KÖNIGSTEIN.
Phineas Finn and Lady Laura Kennedy sat together discussing the
affairs of the past till the servant told them that "My Lord" was in
the next room, and ready to receive Mr. Finn. "You will find him much
altered," said Lady Laura, "even more than I am."
"I do not find you altered at all."
"Yes, you do,--in appearance. I am a middle-aged woman, and conscious
that I may use my privileges as such. But he has become quite an old
man,--not in health so much as in manner. But he will be very glad to
see you." So saying she led him into a room, in which he found the
Earl seated near the fireplace, and wrapped in furs. He got up to
receive his guest, and Phineas saw at once that during the two years
of his exile from England Lord Brentford had passed from manhood to
senility. He almost tottered as he came forward, and he wrapped his
coat around him with that air of studious self-preservation which
belongs only to the infirm.
"It is very good of you to come and see me, Mr. Finn," he said.
"Don't call him Mr. Finn, Papa. I call him Phineas."
"Well, yes; that's all right, I dare say. It's a terrible long
journey from London, isn't it, Mr. Finn?"
"Too long to be pleasant, my lord."
"Pleasant! Oh, dear. There's no pleasantness about it. And so they've
got an autumn session, have they? That's always a very stupid thing
to do, unless they want money."
"But there is a money bill which must be passed. That's Mr. Daubeny's
excuse."
"Ah, if they've a money bill of course it's all right. So you're in
Parliament again?"
"I'm sorry to say I'm not." Then Lady Laura explained to her father,
probably for the third or fourth time, exactly what was their guest's
position. "Oh, a scrutiny. We didn't use to have any scrutinies at
Loughton, did we? Ah, me; well, everything seems to be going to
the dogs. I'm told they're attacking the Church now." Lady Laura
glanced at Phineas; but neither of them said a word. "I don't
quite understand it; but they tell me that the Tories are going to
disestablish the Church. I'm very glad I'm out of it all. Things
have come to such a pass that I don't see how a gentleman is to hold
office now-a-days. Have you seen Chiltern lately?"
After a while, when Phineas had told the Earl all that there was
to tell of his son and his grandson, and all of politics and of
Parliament, Lady Laura suddenly interrupted them. "You knew, Papa,
that he was to see Mr. Kennedy. He has been to Loughlinter, and has
seen him."
"Oh, indeed!"
"He is quite assured that I could not with wisdom return to live with
my husband."
"It is a very grave decision to make," said the Earl.
"But he has no doubt about it," continued Lady Laura.
"Not a shadow of doubt," said Phineas. "I will not say that Mr.
Kennedy is mad; but the condition of his mind is such in regard to
Lady Laura that I do not think she could live with him in safety. He
is crazed about religion."
"Dear, dear, dear," exclaimed the Earl.
"The gloom of his house is insupportable. And he does not pretend
that he desires her to return that he and she may be happy together."
"What for then?"
"That we might be unhappy together," said Lady Laura.
"He repudiates all belief in happiness. He wishes her to return to
him chiefly because it is right that a man and wife should live
together."
"So it is," said the Earl.
"But not to the utter wretchedness of both of them," said Lady Laura.
"He says," and she pointed to Phineas, "that were I there he would
renew his accusation against me. He has not told me all. Perhaps he
cannot tell me all. But I certainly will not return to Loughlinter."
"Very well, my dear."
"It is not very well, Papa; but, nevertheless, I will not return to
Loughlinter. What I suffered there neither of you can understand."
That afternoon Phineas went out alone to the galleries, but the next
day she accompanied him, and showed him whatever of glory the town
had to offer in its winter dress. They stood together before great
masters, and together examined small gems. And then from day to
day they were always in each other's company. He had promised to
stay a month, and during that time he was petted and comforted
to his heart's content. Lady Laura would have taken him into the
Saxon Switzerland, in spite of the inclemency of the weather and her
father's rebukes, had he not declared vehemently that he was happier
remaining in the town. But she did succeed in carrying him off to the
fortress of Königstein; and there as they wandered along the fortress
constructed on that wonderful rock there occurred between them a
conversation which he never forgot, and which it would not have been
easy to forget. His own prospects had of course been frequently
discussed. He had told her everything, down to the exact amount of
money which he had to support him till he should again be enabled to
earn an income, and had received assurances from her that everything
would be just as it should be after a lapse of a few months. The
Liberals would, as a matter of course, come in, and equally as a
matter of course, Phineas would be in office. She spoke of this with
such certainty that she almost convinced him. Having tempted him away
from the safety of permanent income, the party could not do less than
provide for him. If he could only secure a seat he would be safe; and
it seemed that Tankerville would be a certain seat. This certainty he
would not admit; but, nevertheless, he was comforted by his friend.
