If all things went right with him tomorrow that music—or the musician who made it—would be his own for the rest of his life. Was he justified in expecting that she would give him so much? Of her great regard for him as a friend he had no doubt. She had shown it in various ways, and after a fashion that had made it known to all the world. But so had Lady Laura regarded him when he first told her of his love at Loughlinter. She had been his dearest friend, but she had declined to become his wife; and it had been partly so with Violet Effingham, whose friendship to him had been so sweet as to make him for a while almost think that there was more than friendship. Marie Goesler had certainly once loved him;—but so had he once loved Laura Standish. He had been wretched for a while because Lady Laura had refused him. His feelings now were altogether changed, and why should not the feelings of Madame Goesler have undergone a similar change? There was no doubt of her friendship; but then neither was there any doubt of his for Lady Laura. And in spite of her friendship, would not revenge be dear to her—revenge of that nature which a slighted woman must always desire? He had rejected her, and would it not be fair also that he should be rejected? “I suppose you’ll be in your own room before lunch tomorrow,” he said to her as they separated for the night. It had come to pass from the constancy of her visits to Matching in the old Duke’s time, that a certain small morning-room had been devoted to her, and this was still supposed to be her property—so that she was not driven to herd with the public or to remain in her bedroom during all the hours of the morning. “Yes,” she said; “I shall go out immediately after breakfast, but I shall soon be driven in by the heat, and then I shall be there till lunch. The Duchess always comes about half-past twelve, to complain generally of the guests.” She answered him quite at her ease, making arrangement for privacy if he should desire it, but doing so as though she thought that he wanted to talk to her about his trial, or about politics, or the place he had just refused. Surely she would hardly have answered him after such a fashion had she suspected that he intended to ask her to be his wife.
At a little before noon the next morning he knocked at her door, and was told to enter. “I didn’t go out after all,” she said. “I hadn’t courage to face the sun.”
“I saw that you were not in the garden.”
“If I could have found you I would have told you that I should be here all the morning. I might have sent you a message, only—only I didn’t.”
“I have come—”
“I know why you have come.”
“I doubt that. I have come to tell you that I love you.”
“Oh Phineas;—at last, at last!” And in a moment she was in his arms.
It seemed to him that from that moment all the explanations, and all the statements, and most of the assurances were made by her and not by him. After this first embrace he found himself seated beside her, holding her hand. “I do not know that I am right,” said he.
“Why not right?”
“Because you are rich and I have nothing.”
“If you ever remind me of that again I will strike you,” she said, raising up her little fist and bringing it down with gentle pressure on his shoulder. “Between you and me there must be nothing more about that. It must be an even partnership. There must be ever so much about money, and you’ll have to go into dreadful details, and make journeys to Vienna to see that the houses don’t tumble down;—but there must be no question between you and me of whence it came.”
“You will not think that I have to come to you for that?”
“Have you ever known me to have a low opinion of myself? Is it probable that I shall account myself to be personally so mean and of so little value as to imagine that you cannot love me? I know you love me. But Phineas, I have not been sure till very lately that you would ever tell me so. As for me—! Oh, heavens! when I think of it.”
“Tell me that you love me now.”
“I think I have said so plainly enough. I have never ceased to love you since I first knew you well enough for love. And I’ll tell you more—though perhaps I shall say what you will think condemns me;—you are the only man I ever loved. My husband was very good to me—and I was, I think, good to him. But he was many years my senior, and I cannot say I loved him—as I do you.” Then she turned to him, and put her head on his shoulder. “And I loved the old Duke, too, after a fashion. But it was a different thing from this. I will tell you something about him some day that I have never yet told to a human being.”
“Tell me now.”
“No; not till I am your wife. You must trust me. But I
