And it seemed to him that his committal startled no one but himself. Could it be that even his dearest friends thought it possible that he had been guilty? When that day came, and he was taken back to Newgate on his last journey there from Bow Street, Lord Chiltern had returned for a while to Harrington Hall, having promised that he would be back in London as soon as his business would permit; but Mr. Low came to him almost immediately to his prison room. “This is a pleasant state of things,” said Phineas, with a forced laugh. But as he laughed he also sobbed, with a low, irrepressible, convulsive movement in his throat.
“Phineas, the time has come in which you must show yourself to be a man.”
“A man! Oh, yes, I can be a man. A murderer you mean. I shall have to be — hung, I suppose.”
“May God, in His mercy, forbid.”
“No; — not in His mercy; in His justice. There can be no need for mercy here, — not even from Heaven. When they take my life may He forgive my sins through the merits of my Saviour. But for this there can be no mercy. Why do you not speak? Do you mean to say that I am guilty?”
“I am sure that you are innocent.”
“And yet, look here. What more can be done to prove it than has been done? That blundering fool will swear my life away.” Then he threw himself on his bed, and gave way to his sobs.
That evening he was alone, — as, indeed, most of his evenings had been spent, and the minutes were minutes of agony to him. The external circumstances of his position were as comfortable as circumstances would allow. He had a room to himself looking out through heavy iron bars into one of the courts of the prison. The chamber was carpeted, and was furnished with bed and chairs and two tables. Books were allowed him as he pleased, and pen and ink. It was May, and no fire was necessary. At certain periods of the day he could walk alone in the court below, — the restriction on such liberty being that at other certain hours the place was wanted for other prisoners. As far as he knew no friend who called was denied to him, though he was by no means certain that his privilege in that respect would not be curtailed now that he had been committed for trial. His food had been plentiful and well cooked, and even luxuries, such as fish and wine and fruit, had been supplied to him. That the fruit had come from the hot-houses of the Duchess of Omnium, and the wine from Mr. Low’s cellar, and the fish and lamb and spring vegetables, the cream and coffee and fresh butter from the unrestricted orders of another friend, that Lord Chiltern had sent him champagne and cigars, and that Lady Chiltern had given directions about the books and stationery, he did not know. But as far as he could be consoled by such comforts, there had been the consolation. If lamb and salad could make him happy he might have enjoyed his sojourn in Newgate. Now, this evening, he was past all enjoyment. It was impossible that he should read. How could a man fix his attention on any book, with a charge of murder against himself affirmed by the deliberate decision of a judge? And he knew himself to be as innocent as the magistrate himself. Every now and then he would rise from his bed, and almost rush across the room as though he would dash his head against the wall. Murder! They really believed that he had deliberately murdered the man; — he, Phineas Finn, who had served his country with repute, who had sat in Parliament, who had prided himself on living with the best of his fellow-creatures, who had been the friend of Mr. Monk and of Lord Cantrip, the trusted intimate of such women as Lady Laura and Lady Chiltern, who had never put his hand to a mean action, or allowed his tongue to speak a mean word! He laughed in his wrath, and then almost howled in his agony. He thought of the young loving wife who had lived with him little more than for one fleeting year, and wondered whether she was looking down upon him from Heaven, and how her spirit would bear this accusation against the man upon whose bosom she had slept, and in whose arms she had gone to her long rest. “They can’t believe it,” he said aloud. “It is impossible. Why should I have murdered him?” And then he remembered an example in Latin from some rule of grammar, and repeated it to himself over and over again. — “No one at an instant, — of a sudden, — becomes most base.” It seemed to him that there was such a want of knowledge of human nature in the supposition that it was possible that he should have committed such a crime. And yet — there he was, committed to take his trial for the murder of Mr. Bonteen.
The days were long, and it was daylight till nearly nine. Indeed the twilight lingered, even through those iron bars, till after nine. He had once asked for candles, but had been told that they could not be allowed him without an attendant in the room, — and he had dispensed with them. He had been treated doubtless with great respect, but nevertheless he had been treated as a prisoner. They hardly denied him anything that he asked, but when he asked for that which they did not choose to grant they would annex conditions which induced him to withdraw his request. He understood their ways now, and did not rebel against them.
On a sudden he heard the key in the door, and the man who attended him entered the room with a candle in his hand. A lady had come to call, and the governor had given permission for her entrance. He would return for the light, — and for the lady, in half an hour. He had said all this before Phineas could see who the lady was. And when he did see the form of her who followed the gaoler, and who stood with hesitating steps behind him in the doorway, he knew her by her sombre solemn raiment, and not by her countenance. She was dressed from head to foot in the deepest weeds of widowhood, and a heavy veil fell from her bonnet over her face. “Lady Laura, is it you?” said Phineas, putting out his hand. Of course it was Lady Laura. While the Duchess of Omnium and Madame Goesler were talking about such a visit, allowing themselves to be deterred by the wisdom of Mr. Low, she had made her way through bolts and bars, and was now with him in his prison.
