The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  The necessity of liberating poor Phineas from the horrors of his position was too urgent to allow of much attention being given at the moment to this protest. “Mr. Finn,” said the judge, addressing the poor broken wretch, “you have been acquitted of the odious and abominable charge brought against you, with the concurrence, I am sure, not only of those who have heard this trial, but of all your countrymen and countrywomen. I need not say that you will leave that dock with no stain on your character. It has, I hope, been some consolation to you in your misfortune to hear the terms in which you have been spoken of by such friends as they who came here to give their testimony on your behalf. It is, and it has been, a great sorrow to me to see such a one as you subjected to so unmerited an ignominy; but a man educated in the laws of his country, as you have been, and understanding its constitution fundamentally, as you do, will probably have acknowledged that, great as has been the misfortune to you personally, nothing more than a proper attempt has been made to execute justice. I trust that you may speedily find yourself able to resume your place among the legislators of the country.” Thus Phineas Finn was acquitted, and the judges, collecting up their robes, trooped off from the bench, following the long line of their assessors who had remained even to that hour to hear the last word of the trial. Mr. Chaffanbrass collected his papers, with the assistance of Mr. Wickerby, — totally disregardful of his junior counsel, and the Attorney and Solicitor-General congratulated each other on the successful termination of a very disagreeable piece of business.

  And Phineas was discharged. According to the ordinary meaning of the words he was now to go about his business as he pleased, the law having no further need of his person. We can understand how in common cases the prisoner discharged on his acquittal, — who probably in nine cases out of ten is conscious of his own guilt, — may feel the sweetness of his freedom and enjoy his immunity from danger with a light heart. He is received probably by his wife or young woman, — or perhaps, having no wife or young woman to receive him, betakes himself to his usual haunts. The interest which has been felt in his career is over, and he is no longer the hero of an hour; — but he is a free man, and may drink his gin-and-water where he pleases. Perhaps a small admiring crowd may welcome him as he passes out into the street, but he has become nobody before he reaches the corner. But it could not be so with this discharged prisoner, — either as regarded himself and his own feelings, or as regarded his friends. When the moment came he had hardly as yet thought about the immediate future, — had not considered how he would live, or where, during the next few months. The sensations of the moment had been so full, sometimes of agony and at others of anticipated triumph, that he had not attempted as yet to make for himself any schemes. The Duchess of Omnium had suggested that he would be received back into society with an elaborate course of fashionable dinners; but that view of his return to the world had certainly not occurred to him. When he was led down from the dock he hardly knew whither he was being taken, and when he found himself in a small room attached to the Court, clasped on one arm by Mr. Low and on the other by Lord Chiltern, he did not know what they would propose to him, — nor had he considered what answer he would make to any proposition. “At last you are safe,” said Mr. Low.

  “But think what he has suffered,” said Lord Chiltern.

  Phineas looked round to see if there was any other friend present. Certainly among all his friends he had thought most of her who had travelled half across Europe for evidence to save him. He had seen Madame Goesler last on the evening preceding the night of the murder, and had not even heard from her since. But he had been told what she had done for him, and now he had almost fancied that he would have found her waiting for him. He smiled first at the one man and then at the other, and made an effort to carry himself with his ordinary tranquillity. “It will be all right now, I dare say,” he said. “I wonder whether I could have a glass of water.”

  He sat down while the water was brought to him, and his two friends stood over him, hardly knowing how to do more than support him by their presence.

  Then Lord Cantrip made his way into the room. He had sat on the bench to the last, whereas the other two had gone down to receive the prisoner when acquitted; — and with him came Sir Harry Coldfoot, the Home Secretary. “My friend,” said the former, “the bitter day has passed over you, and I hope that the bitterness will soon pass away also.” Phineas again attempted to smile as he held the hand of the man with whom he had formerly been associated in office.

  “I should not intrude, Mr. Finn,” said Sir Harry, “did I not feel myself bound in a special manner to express my regret at the great trouble to which you have been subjected.” Phineas rose, and bowed stiffly. He had conceived that every one connected with the administration of the law had believed him to be guilty, and none in his present mood could be dear to him but they who from the beginning trusted in his innocence. “I am requested by Mr. Gresham,” continued Sir Harry, “to express to you his entire sympathy, and his joy that all this is at last over.” Phineas tried to make some little speech, but utterly failed. Then Sir Harry left them, and he burst out into tears.

  “Who can be surprised?” said Lord Cantrip. “The marvel is that he should have been able to bear it so long.”

