Phineas Finn

alone.” Then he was left standing by himself, looking down upon the river as it glided by. How would it have been with both of them if Lady Laura had accepted him three years ago, when she consented to join her lot with that of Mr. Kennedy, and had rejected him? As he stood he heard the sound of music from the house, and remembered that he had come there with the one sole object of seeing Violet Effingham. He had known that he would meet Lady Laura, and it had been in his mind to break through that law of silence which she had imposed upon him, and once more to ask her to assist him⁠—to implore her for the sake of their old friendship to tell him whether there might yet be for him any chance of success. But in the interview which had just taken place it had been impossible for him to speak a word of himself or of Violet. To her, in her great desolation, he could address himself on no other subject than that of her own misery. But not the less when she was talking to him of her own sorrow, of her regret that she had not listened to him when in years past he had spoken slightingly of Mr. Kennedy, was he thinking of Violet Effingham. Mr. Kennedy had certainly mistaken the signs of things when he had accused his wife by saying that Phineas was her lover. Phineas had soon got over that early feeling; and as far as he himself was concerned had never regretted Lady Laura’s marriage.

He remained down by the water for a few minutes, giving Lady Laura time to escape, and then he wandered across the grounds towards the house. It was now about nine o’clock, and though there were still many walking about the grounds, the crowd of people were in the rooms. The musicians were ranged out on a verandah, so that their music might have been available for dancing within or without; but the dancers had found the boards pleasanter than the lawn, and the Duke’s garden party was becoming a mere ball, with privilege for the dancers to stroll about the lawn between the dances. And in this respect the fun was better than at a ball⁠—that let the engagements made for partners be what they might, they could always be broken with ease. No lady felt herself bound to dance with a cavalier who was displeasing to her; and some gentlemen were left sadly in the lurch. Phineas felt himself to be very much in the lurch, even after he had discovered Violet Effingham standing up to dance with Lord Fawn.

He bided his time patiently, and at last he found his opportunity. “Would she dance with him?” She declared that she intended to dance no more, and that she had promised to be ready to return home with Lord Brentford before ten o’clock. “I have pledged myself not to be after ten,” she said, laughing. Then she put her hand upon his arm, and they stepped out upon the terrace together. “Have you heard anything?” she asked him, almost in a whisper.

“Yes,” he said. “I have heard what you mean. I have heard it all.”

“Is it not dreadful?”

“I fear it is the best thing she can do. She has never been happy with him.”

“But to be accused after that fashion⁠—by her husband!” said Violet. “One can hardly believe it in these days. And of all women she is the last to deserve such accusation.”

“The very last,” said Phineas, feeling that the subject was one upon which it was not easy for him to speak.

“I cannot conceive to whom he can have alluded,” said Violet. Then Phineas began to understand that Violet had not heard the whole story; but the difficulty of speaking was still very great.

“It has been the result of ungovernable temper,” he said.

“But a man does not usually strive to dishonour himself because he is in a rage. And this man is incapable of rage. He must be cursed with one of those dark gloomy minds in which love always leads to jealousy. She will never return to him.”

“One cannot say. In many respects it would be better that she should,” said Phineas.

“She will never return to him,” repeated Violet⁠—“never. Would you advise her to do so?”

“How can I say? If one were called upon for advice, one would think so much before one spoke.”

“I would not⁠—not for a minute. What! to be accused of that! How are a man and woman to live together after there have been such words between them? Poor Laura! What a terrible end to all her high hopes! Do you not grieve for her?”

They were now at some distance from the house, and Phineas could not but feel that chance had been very good to him in giving him his opportunity. She was leaning on his arm, and they were alone, and she was speaking to him with all the familiarity of old friendship. “I wonder whether I may change the subject,” said he, “and ask you a word about yourself?”

“What word?” she said sharply.

“I have heard⁠—”

“What have you heard?”

“Simply this⁠—that you are not now as you were six months ago. Your marriage was then fixed for June.”

“It has been unfixed since then,” she said.

“Yes;⁠—it has been unfixed. I know it. Miss Effingham, you will not be angry with me if I say that when I heard it was so, something of a hope⁠—no, I must not call it a hope⁠—something that longed to form itself into hope returned to my breast, and from that hour to this has been the only subject on which I have cared to think.”

“Lord Chiltern is your friend, Mr. Finn?”

“He is so, and I do not think that I have ever been untrue to my friendship for him.”

“He says that no man has ever had a truer friend. He will swear to that in all companies. And