After the interval of a minute or two he remembered himself, and turned round. Seeing her seated, he approached her, and went down on both knees close at her feet. Then he took her hands again, for the third time, and looked up into her eyes.
‘Oswald, you on your knees!’ she said.
‘I would not bend to a princess,’ he said, ‘to ask for half her throne; but I will kneel here all day, if you will let me, in thanks for the gift of your love. I never kneeled to beg for it.’
‘This is the man who cannot make speeches.’
‘I think I could talk now by the hour, with you for a listener.’
‘Oh, but I must talk too.’
‘What will you say to me?’
‘Nothing while you are kneeling. It is not natural that you should kneel. You are like Samson with his locks shorn, or Hercules with a distaff.’
‘Is that better?’ he said, as he got up and put his arm round her waist.
‘You are in earnest?’ she asked.
‘In earnest. I hardly thought that that would be doubted. Do you not believe me?’
‘I do believe you. And you will be good?’
‘Ah, – I do not know that.’
‘Try, and I will love you so dearly. Nay, I do love you dearly. I do. I do.’
‘Say it again.’
‘I will say it fifty times, – till your ears are weary with it;’ – and she did say it to him, after her own fashion, fifty times.
‘This is a great change,’ he said, getting up after a while and walking about the room.
‘But a change for the better; – is it not, Oswald?’
‘So much for the better that I hardly know myself in my new joy. But, Violet, we'll have no delay, – will we? No shilly-shallying. What is the use of waiting now that it's settled?’
‘None in the least, Lord Chiltern. Let us say, – this day twelvemonth.’
‘You are laughing at me, Violet.’
‘Remember, sir, that the first thing you have to do is to write to your father.’
He instantly went to the writing-table and took up paper and pen. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘You are to dictate it.’ But this she refused to do, telling him that he must write his letter to his father out of his own head, and out of his own heart. ‘I cannot write it,’ he said, throwing down the pen. ‘My blood is in such a tumult that I cannot steady my hand.’
‘You must not be so tumultuous, Oswald, or I shall have to live in a whirlwind.’
‘Oh, I shall shake down. I shall become as steady as an old stager. I'll go as quiet in harness by-and-bye as though I had been broken to it a four-year-old. I wonder whether Laura could not write this letter.’
‘I think you should write it yourself, Oswald.’
‘If you bid me I will.’
‘Bid you indeed! As if it was for me to bid you. Do you not know that in these new troubles you are undertaking you will have to bid me in everything, and that I shall be bound to do your bidding? Does it not seem to be dreadful? My wonder is that any girl can ever accept any man.’
‘But you have accepted me, now.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘And you repent?’
‘No, indeed, and I will try to do your biddings; – but you must not be rough to me, and outrageous, and fierce, – will you, Oswald?’
‘I will not at any rate be like Kennedy is with poor Laura.’
‘No; – that is not your nature.’
‘I will do my best, dearest. And you may at any rate be sure of this, that I will love you always. So much good of myself, if it be good, I can say.’
‘It is very good,’ she answered; ‘the best of all good words. And now I must go. And as you are leaving Loughlinter I will say good-bye. When am I to have the honour and felicity of beholding your lordship again?’
‘Say a nice word to me before I am off, Violet.’78
‘I, – love, – you, – better, – than all the world beside; and I mean, – to be your wife, – some day. Are not those twenty nice words?’
He would not prolong his stay at Loughlinter, though he was asked to do so both by Violet and his sister, and though, as he confessed himself, he had no special business elsewhere. ‘It is no use mincing the matter. I don't like Kennedy, and I don't like being in his house,’ he said to Violet. And then he promised that there should be a party got up at Saulsby before the winter was over. His plan was to stop that night at Carlisle, and write to his father from thence. ‘Your blood, perhaps, won't be so tumultuous at Carlisle,’ said Violet. He shook his head and went on with his plans. He would then go on to London and down to Willingford, and there wait for his father's answer. ‘There is no reason why I should lose more of the hunting than necessary.’ ‘Pray don't lose a day for me,’ said Violet. As soon as he heard from his father, he would do his father's bidding. ‘You will go to Saulsby,’ said Violet; ‘you can hunt at Saulsby, you know.’ ‘I will go to Jericho if he asks me, only you will have to go with me.’ ‘I thought we were to go to, – Belgium,’ said Violet.
‘And so that is settled at last,’ said Violet to Laura that night.
‘I hope you do not regret it.’
‘On the contrary, I am as happy as the moments are long.’
‘My fine girl!’
‘I am happy because I love him. I have always loved him. You have known that.’
‘Indeed, no.’
‘But I have, after my fashion. I am not tumultuous, as he calls himself. Since he began to make eyes at me when he was nineteen –’
‘Fancy Oswald making eyes!’
‘Oh, he did, and mouths too. But from the beginning, when I was a child, I have known that he was dangerous, and I have thought that he would pass on and forget me after a while. And I could have lived without him. Nay, there have been moments when I thought I could learn to love some one else.’