When you have done the rashest thing in the world it is very pleasant
to be told that no man of spirit could have acted otherwise. It was a
matter of course that he should return to public life,--so said Lady
Laura;--and doubly a matter of course when he found himself a widower
without a child. "Whether it be a bad life or a good life," said Lady
Laura, "you and I understand equally well that no other life is worth
having after it. We are like the actors, who cannot bear to be away
from the gaslights when once they have lived amidst their glare." As
she said this they were leaning together over one of the parapets of
the great fortress, and the sadness of the words struck him as they
bore upon herself. She also had lived amidst the gaslights, and now
she was self-banished into absolute obscurity. "You could not have
been content with your life in Dublin," she said.
"Are you content with your life in Dresden?"
"Certainly not. We all like exercise; but the man who has had his
leg cut off can't walk. Some can walk with safety; others only with
a certain peril; and others cannot at all. You are in the second
position, but I am in the last."
"I do not see why you should not return."
"And if I did what would come of it? In place of the seclusion
of Dresden, there would be the seclusion of Portman Square or of
Saulsby. Who would care to have me at their houses, or to come to
mine? You know what a hazardous, chancy, short-lived thing is the
fashion of a woman. With wealth, and wit, and social charm, and
impudence, she may preserve it for some years, but when she has once
lost it she can never recover it. I am as much lost to the people who
did know me in London as though I had been buried for a century. A
man makes himself really useful, but a woman can never do that."
"All those general rules mean nothing," said Phineas. "I should try
it."
"No, Phineas. I know better than that. It would only be
disappointment. I hardly think that after all you ever did understand
when it was that I broke down utterly and marred my fortunes for
ever."
"I know the day that did it."
"When I accepted him?"
"Of course it was. I know that, and so do you. There need be no
secret between us."
"There need be no secret between us certainly,--and on my part there
shall be none. On my part there has been none."
"Nor on mine."
"There has been nothing for you to tell,--since you blurted out your
short story of love that day over the waterfall, when I tried so hard
to stop you."
"How was I to be stopped then?"
"No; you were too simple. You came there with but one idea, and you
could not change it on the spur of the moment. When I told you that
I was engaged you could not swallow back the words that were not yet
spoken. Ah, how well I remember it. But you are wrong, Phineas. It
was not my engagement or my marriage that has made the world a blank
for me." A feeling came upon him which half-choked him, so that he
could ask her no further question. "You know that, Phineas."
"It was your marriage," he said, gruffly.
"It was, and has been, and still will be my strong, unalterable,
unquenchable love for you. How could I behave to that other man with
even seeming tenderness when my mind was always thinking of you, when
my heart was always fixed upon you? But you have been so simple, so
little given to vanity,"--she leaned upon his arm as she spoke,--"so
pure and so manly, that you have not believed this, even when I told
you. Has it not been so?"
"I do not wish to believe it now."
"But you do believe it? You must and shall believe it. I ask for
nothing in return. As my God is my judge, if I thought it possible
that your heart should be to me as mine is to you, I could have
put a pistol to my ear sooner than speak as I have spoken." Though
she paused for some word from him he could not utter a word. He
remembered many things, but even to her in his present mood he could
not allude to them;--how he had kissed her at the Falls, how she had
bade him not come back to the house because his presence to her was
insupportable; how she had again encouraged him to come, and had
then forbidden him to accept even an invitation to dinner from her
husband. And he remembered too the fierceness of her anger to him
when he told her of his love for Violet Effingham. "I must insist
upon it," she continued, "that you shall take me now as I really
am,--as your dearest friend, your sister, your mother, if you will.
I know what I am. Were my husband not still living it would be the
same. I should never under any circumstances marry again. I have
passed the period of a woman's life when as a woman she is loved;
but I have not outlived the power of loving. I shall fret about you,
Phineas, like an old hen after her one chick; and though you turn
out to be a duck, and get away into waters where I cannot follow
you, I shall go cackling round the pond, and always have my eye upon
you." He was holding her now by the hand, but he could not speak
for the tears were trickling down his cheeks. "When I was young,"
she continued, "I did not credit myself with capacity for so much
passion. I told myself that love after all should be a servant and
not a master, and I married my husband fully intending to do my duty
to him. Now we see what has come of it."
"It has been his fault; not yours," said Phineas.
"It was my fault,--mine; for I never loved him. Had you not told me
what manner of man he was before? And I had believed you, though I
denied it. And I knew when I went to Loughlinter that it was you whom
I loved. And I knew too,--I almost knew that you would ask me to be
your wife were not that other thing settled first. And I declared to
myself that, in spite of both our hearts, it should not be so. I had
no money then,--nor had you."
"I would have worked for you."