“Oh, Phineas!” She slowly raised her veil, and stood gazing at him. “Of all my troubles this, — to see you here, — is the heaviest.”
“And of all my consolations to see you here is the greatest.” He should not have so spoken. Could he have thought of things as they were, and have restrained himself, he should not have uttered words to her which were pleasant but not true. There came a gleam of sunshine across her face as she listened to him, and then she threw herself into his arms, and wept upon his shoulder. “I did not expect that you would have found me,” he said.
She took the chair opposite to that on which he usually sat, and then began her tale. Her cousin, Barrington Erle, had brought her there, and was below, waiting for her in the Governor’s house. He had procured an order for her admission that evening, direct from Sir Harry Coldfoot, the Home Secretary, — which, however, as she admitted, had been given under the idea that she and Erle were to see him together. “But I would not let him come with me,” she said. “I could not have spoken to you, had he been here; — could I?”
“It would not have been the same, Lady Laura.” He had thought much of his mode of addressing her on occasions before this, at Dresden and at Portman Square, and had determined that he would always give her her title. Once or twice he had lacked the courage to be so hard to her. Now as she heard the name the gleam of sunshine passed from her altogether. “We hardly expected that we should ever meet in such a place as this?” he said.
“I cannot understand it. They cannot really think you killed him.” He smiled, and shook his head. Then she spoke of her own condition. “You have heard what has happened? You know that I am — a widow?”
“Yes; — I had heard,” And then he smiled again. “You will have understood why I could not come to you, — as I should have done but for this little accident.”
“He died on the day that they arrested you. Was it not strange that such a double blow should fall together? Oswald, no doubt, told you all.”
“He told me of your husband’s death.”
“But not of his will? Perhaps he has not seen you since he heard it.” Lord Chiltern had heard of the will before his last visit to Phineas in Newgate, but had not chosen then to speak of his sister’s wealth.
&nbs
p; “I have heard nothing of Mr. Kennedy’s will.”
“It was made immediately after our marriage, — and he never changed it, though he had so much cause of anger against me.”
“He has not injured you, then, — as regards money.”
“Injured me! No, indeed. I am a rich woman, — very rich. All Loughlinter is my own, — for life. But of what use can it be to me?” He in his present state could tell her of no uses for such a property. “I suppose, Phineas, it cannot be that you are really in danger?”
“In the greatest danger, I fancy.”
“Do you mean that they will say — you are guilty?”
“The magistrates have said so already.”
“But surely that is nothing. If I thought so, I should die. If I believed it, they should never take me out of the prison while you are here. Barrington says that it cannot be. Oswald and Violet are sure that such a thing can never happen. It was that Jew who did it.”
“I cannot say who did it. I did not.”
“You! Oh, Phineas! The world must be mad when any can believe it!”
“But they do believe it?” This, he said, meaning to ask a question as to that outside world.
“We do not. Barrington says — “
“What does Barrington say?”
“That there are some who do; — just a few, who were Mr. Bonteen’s special friends.”
“The police believe it. That is what I cannot understand; — men who ought to be keen-eyed and quick-witted. That magistrate believes it. I saw men in the Court who used to know me well, and I could see that they believed it. Mr. Monk was here yesterday.”
“Does he believe it?”
“I asked him, and he told me — no. But I did not quite trust him as he told me. There are two or three who believe me innocent.”
“Who are they?”
“Low, and Chiltern, and his wife; — and that man Bunce, and his wife. If I escape from this, — if they do not hang me, — I will remember them. And there are two other women who know me well enough not to think me a murderer.”
“Who are they, Phineas?”
“Madame Goesler, and the Duchess of Omnium.”
“Have they been here?” she asked, with jealous eagerness.
“Oh, no. But I hear that it is so, — and I know it. One learns to feel even from hearsay what is in the minds of people.”
“And what do I believe, Phineas? Can you read my thoughts?”
“I know them of old, without reading them now.” Then he put forth his hand and took hers. “Had I murdered him in real truth, you would not have believed it.”
“Because I love you, Phineas.”
Then the key was again heard in the door, and Barrington Erle appeared with the gaolers. The time was up, he said, and he had come to redeem his promise. He spoke cordially to his old friend, and grasped the prisoner’s hand cordially, — but not the less did he believe that there was blood on it, and Phineas knew that such was his belief. It appeared on his arrival that Lady Laura had not at all accomplished the chief object of her visit. She had brought with her various cheques, all drawn by Barrington Erle on his banker, — amounting altogether to many hundreds of pounds, — which it was intended that Phineas should use from time to time for the necessities of his trial. Barrington Erle explained that the money was in fact to be a loan from Lady Laura’s father, and was simply passed through his banker’s account. But Phineas knew that the loan must come from Lady Laura, and he positively refused to touch it. His friend, Mr. Low, was managing all that for him, and he would not embarrass the matter by a fresh account. He was very obstinate, and at last the cheques were taken away in Barrington Erle’s pocket.
