“You had paid it for Oswald.”
“At any rate, I had nothing;—and he had nothing. How could I have dared to think even of such a marriage?”
“Did he think of it, Laura?”
“I suppose he did.”
“You know he did. Did you not tell me before?”
“Well;—yes. He thought of it. I had come to some foolish, half-sentimental resolution as to friendship, believing that he and I could be knit together by some adhesion of fraternal affection that should be void of offence to my husband; and in furtherance of this he was asked to Loughlinter when I went there, just after I had accepted Robert. He came down, and I measured him too, as you have done. I measured him, and I found that he wanted nothing to come up to the height required by my standard. I think I knew him better than you did.”
“Very possibly;—but why measure him at all, when such measurement was useless?”
“Can one help such things? He came to me one day as I was sitting up by the Linter. You remember the place, where it makes its first leap.”
“I remember it very well.”
“So do I. Robert had shown it me as the fairest spot in all Scotland.”
“And there this lover of ours sang his song to you?”
“I do not know what he told me then; but I know that I told him that I was engaged; and I felt when I told him so that my engagement was a sorrow to me. And it has been a sorrow from that day to this.”
“And the hero, Phineas—he is still dear to you?”
“Dear to me?”
“Yes. You would have hated me, had he become my husband? And you will hate Madame Goesler when she becomes his wife?”
“Not in the least. I am no dog in the manger. I have even gone so far as almost to wish, at certain moments, that you should accept him.”
“And why?”
“Because he has wished it so heartily.”
“One can hardly forgive a man for such speedy changes,” said Violet.
“Was I not to forgive him;—I, who had turned myself away from him with a fixed purpose the moment that I found that he had made a mark upon my heart? I could not wipe off the mark, and yet I married. Was he not to try to wipe off his mark?”
“It seems that he wiped it off very quickly;—and since that he has wiped off another mark. One doesn’t know how many marks he has wiped off. They are like the innkeeper’s score which he makes in chalk. A damp cloth brings them all away, and leaves nothing behind.”
“What would you have?”
“There should be a little notch on the stick—to remember by,” said Violet. “Not that I complain, you know. I cannot complain, as I was not notched myself.”
“You are silly, Violet.”
“In not having allowed myself to be notched by this great champion?”
“A man like Mr. Finn has his life to deal with—to make the most of it, and to divide it between work, pleasure, duty, ambition, and the rest of it as best he may. If he have any softness of heart, it will be necessary to him that love should bear a part in all these interests. But a man will be a fool who will allow love to be the master of them all. He will be one whose mind is so ill-balanced as to allow him to be the victim of a single wish. Even in a woman passion such as that is evidence of weakness, and not of strength.”
“It seems, then, Laura, that you are weak.”
“And if I am, does that condemn him? He is a man, if I judge him rightly, who will be constant as the sun, when constancy can be of service.”
“You mean that the future Mrs. Finn will be secure?”
“That is what I mean;—and that you or I, had either of us chosen to take his name, might have been quite secure. We have thought it right to refuse to do so.”
“And how many more, I wonder?”
“You are unjust, and unkind, Violet. So unjust and unkind that it is clear to me he has just gratified your vanity, and has never touched your heart. What would you have had him do, when I told him that I was engaged?”
“I suppose that Mr. Kennedy would not have gone to Blankenberg with him.”
“Violet!”
“That seems to be the proper thing to do. But even that does not adjust things finally;—does it?” Then someone came upon them, and the conversation was brought to an end.
LXXII
Madame Goesler’s Generosity
When Phineas Finn left Mr. Gresham’s house he had quite resolved what he would do. On the next morning he would tell Lord Cantrip that his resignation was a necessity, and that he would take that nobleman’s advice as to resigning at once, or waiting till the day on which Mr. Monk’s Irish Bill would be read for the second time.
“My dear Finn, I can only say that I deeply regret it,” said Lord Cantrip.
“So do I. I regret to leave office, which I like—and which indeed I want. I regret specially to leave this office, as it has been a thorough pleasure to me; and I regret, above all, to leave you. But I am convinced that Monk is right, and I find it impossible not to support him.”
“I wish that Mr. Monk was at Bath,” said Lord Cantrip.
Phineas could only smile, and shrug his shoulders, and say that even though Mr. Monk were at Bath it would not probably make much difference. When he tendered his letter of resignation, Lord Cantrip begged him to withdraw it for a day or two. He would, he said, speak to Mr. Gresham. The debate on the second reading of Mr. Monk’s bill would not take place till that day week, and the resignation would be in time if it was tendered before Phineas either spoke or voted against the Government. So Phineas went back to his room,
