“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.
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.
