“Not in the least. You can trace the lines of lingering regret upon his countenance when people be-Grace him; but that is all. There was always about him a simple dignity which made it impossible that any one should slap him on the back; and that of course remains. He is the same Planty Pall; but I doubt whether any man ever ventured to call him Planty Pall to his face since he left Eton.”
“The house was full, I suppose?”
“There were a great many there; among others Sir Gregory Grogram, who apologised to me for having tried to — put an end to my career.”
“Oh, Phineas!”
“And Sir Harry Coldfoot, who seemed to take some credit to himself for having allowed the jury to acquit me. And Chiltern and his wife were there for a day or two.”
“What could take Oswald there?”
“An embassy of State about the foxes. The Duke’s property runs into his country. She is one of the best women that ever lived.”
“Violet?”
“And one of the best wives.”
“She ought to be, for she is one of the happiest. What can she wish for that she has not got? Was your great friend there?”
He knew well what great friend she meant. “Madame Max Goesler was there.”
“I suppose so. I can never quite forgive Lady Glencora for her intimacy with that woman.”
“Do not abuse her, Lady Laura.”
“I do not intend, — not to you at any rate. But I can better understand that she should receive the admiration of a gentleman than the affectionate friendship of a lady. That the old Duke should have been infatuated was intelligible.”
“She was very good to the old Duke.”
“But it was a kind of goodness which was hardly likely to recommend itself to his nephew’s wife. Never mind; we won’t talk about her now. Barrington was there?”
“For a day or two.”
“He seems to be wasting his life.”
“Subordinates in office generally do, I think.”
“Do not say that, Phineas.”
“Some few push through, and one can almost always foretell who the few will be. There are men who are destined always to occupy second-rate places, and who seem also to know their fate. I never heard Erle speak even of an ambition to sit in the Cabinet.”
“He likes to be useful.”
“All that part of the business which distresses me is pleasant to him. He is fond of arrangements, and delights in little party successes. Either to effect or to avoid a count-out is a job of work to his taste, and he loves to get the better of the Opposition by keeping it in the dark. A successful plot is as dear to him as to a writer of plays. And yet he is never bitter as is Ratler, or unscrupulous as was poor Mr. Bonteen, or full of wrath as is Lord Fawn. Nor is he idle like Fitzgibbon. Erle always earns his salary.”
“When I said he was wasting his life, I meant that he did not marry. But perhaps a man in his position had better remain unmarried.” Phineas tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded well. “That, however, is a delicate subject, and we will not touch it now. If you won’t drink any wine we might as well go into the other room.”
Nothing had as yet been said on either of the subjects which had brought him to Saulsby, but there had been words which made the introduction of them peculiarly unpleasant. His tidings, however, must be told. “I shall not see Lord Brentford to-night?” he asked, when they were together in the drawing-room.
“If you wish it you can go up to him. He will not come down.”
“Oh, no. It is only because I must return to-morrow.”
“To-morrow, Phineas!”
“I must do so. I have pledged myself to see Mr. Monk, — and others also.”
“It is a short visit to make to us on my first return home! I hardly expected you at Loughlinter, but I thought that you might have remained a few nights under my father’s roof.” He could only reassert his assurance that he was bound to be back in London, and explain as best he might that he had come to Saulsby for a single night, only because he would not refuse her request to him. “I will not trouble you, Phineas, by complaints,” she said.
“I would give you no cause for complaint if I could avoid it.”
“And now tell me what has passed between you and Mr. Gresham,” she said as soon as the servant had given them coffee. They were sitting by a window which opened down to the ground, and led on to the terrace and to the lawns below. The night was soft, and the air was heavy with the scent of many flowers. It was now past nine, and the sun had set; but there was a bright harvest moon, and the light, though pale, was clear as that of day. “Will you come and take a turn round the garden? We shall be better there than sitting here. I will get my hat; can I find yours for you?” So they both strolled out, down the terrace steps, and went forth, beyond the gardens, into the park, as though they had both intended from the first that it should be so. “I know you have not accepted Mr. Gresham’s offer, or you would have told me so.”
“I have not accepted.”
“Nor have you refused?”
“No; it is still open. I must send my answer by telegram to-morrow — Yes or No, — Mr. Gresham’s time is too precious to admit of more.”
“Phineas, for Heaven’s sake do not allow little feelings to injure you at such a time as this. It is of your own career, not of Mr. Gresham’s manners, that you should think.”
“I have nothing to object to in Mr. Gresham. Yes or No will be quite sufficient.”
“It must be Yes.”
“It cannot be Yes, Lady Laura. That which I desired so ardently six months ago has now become so distasteful to me that I cannot accept it. There is an amount of hustling on the Treasury Bench which makes a seat there almost ignominious.”
“Do they hustle more than they did three years ago?”
