“Exactly.”
“You have already made a name in the greatest senate in the world, and have governed other countries larger than your own—”
“No;—I have not done that. I have governed no country.”
“I tell you, my friend, that you cannot do it. It is out of the question. Men may move forward from little work to big work; but they cannot move back and do little work, when they have had tasks which were really great. I tell you, Mr. Finn, that the House of Parliament is the place for you to work in. It is the only place;—that and the abodes of Ministers. Am not I your friend who tell you this?”
“I know that you are my friend.”
“And will you not credit me when I tell you this? What do you fear, that you should run away? You have no wife;—no children. What is the coming misfortune that you dread?” She paused a moment as though for an answer, and he felt that now had come the time in which it would be well that he should tell her of his engagement with his own Mary. She had received him very playfully; but now within the last few minutes there had come upon her a seriousness of gesture, and almost a solemnity of tone, which made him conscious that he should in no way trifle with her. She was so earnest in her friendship that he owed it to her to tell her everything. But before he could think of the words in which his tale should be told, she had gone on with her quick questions. “Is it solely about money that you fear?” she said.
“It is simply that I have no income on which to live.”
“Have I not offered you money?”
“But, Madame Goesler, you who offer it would yourself despise me if I took it.”
“No;—I do deny it.” As she said this—not loudly but with much emphasis—she came and stood before him where he was sitting. And as he looked at her he could perceive that there was a strength about her of which he had not been aware. She was stronger, larger, more robust physically than he had hitherto conceived. “I do deny it,” she said. “Money is neither god nor devil, that it should make one noble and another vile. It is an accident, and, if honestly possessed, may pass from you to me, or from me to you, without a stain. You may take my dinner from me if I give it you, my flowers, my friendship, my—my—my everything, but my money! Explain to me the cause of the phenomenon. If I give to you a thousand pounds, now this moment, and you take it, you are base;—but if I leave it you in my will—and die—you take it, and are not base. Explain to me the cause of that.”
“You have not said it quite all,” said Phineas hoarsely.
“What have I left unsaid? If I have left anything unsaid, do you say the rest.”
“It is because you are a woman, and young, and beautiful, that no man may take wealth from your hands.”
“Oh, it is that!”
“It is that partly.”
“If I were a man you might take it, though I were young and beautiful as the morning?”
“No;—presents of money are always bad. They stain and load the spirit, and break the heart.”
“And specially when given by a woman’s hand?”
“It seems so to me. But I cannot argue of it. Do not let us talk of it any more.”
“Nor can I argue. I cannot argue, but I can be generous—very generous. I can deny myself for my friend—can even lower myself in my own esteem for my friend. I can do more than a man can do for a friend. You will not take money from my hand?”
“No, Madame Goesler;—I cannot do that.”
“Take the hand then first. When it and all that it holds are your own, you can help yourself as you list.” So saying, she stood before him with her right hand stretched out towards him.
What man will say that he would not have been tempted? Or what woman will declare that such temptation should have had no force? The very air of the room in which she dwelt was sweet in his nostrils, and there hovered around her an halo of grace and beauty which greeted all his senses. She invited him to join his lot to hers, in order that she might give to him all that was needed to make his life rich and glorious. How would the Ratlers and the Bonteens envy him when they heard of the prize which had become his! The Cantrips and the Greshams would feel that he was a friend doubly valuable, if he could be won back; and Mr. Monk would greet him as a fitting ally—an ally strong with the strength which he had before wanted. With whom would he not be equal? Whom need he fear? Who would not praise him? The story of his poor Mary would be known only in a small village, out beyond the Channel. The temptation certainly was very strong.
But he had not a moment in which to doubt. She was standing there with her face turned from him, but with her hand still stretched towards him. Of course he took it. What man so placed could do other than take a woman’s hand?
“My friend,” he said.
“I will be called friend by you no more,” she said. “You must call me Marie, your own Marie, or you must never call me by any name again. Which shall it be, sir?” He paused a moment, holding her hand, and she let it lie there for an instant while she listened. But still she did not look at him. “Speak to me! Tell me! Which shall it be?” Still he paused. “Speak to me. Tell me!” she said again.
“It cannot be as you have hinted to me,” he said at last. His words did not come louder