"Ah, yes; but you must not reproach me now, Phineas. I never deserted
you as regarded your interests, though what little love you had
for me was short-lived indeed. Nay; you are not accused, and shall
not excuse yourself. You were right,--always right. When you had
failed to win one woman your heart with a true natural spring went to
another. And so entire had been the cure, that you went to the first
woman with the tale of your love for the second."
"To whom was I to go but to a friend?"
"You did come to a friend, and though I could not drive out of my
heart the demon of jealousy, though I was cut to the very bone, I
would have helped you had help been possible. Though it had been the
fixed purpose of my life that Violet and Oswald should be man and
wife, I would have helped you because that other purpose of serving
you in all things had become more fixed. But it was to no good end
that I sang your praises. Violet Effingham was not the girl to marry
this man or that at the bidding of any one;--was she?"
"No, indeed."
"It is of no use now talking of it; is it? But I want you to
understand me from the beginning;--to understand all that was evil,
and anything that was good. Since first I found that you were to me
the dearest of human beings I have never once been untrue to your
interests, though I have been unable not to be angry with you. Then
came that wonderful episode in which you saved my husband's life."
"Not his life."
"Was it not singular that it should come from your hand? It seemed
like Fate. I tried to use the accident, to make his friendship for
you as thorough as my own. And then I was obliged to separate you,
because,--because, after all I was so mere a woman that I could not
bear to have you near me. I can bear it now."
"Dear Laura!"
"Yes; as your sister. I think you cannot but love me a little when
you know how entirely I am devoted to you. I can bear to have you
near me now and think of you only as the hen thinks of her duckling.
For a moment you are out of the pond, and I have gathered you under
my wing. You understand?"
"I know that I am unworthy of what you say of me."
"Worth has nothing to do with it,--has no bearing on it. I do not say
that you are more worthy than all whom I have known. But when did
worth create love? What I want is that you should believe me, and
know that there is one bound to you who will never be unbound, one
whom you can trust in all things,--one to whom you can confess that
you have been wrong if you go wrong, and yet be sure that you will
not lessen her regard. And with this feeling you must pretend to
nothing more than friendship. You will love again, of course."
"Oh, no."
"Of course you will. I tried to blaze into power by a marriage, and
I failed,--because I was a woman. A woman should marry only for
love. You will do it yet, and will not fail. You may remember this
too,--that I shall never be jealous again. You may tell me everything
with safety. You will tell me everything?"
"If there be anything to tell, I will."
"I will never stand between you and your wife,--though I would fain
hope that she should know how true a friend I am. Now we have walked
here till it is dark, and the sentry will think we are taking plans
of the place. Are you cold?"
"I have not thought about the cold."
"Nor have I. We will go down to the inn and warm ourselves before the
train comes. I wonder why I should have brought you here to tell you
my story. Oh, Phineas." Then she threw herself into his arms, and he
pressed her to his heart, and kissed first her forehead and then her
lips. "It shall never be so again," she said. "I will kill it out
of my heart even though I should crucify my body. But it is not my
love that I will kill. When you are happy I will be happy. When you
prosper I will prosper. When you fail I will fail. When you rise,--as
you will rise,--I will rise with you. But I will never again feel the
pressure of your arm round my waist. Here is the gate, and the old
guide. So, my friend, you see that we are not lost." Then they walked
down the very steep hill to the little town below the fortress, and
there they remained till the evening train came from Prague, and took
them back to Dresden.
Two days after this was the day fixed for Finn's departure. On
the intermediate day the Earl begged for a few minutes' private
conversation with him, and the two were closeted together for an
hour. The Earl, in truth, had little or nothing to say. Things had
so gone with him that he had hardly a will of his own left, and did
simply that which his daughter directed him to do. He pretended to
consult Phineas as to the expediency of his returning to Saulsby.
Did Phineas think that his return would be of any use to the party?
Phineas knew very well that the party would not recognise the
difference whether the Earl lived at Dresden or in London. When a
man has come to the end of his influence as the Earl had done he is
as much a nothing in politics as though he had never risen above
that quantity. The Earl had never risen very high, and even Phineas,
with all his desire to be civil, could not say that the Earl's
presence would materially serve the interests of the Liberal party.
He made what most civil excuses he could, and suggested that if Lord
Brentford should choose to return, Lady Laura would very willingly
remain at Dresden alone. "But why shouldn't she come too?" asked the
Earl. And then, with the tardiness of old age, he proposed his little
plan. "Why should she not make an attempt to live once more with her
husband?"
"She never will," said Phineas.
"But think how much she loses," said the Earl.
"I am quite sure she never will. And I am quite sure that she ought
not to do so. The marriage was a misfortune. As it is they are better
apart." After that the Earl did not dare to say another word about
his daughter; but discussed his son's affairs. Did not Phineas think
that Chiltern might now be induced to go into Parliament? "Nothing
would make him do so," said Phineas.
