
“I think not, Laura. I do not mean to say that he would not have
liked me to accept him. But, if I can see inside his bosom, such a
little job as that he has now done will be looked back upon as one of
the past pleasures of his life;--not as a pain.”