‘Poor Phineas, for instance.’
‘We will mention no names. Mr Appledom, perhaps, more likely. He has been my most constant lover, and then he would be so safe! Your brother, Laura, is dangerous. He is like the bad ice in the parks where they stick up the poles. He has had a pole stuck upon him ever since he was a boy.’
‘Yes; – give a dog a bad name and hang him.’
‘Remember that I do not love him a bit the less on that account; – perhaps the better. A sense of danger does not make me unhappy, though the threatened evil may be fatal. I have entered myself for my forlorn hope, and I mean to stick to it. Now I must go and write to his worship. Only think, – I never wrote a love-letter yet!’
Nothing more shall be said about Miss Effingham's first love-letter, which was, no doubt, creditable to her head and heart; but there were two other letters sent by the same post from Loughlinter which shall be submitted to the reader, as they will assist the telling of the story. One was from Lady Laura Kennedy to her friend Phineas Finn, and the other from Violet to her aunt, Lady Baldock. No letter was written to Lord Brentford, as it was thought desirable that he should receive the first intimation of what had been done from his son.
Respecting the letter to Phineas, which shall be first given, Lady Laura thought it right to say a word to her husband. He had been of course told of the engagement, and had replied that he could have wished that the arrangement could have been made elsewhere than at his house, knowing as he did that Lady Baldock would not approve of it. To this Lady Laura had made no reply, and Mr Kennedy had condescended to congratulate the bride-elect. When Lady Laura's letter to Phineas was completed she took care to put it into the letterbox in the presence of her husband. ‘I have written to Mr Finn.’ she said ‘to tell him of this marriage.’
‘Why was it necessary that he should be told?’
‘I think it was due to him, – from certain circumstances.’
‘I wonder whether there was any truth in what everybody was saying about their fighting a duel?’ asked Mr Kennedy. His wife made no answer, and then he continued – ‘You told me of your own knowled
ge that it was untrue.’
‘Not of my own knowledge, Robert.’
‘Yes; – of your own knowledge.’ Then Mr Kennedy walked away, and was certain that his wife had deceived him about the duel. There had been a duel, and she had known it; and yet she had told him that the report was a ridiculous fabrication. He never forgot anything. He remembered at this moment the words of the falsehood, and the look of her face as she told it. He had believed her implicitly, but he would never believe her again. He was one of those men who, in spite of their experience of the world, of their experience of their own lives, imagine that lips that have once lied can never tell the truth.
Lady Laura's letter to Phineas was as follows:–
Loughlinter, December 28th, 186—
MY DEAR FRIEND,
Violet Effingham is here, and Oswald has just left us. It is possible that you may see him as he passes through London. But at any rate, I think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him, – at last. If there be any pang in this to you, be sure that I will grieve for you. You will not wish me to say that I regret that which was the dearest wish of my heart before I knew you. Lately, indeed, I have been torn in two ways. You will understand what I mean, and I believe I need say nothing more; – except this, that it shall be among my prayers that you may obtain all things that may tend to make you happy, honourable, and of high esteem.
Your most sincere friend,
LAURA KENNEDY.
Even though her husband should read the letter, there was nothing in that of which she need be ashamed. But he did not read the letter. He simply speculated as to its contents, and inquired within himself whether it would not be for the welfare of the world in general, and for the welfare of himself in particular, that husbands should demand to read their wives' letters.
And this was Violet's letter to her aunt:-
MY DEAR AUNT,
The thing has come at last, and all your troubles will be soon over; – for I do believe that all your troubles have come from your unfortunate niece. At last I am going to be married, and thus take myself off your hands. Lord Chiltern has just been here, and I have accepted him. I am afraid you hardly think so well of Lord Chiltern as I do; but then, perhaps, you have not known him so long. You do know, however, that there has been some difference between him and his father. I think I may take upon myself to say that now, upon his engagement, this will be settled. I have the inexpressible pleasure of feeling sure that Lord Brentford will welcome me as his daughter-in-law. Tell the news to Augusta with my best love. I will write to her in a day or two. I hope my cousin Gustavus will condescend to give me away. Of course there is nothing fixed about time; – but I should say, perhaps, in nine years.
Your affectionate niece,
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
Loughlinter, Friday
‘What does she mean about nine years?’ said Lady Baldock in her wrath.
‘She is joking,’ said the mild Augusta.
‘I believe she would – joke, if I were going to be buried,’ said Lady Baldock.