  “It would have crushed me utterly, long since,” said the other lord. Then there was a question asked as to what he would do, and Mr. Low proposed that he should be allowed to take Phineas to his own house for a few days. His wife, he said, had known their friend so long and so intimately that she might perhaps be able to make herself more serviceable than any other lady, and at their house Phineas could receive his sisters just as he would at his own. His sisters had been lodging near the prison almost ever since the committal, and it had been thought well to remove them to Mr. Low’s house in order that they might meet their brother there.

  “I think I’ll go to my — own room — in Marlborough Street.” These were the first intelligible words he had uttered since he had been led out of the dock, and to that resolution he adhered. Lord Cantrip offered the retirements of a country house belonging to himself within an hour’s journey of London, and Lord Chiltern declared that Harrington Hall, which Phineas knew, was altogether at his service, — but Phineas decided in favour of Mrs. Bunce, and to Great Marlborough Street he was taken by Mr. Low.

  “I’ll come to you to-morrow, — with my wife,” — said Lord Chiltern, as he was going.

  “Not to-morrow, Chiltern. But tell your wife how deeply I value her friendship.” Lord Cantrip also offered to come, but was asked to wait awhile. “I am afraid I am hardly fit for visitors yet. All the strength seems to have been knocked out of me this last week.”

  Mr. Low accompanied him to his lodgings, and then handed him over to Mrs. Bunce, promising that his two sisters should come to him early on the following morning. On that evening he would prefer to be quite alone. He would not allow the barrister even to go upstairs with him; and when he had entered his room, almost rudely begged his weeping landlady to leave him.

  “Oh, Mr. Phineas, let me do something for you,” said the poor woman. “You have not had a bit of anything all day. Let me get you just a cup of tea and a chop.”

  In truth he had dined when the judges went out to their lunch, — dined as he had been wont to dine since the trial had been commenced, — and wanted nothing. She might bring him tea, he said, if she would leave him for an hour. And then at last he was alone. He stood up in the middle of the room, stretching forth his hands, and putting one first to his breast and then to his brow, feeling himself as though doubting his own identity. Could it be that the last week had been real, — that everything had not been a dream? Had he in truth been suspected of a murder and tried for his life? And then he thought of him who had been murdered, of Mr. Bonteen, his enemy. Was he really gone, — the man who the other day was to have been Chancellor of the Exchequer, — the scornful, arrogant, loud, boastful man? He had hardly thought of Mr. Bonteen before, during these we
eks of his own incarceration. He had heard all the details of the murder with a fulness that had been at last complete. The man who had oppressed him, and whom he had at times almost envied, was indeed gone, and the world for awhile had believed that he, Phineas Finn, had been the man’s murderer!

  And now what should be his own future life? One thing seemed certain to him. He could never again go into the House of Commons, and sit there, an ordinary man of business, with other ordinary men. He had been so hacked and hewed about, so exposed to the gaze of the vulgar, so mauled by the public, that he could never more be anything but the wretched being who had been tried for the murder of his enemy. The pith had been taken out of him, and he was no longer a man fit for use. He could never more enjoy that freedom from self-consciousness, that inner tranquillity of spirit, which are essential to public utility. Then he remembered certain lines which had long been familiar to him, and he repeated them aloud, with some conceit that they were apposite to him: —

  The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —

  For the reed that grows never more again

  As a reed with the reeds in the river.

  He sat drinking his tea, still thinking of himself, — knowing how infinitely better it would be for him that he should indulge in no such thought, till an idea struck him, and he got up, and, drawing back the blinds from the open window, looked out into the night. It was the last day of June, and the weather was very sultry; but the night was dark, and it was now near midnight. On a sudden he took his hat, and feeling with a smile for the latchkey which he always carried in his pocket, — thinking of the latchkey which had been made at Prague for the lock of a house in Northumberland Street, New Road, he went down to the front door. “You’ll be back soon, Mr. Finn, won’t you now?” said Mrs. Bunce, who had heard his step, and had remained up, thinking it better this, the first night of his return, not to rest till he had gone to his bed.

  “Why should I be back soon?” he said, turning upon her. But then he remembered that she had been one of those who were true to him, and he took her hand and was gracious to her. “I will be hack soon, Mrs. Bunce, and you need fear nothing. But recollect how little I have had of liberty lately. I have not even had a walk for six weeks. You cannot wonder that I should wish to roam about a little.” Nevertheless she would have preferred that he should not have gone out all alone on that night.

