AT LAST--AT LAST.
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."
"Tell me now."
"No; not till I am your wife. You must trust me. But I will tell
you," she said, "lest you should be miserable. He asked me to be his
wife."
"The old Duke?"
"Yes, indeed, and I refused to be a--duchess. Lady Glencora knew it
all, and, just at the time I was breaking my heart,--like a fool, for
you! Yes, for you! But I got over it, and am not broken-hearted a
bit. Oh, Phineas, I am so happy now."
Exactly at the time she had mentioned on the previous evening, at
half-past twelve, the door was opened, and the Duchess entered the
room. "Oh dear," she exclaimed, "perhaps I am in the way; perhaps I
am interrupting secrets."
"No, Duchess."
"Shall I retire? I will at once if there be anything confidential
going on."
"It has gone on already, and been completed," said Madame Goesler
rising from her seat. "It is only a trifle. Mr. Finn has asked me to
be his wife."
"Well?"
"I couldn't refuse Mr. Finn a little thing like that."
"I should think not, after going all the way to Prague to find a
latch-key! I congratulate you, Mr. Finn, with all my heart."
"Thanks, Duchess."
"And when is it to be?"
"We have not thought about that yet, Mr. Finn,--have we?" said Madame
Goesler.
"Adelaide Palliser is going to be married from here some time in the
autumn," said the Duchess, "and you two had better take advantage of
the occasion." This plan, however, was considered as being too rapid
and rash. Marriage is a very serious affair, and many things would
require arrangement. A lady with the wealth which belonged to Madame
Goesler cannot bestow herself off-hand as may a curate's daughter,
let her be ever so willing to give her money as well as herself. It
was impossible that a day should be fixed quite at once; but the
Duchess was allowed to understand that the affair might be mentioned.
Before dinner on that day every one of the guests at Matching Priory
knew that the man who had refused to be made Under-Secretary of State
had been accepted by that possessor of fabulous wealth who was well
known to the world as Madame Goesler of Park Lane. "I am very glad
that you did not take office under Mr. Gresham," she said to him when
they first met each other again in London. "Of course when I was
advising you I could not be sure that this would happen. Now you can
bide your time, and if the opportunity offers you can go to work
under better auspices."