“I think they do, or if not it is more conspicuous to my eyes. I do not say that it need be ignominious. To such a one as was Mr. Palliser it certainly is not so. But it becomes so when a man goes there to get his bread, and has to fight his way as though for bare life. When office first comes, unasked for, almost unexpected, full of the charms which distance lends, it is pleasant enough. The new-comer begins to feel that he too is entitled to rub his shoulders among those who rule the world of Great Britain. But when it has been expected, longed for as I longed for it, asked for by my friends and refused, when all the world comes to know that you are a suitor for that which should come without any suit, — then the pleasantness vanishes.”
“I thought it was to be your career.”
“And I hoped so.”
“What will you do, Phineas? You cannot live without any income.”
“I must try,” he said, laughing
“You will not share with your friend, as a friend should?”
“No, Lady Laura. That cannot be done.”
“I do not see why it cannot. Then you might be independent.”
“Then I should indeed be dependent.”
“You are too proud to owe me anything.”
He wanted to tell her that he was too proud to owe such obligation as she had suggested to any man or any woman; but he hardly knew how to do so, intending as he did to inform her before they returned to the house of his intention to ask Madame Goesler to be his wife. He could discern the difference between enjoying his wife’s fortune and taking gifts of money from one who was bound to him by no tie; — but to her in her present mood he could explain no such distinction. On a sudden he rushed at the matter in his mind. It had to be done, and must be done before he brought her back to the house. He was conscious that he had in no degree ill-used her. He had in nothing deceived her. He had kept back from her nothing which the truest friendship had called upon him to reveal to her. And yet he knew that her indignation would rise hot within her at his first word. “Laura,” he said, forgetting in his confusion to remember her rank, “I had better tell you at once that I have determined to ask Madame Goesler to be my wife.”
“Oh, then; — of
course your income is certain.”
“If you choose to regard my conduct in that light I cannot help it. I do not think that I deserve such reproach.”
“Why not tell it all? You are engaged to her?”
“Not so. I have not asked her yet.”
“And why do you come to me with the story of your intentions, — to me of all persons in the world? I sometimes think that of all the hearts that ever dwelt within a man’s bosom yours is the hardest.”
“For God’s sake do not say that of me.”
“Do you remember when you came to me about Violet, — to me, — to me? I could bear it then because she was good and earnest, and a woman that I could love even though she robbed me. And I strove for you even against my own heart, — against my own brother. I did; I did. But how am I to bear it now? What shall I do now? She is a woman I loathe.”
“Because you do not know her.”
“Not know her! And are your eyes so clear at seeing that you must know her better than others? She was the Duke’s mistress.”
“That is untrue, Lady Laura.”
“But what difference does it make to me? I shall be sure that you will have bread to eat, and horses to ride, and a seat in Parliament without being forced to earn it by your labour. We shall meet no more, of course.”
“I do not think that you can mean that.”
“I will never receive that woman, nor will I cross the sill of her door. Why should I?”
“Should she become my wife, — that I would have thought might have been the reason why.”
“Surely, Phineas, no man ever understood a woman so ill as you do.”
“Because I would fain hope that I need not quarrel with my oldest friend?”
“Yes, sir; because you think you can do this without quarrelling. How should I speak to her of you; how listen to what she would tell me? Phineas, you have killed me at last.” Why could he not tell her that it was she who had done the wrong when she gave her hand to Robert Kennedy? But he could not tell her, and he was dumb. “And so it’s settled!”
“No; not settled.”
“Psha! I hate your mock modesty! It is settled. You have become far too cautious to risk fortune in such an adventure. Practice has taught you to be perfect. It was to tell me this that you came down here.”
“Partly so.”
“It would have been more generous of you, sir, to have remained away.”
“I did not mean to be ungenerous.”
Then she suddenly turned upon him, throwing her arms round his neck, and burying her face upon his bosom. They were at the moment in the centre of the park, on the grass beneath the trees, and the moon was bright over their heads. He held her to his breast while she sobbed, and then relaxed his hold as she raised herself to look into his face. After a moment she took his hat from his head with one hand, and with the other swept the hair back from his brow. “Oh, Phineas,” she said, “Oh, my darling! My idol that I have worshipped when I should have worshipped my God!”
After that they roamed for nearly an hour backwards and forwards beneath the trees, till at last she became calm and almost reasonable. She acknowledged that she had long expected such a marriage, looking forward to it as a great sorrow. She repeated over and over again her assertion that she could not “know” Madame Goesler as the wife of Phineas, but abstained from further evil words respecting the lady. “It is better that we should be apart,” she said at last. “I feel that it is better. When we are both old, if I should live, we may meet again. I knew that it was coming, and we had better part.” And yet they remained out there, wandering about the park for a long portion of the summer night. She did not reproach him again, nor did she speak much of the future; but she alluded to all the incidents of their past life, showing him that nothing which he had done, no words which he had spoken, had been forgotten by her. “Of course it has been my fault,” she said, as at last she parted with him in the drawing-room. “When I was younger I did not understand how strong the heart can be. I should have known it, and I pay for my ignorance with the penalty of my whole life.” Then he left her, kissing her on both cheeks and on her brow, and went to his bedroom with the understanding that he would start for London on the following morning before she was up.
CHAPTER LXXIX
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.
The Palliser Novels Page 320