  He had taken off the black morning coat which he had worn during the trial, and had put on that very grey garment by which it had been sought to identify him with the murderer. So clad he crossed Regent Street into Hanover Square, and from thence went a short way down Bond Street, and by Bruton Street into Berkeley Square. He took exactly the reverse of the route by which he had returned home from the club on the night of the murder. Every now and then he trembled as he passed some figure which might be that of a man who would recognise him. But he walked fast, and went on till he came to the spot at which the steps descend from the street into the passage, — the very spot at which the murder had been committed. He looked down it with an awful dread, and stood there as though he were fascinated, thinking of all the details which he had heard throughout the trial. Then he looked around him, and listened whether there were any step approaching through the passage. Hearing none and seeing no one he at last descended, and for the first time in his life passed through that way into Bolton Row. Here it was that the wretch of whom he had now heard so much had waited for his enemy, — the wretch for whom during the last six weeks he had been mistaken. Heavens! — that men who had known him should have believed him to have done such a deed as that! He remembered well having shown the life-preserver to Erle and Fitzgibbon at the door of the club; and it had been thought that after having so shown it he had used it for the purpose to which in his joke he had alluded! Were men so blind, so ignorant of nature, so little capable of discerning the truth as this? Then he went on till he came to the end of Clarges Street, and looked up the mews opposite to it, — the mews from which the man had been seen to hurry. The place was altogether unknown to him. He had never thought whither it had led when passing it on his way up from Piccadilly to the club. But now he entered the mews so as to test the evidence that had been given, and found that it brought him by a turn close up to the spot at which he had been described as having been last seen by Erle and Fitzgibbon. When there he went on, and crossed the street, and looking back saw the club was lighted up. Then it struck him for the first time that it was the night of the week on which the members were wont to assemble. Should he pluck up courage, and walk in among them? He had not lost his right of entry there because he had been accused of murder. He was the same now as heretofore, — if he could only fancy himself to be the same. Why not go in, and have done with all this? He would be the wonder of the club for twenty minutes, and then it would all be over. He stood close under the shade of a heavy building as he thought of this, but he found that he could not do it. He had known from the beginning that he could not do it. How callous, how hard, how heartless, must he have been, had such a course been possible to him! He again repeated the lines to himself —

  The reed that grows never more again

  As a reed with the reeds in the river.

  He felt sure that never again would he enter that room, in which no doubt all those assembled were now talking about him.

  As he returned home he tried to make out for himself some plan for his future life, — but, interspersed with any idea that he could weave were the figures of two women, Lady Laura Kennedy and Madame Max Goesler. The former could be nothing to him but a friend; and though no other friend would love him as she loved him, yet she could not influence his life. She was very wealthy, but her wealth could be nothing to him. She would heap it all upon him if he would take it. He understood and knew that. Taking no pride to himself that it was so, feeling no conceit in her love, he was conscious of her devotion to him. He was poor, broken in spirit, and almost without a future; — and yet could her devotion avail him nothing!

  But how might it be with that other woman? Were she, after all that had passed between them, to consent to be his wife, — and it might be that she would consent, — how would the world be with him then? He would be known as Madame Goesler’s husband, and have to sit at the bottom of her table, — and be talked of as the man who had been tried for the murder of Mr. Bonteen. Look at it in which way he might, he thought that no life could any longer be possible to him in London.

  CHAPTER LXVIII

  Phineas after the Trial

  Ten days passed by, and Phineas Finn had not been out of his lodgings till after daylight, and then he only prowled about in the manner described in the last chapter. His sisters had returned to Ireland, and he saw no one, even in his own room, but two or three of his most intimate friends. Among those Mr. Low and Lord Chiltern were the most frequently with him, but Fitzgibbon, Barrington Erle, and Mr. Monk had also been admitted. People had called by the hundred, till Mrs. Bunce was becoming almost tired of her lodger’s popularity; but they came only to inquire, — because it had been reported that Mr. Finn was not well after his imprisonment. The Duchess of Omnium had written to him various notes, asking when he would come to her, and what she could do for him. Would he dine, would he spend a quiet evening, would he go to Matching? Finally, would he become her guest and the Duke’s next September for the partridge shooting? They would have a few friends with them, and Madame Goesler would be one of the number. Having had this by him for a week, he had not as yet answered the invitation. He had received two or three notes from Lady Laura, who had frankly explained to him that if he were really ill she would of course go to him, but that as matters stood she could not do so without displeasing her brother. He had answered each note by an assurance that his first visit should be made in Portman Square. To Madame Goesler he had written a letter of thanks, — a letter which had in truth cost him some pains. “I know,” he said, “for how much I have to thank you, but I do not know in what words to do it. I ought
to be with you telling you in person of my gratitude; but I must own to you that for the present what has occurred has so unmanned me that I am unfit for the interview. I should only weep in your presence like a school-girl, and you would despise me.” It was a long letter, containing many references to the circumstances of the trial, and to his own condition of mind throughout its period. Her answer to him, which was very short, was as follows: —