“Good-night, old fellow,” said Erle, affectionately. “I’ll see you again before long. May God send you through it all.”
“Good-night, Barrington. It was kind of you to come to me.” Then Lady Laura, watching to see whether her cousin would leave her alone for a moment with the object of her idolatry, paused before she gave him her hand. “Good-night, Lady Laura,” he said.
“Good-night!” Barrington Erle was now just outside the door.
“I shall not forget your coming here to me.”
“How should we, either of us, forget it?”
“Come, Laura,” said Barrington Erle, “we had better make an end of it.”
“But if I should never see him again!”
“Of course you will see him again.”
“When! and where! Oh, God, — if they should murder him!” Then she threw herself into his arms, and covered him with kisses, though her cousin had returned into the room and stood over her as she embraced him.
“Laura,” said he, “you are doing him an injury. How should he support himself if you behave like this! Come away.”
“Oh, my God, if they should kill him!” she exclaimed. But she allowed her cousin to take her in his arms, and Phineas Finn was left alone without having spoken another word to either of them.
CHAPTER LVI
The Meager Family
On the day after the committal a lady, who had got out of a cab at the corner of Northumberland Street, in the Marylebone Road, walked up that very uninviting street, and knocked at a door just opposite to the deadest part of the dead wall of the Marylebone Workhouse. Here lived Mrs. and Miss Meager, — and also on occasions Mr. Meager, who, however, was simply a trouble and annoyance in the world, going about to race-courses, and occasionally, perhaps, to worse places, and being of no slightest use to the two poor hard-worked women, — mother and daughter, — who endeavoured to get their living by letting lodgings. The task was difficult, for it is not everybody who likes to look out upon the dead wall of a workhouse, and they who do are disposed to think that their willingness that way should be considered in the rent. But Mr. Emilius, when the cruelty of his wife’s friends deprived him of the short-lived luxury of his mansion in Lowndes Square, had found in Northumberland Street a congenial retreat, and had for a while trusted to Mrs. and Miss Meager for all his domestic comforts. Mr. Emilius was always a favourite with new friends, and had not as yet had his Northumberland Street gloss rubbed altogether off him when Mr. Bonteen was murdered. As it happened, on that night, or rather early in the day, for Meager had returned to the bosom of his family after a somewhat prolonged absence in the provinces, and therefore the date had become specially remarkable in the Meager family from the double event, — Mr. Meager had declared that unless his wife could supply him with a five-pound note he must cut his throat instantly. His wife and daughter had regretted the necessity, but had declared the alternative to be out of the question. Whereupon Mr. Meager had endeavoured to force the lock of an old bureau with a carving-knife, and there had been some slight personal encounter, — after which he had had some gin and had gone to bed. Mrs. Meager remembered the day very well indeed, and Miss Meager, when the police came the next morning, had accounted for her black eye by a tragical account of a fall she had had against the bed-post in the dark. Up to that period Mr. Emilius had been everything that was sweet and good, — an excellent, eloquent clergyman, who was being ill-treated by his wife’s wealthy relations, who was soft in his manners and civil in his words, and never gave more trouble than was necessary. The period, too, would have been one of comparative prosperity to the Meager ladies, — but for that inopportune return of the head of the family, — as two other lodgers had been inclined to look out upon the dead wall, or else into the cheerful back-yard; which circumstance came to have some bearing upon our story, as Mrs. Meager had been driven by the press of her increased household to let that good-natured Mr. Emilius know that if “he didn’t mind it” the latch-key might be an accommodation on occasions. To give him his due, indeed, he had, when first taking the rooms, offered to give up the key when not intending to be out at night.
After the murder Mr. Emilius had been arrested, and had been kept in durance for a week. Miss Meager had been sure that he was innocent; Mrs. Meager had trusted the policemen, who
evidently thought that the clergyman was guilty. Of the policemen who were concerned on the occasion, it may be said in a general way that they believed that both the gentlemen had committed the murder, — so anxious were they not to be foiled in the attempts at discovery which their duty called upon them to make. Mr. Meager had left the house on the morning of the arrest, having arranged that little matter of the five-pound note by a compromise. When the policeman came for Mr. Emilius, Mr. Meager was gone. For a day or two the lodger’s rooms were kept vacant for the clergyman till Mrs. Meager became quite convinced that he had committed the murder, and then all his things were packed up and placed in the passage. When he was liberated he returned to the house, and expressed unbounded anger at what had been done. He took his two boxes away in a cab, and was seen no more by the ladies of Northumberland Street.
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