“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 everyone 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 tomorrow—with my wife,”—said Lord Chiltern, as he was going.
“Not tomorrow, 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 weeks of his own incarceration. He had heard all the details of the murder with a fullness 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