"But he might farm?"
"You see he has his hands full."
"But other men keep hounds and farm too," said the Earl.
"But Chiltern is not like other men. He gives his whole mind to it,
and finds full employment. And then he is quite happy, and so is she.
What more can you want for him? Everybody respects him."
"That goes a very great way," said the Earl. Then he thanked Phineas
cordially, and felt that now as ever he had done his duty by his
family.
There was no renewal of the passionate conversation which had taken
place on the ramparts, but much of tenderness and of sympathy arose
from it. Lady Laura took upon herself the tone and manners of an
elder sister,--of a sister very much older than her brother,--and
Phineas submitted to them not only gracefully but with delight to
himself. He had not thanked her for her love when she expressed it,
and he did not do so afterwards. But he accepted it, and bowed to it,
and recognised it as constituting one of the future laws of his life.
He was to do nothing of importance without her knowledge, and he
was to be at her command should she at any time want assistance in
England. "I suppose I shall come back some day," she said, as they
were sitting together late on the evening before his departure.
"I cannot understand why you should not do so now. Your father wishes
it."
"He thinks he does; but were he told that he was to go to-morrow, or
next summer, it would fret him. I am assured that Mr. Kennedy could
demand my return,--by law."
"He could not enforce it."
"He would attempt it. I will not go back until he consents to my
living apart from him. And, to tell the truth, I am better here for
awhile. They say that the sick animals always creep somewhere under
cover. I am a sick animal, and now that I have crept here I will
remain till I am stronger. How terribly anxious you must be about
Tankerville!"
"I am anxious."
"You will telegraph to me at once? You will be sure to do that?"
"Of course I will, the moment I know my fate."
"And if it goes against you?"
"Ah,--what then?"
"I shall at once write to Barrington Erle. I don't suppose he would
do much now for his poor cousin, but he can at any rate say what can
be done. I should bid you come here,--only that stupid people would
say that you were my lover. I should not mind, only that he would
hear it, and I am bound to save him from annoyance. Would you not go
down to Oswald again?"
"With what object?"
"Because anything will be better than returning to Ireland. Why not
go down and look after Saulsby? It would be a home, and you need not
tie yourself to it. I will speak to Papa about that. But you will get
the seat."
"I think I shall," said Phineas.
"Do;--pray do! If I could only get hold of that judge by the ears!
Do you know what time it is? It is twelve, and your train starts at
eight." Then he arose to bid her adieu. "No," she said; "I shall see
you off."
"Indeed you will not. It will be almost night when I leave this, and
the frost is like iron."
"Neither the night nor the frost will kill me. Do you think I will
not give you your last breakfast? God bless you, dear."
And on the following morning she did give him his breakfast by
candle-light, and went down with him to the station. The morning was
black, and the frost was, as he had said, as hard as iron, but she
was thoroughly good-humoured, and apparently happy. "It has been so
much to me to have you here, that I might tell you everything," she
said. "You will understand me now."
"I understand, but I know not how to believe," he said.
"You do believe. You would be worse than a Jew if you did not believe
me. But you understand also. I want you to marry, and you must tell
her all the truth. If I can I will love her almost as much as I do
you. And if I live to see them, I will love your children as dearly
as I do you. Your children shall be my children;--or at least one of
them shall be mine. You will tell me when it is to be."
"If I ever intend such a thing, I will tell you."
"Now, good-bye. I shall stand back there till the train starts, but
do not you notice me. God bless you, Phineas." She held his hand
tight within her own for some seconds, and looked into his face with
an unutterable love. Then she drew down her veil, and went and stood
apart till the train had left the platform.
"He has gone, Papa," Lady Laura said, as she stood afterwards by her
father's bedside.
"Has he? Yes; I know he was to go, of course. I was very glad to see
him, Laura."
"So was I, Papa;--very glad indeed. Whatever happens to him, we must
never lose sight of him again."
"We shall hear of him, of course, if he is in the House."
"Whether he is in the House or out of it we must hear of him. While
we have aught he must never want." The Earl stared at his daughter.
The Earl was a man of large possessions, and did not as yet
understand that he was to be called upon to share them with Phineas
Finn. "I know, Papa, you will never think ill of me."
"Never, my dear."
"I have sworn that I will be a sister to that man, and I will keep my
oath."
"I know you are a very good sister to Chiltern," said the Earl. Lady
Laura had at one time appropriated her whole fortune, which had been
large, to the payment of her brother's debts. The money had been
returned, and had gone to her husband. Lord Brentford now supposed
that she intended at some future time to pay the debts of Phineas
Finn.