CHAPTER 53
Showing how Phineas Bore the Blow
WHEN Phineas received Lady Laura Kennedy's letter he was sitting in his gorgeous apartment in the Colonial Office. It was gorgeous in comparison with the very dingy room at Mr Low's to which he had been accustomed in his early days, – and somewhat gorgeous also as compared with the lodgings he had so long inhabited in Mr Bunce's house. The room was large and square, and looked out from three windows on to St James's Park. There were in it two very comfortable arm-chairs and a comfortable sofa. And the office table at which he sat was of old mahogany, shining brightly, and seemed to be fitted up with every possible appliance for official comfort. This stood near one of the windows, so that he could sit and look down upon the park. And there was a large round table covered with books and newspapers. And the walls of the room were bright with maps of all the colonies. And there was one very interesting map, – but not very bright, – showing the American colonies, as they used to be.79 And there was a little inner closet in which he could brush his hair and wash his hands; and in the room adjoining there sat, – or ought to have sat, for he was often absent, vexing the mind of Phineas, – the Earl's nephew, his private secretary. And it was all very gorgeous. Often as he looked round upon it, thinking of his old bedroom at Killaloe, of his little garrets at Trinity, of the dingy chambers in Lincoln's Inn, he would tell himself that it was very gorgeous. He would wonder that anything so grand had fallen to his lot.
The letter from Scotland was brought to him in the afternoon, having reached London by some day-mail from Glasgow. He was sitting at his desk with a heap of papers before him referring to a contemplated railway from Halifax, in Nova Scotia, to the foot of the Rocky Mountains.80 It had become his business to get up the subject, and then discuss with his principal, Lord Cantrip, the expediency of advising the Government to lend a company five million of money, in order that this railway might be made. It was a big subject, and the contemplation of it gratified him. It required that he should look forward to great events, and exercise the wisdom of a statesman. What was the chance of these colonies being swallowed up by those other regions, – once colonies, – of which the map that hung in the corner told so eloquent a tale? And if so, would the five million ever be repaid? And if not swallowed up, were the colonies worth so great an adventure of national money? Could they repay it? Would they do so? Should they be made to do so? Mr Low, who was now a Q.C. and in Parliament, would not have greater subjects than this before him, even if he should come to be Solicitor General. Lord Cantrip had specially asked him to get up this matter, – and he was getting it up sedulously. Once in nine years the harbour of Halifax was blocked up by ice. He had just jotted down that fact, which was material, when Lady Laura's letter was brought to him. He read it, and putting it down by his side very gently, went back to his maps as though the thing would not so trouble his mind as to disturb his work. He absolutely wrote, automatically, certain words of a note about the harbour, after he had received the information. A horse will gallop for some scores of yards, after his back has been broken, before he knows of his great ruin; – and so it was with Phineas Finn. His back was broken, but, nevertheless, he galloped, for a yard or two. ‘Closed in 1860–61 for thirteen days.’ Then he began to be aware that his back was broken, and that the writing of any more notes about the ice in Halifax harbour was for the present out of the question. ‘I think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him.’ Those were the words which he read the oftenest. Then it was all over! The game was played out, and all his victories were as nothing to him. He sat for an hour in his gorgeous room thinking of it, and various were the answers which he gave during the time to various messages; – but he would see nobody. As for the colonies, he did not care if they revolted to-morrow. He would have parted with every colony belonging to Great Britain to have gotten the hand of Violet Effingham for himself. Now, – now at this moment, he told himself with oaths that he had never loved any one but Violet Effingham.
There had been so much to make such a marriage desirable! I should wrong my hero deeply were I to say that the weight of his sorrow was occasioned by the fact that he had lost an heiress. He would never have thought of looking for Violet Effingham had he not first learned to love her. But as the idea opened itself out to him, everything had seemed to be so suitable. Had Miss Effingham become his wife, the mouths of the Lows and of the Bunces would have been stopped altogether. Mr Monk would have come to his house as his familiar guest, and he would have been connected with half a score of peers. A seat in Parliament would be simply his proper place, and even Under-Secretaryships of State might soon come to be below him. He was playing a great game, but hitherto he had played it with so much success, – with such wonderful luck! that it had seemed to him that all things were within his reach. Nothing more had been wanting to him than Violet's hand for his own comfort, and Violet's fortune to support his position; an
d these, too, had almost seemed to be within his grasp. His goddess had indeed refused him, – but not with disdain. Even Lady Laura had talked of his marriage as not improbable. All the world, almost, had heard of the duel; and all the world had smiled, and seemed to think that in the real fight Phineas Finn would be the victor, – that the lucky pistol was in his hands. It had never occurred to any one to suppose, – as far as he could see, – that he was presuming at all, or pushing himself out of his own sphere, in asking Violet Effingham to be his wife. No; – he would trust his luck, would persevere, and would succeed. Such had been his resolution on that very morning, – and now there had come this letter to dash him to the ground.
There were moments in which he declared to himself that he would not believe the letter, – not that there was any moment in which there was in his mind the slightest spark of real hope. But he would tell himself that he would still persevere. Violet might have been driven to accept that violent man by violent influence, – or it might be that she had not in truth accepted him, that Chiltern had simply so asserted. Or, even if it were so, did women never change their minds? The manly thing would be to persevere to the end. Had he not before been successful, when success seemed to be as far from him? But he could buoy himself up with no real hope. Even when these ideas were present to his mind, he knew, – he knew well, – at those very moments, that his back was broken.
Phineas Finn, the Irish Member Page 55
