“Forgive you! When have I been angry with you?”
“Answer me my question, Violet.”
“I will not answer you your question—not that one.”
“What question will you answer?”
“Any that may concern yourself and myself. None that may concern other people.”
“You told me once that you loved me.”
“This moment I told you that I did so—years ago.”
“But now?”
“That is another matter.”
“Violet, do you love me now?”
“That is a point-blank question at any rate,” she said.
“And you will answer it?”
“I must answer it—I suppose.”
“Well, then?”
“Oh, Oswald, what a fool you are! Love you! of course I love you. If you can understand anything, you ought to know that I have never loved anyone else;—that after what has passed between us, I never shall love anyone else. I do love you. There. Whether you throw me away from you, as you did the other day—with great scorn, mind you—or come to me with sweet, beautiful promises, as you do now, I shall love you all the same. I cannot be your wife, if you will not have me; can I? When you run away in your tantrums because I quote something out of the copybook, I can’t run after you. It would not be pretty. But as for loving you, if you doubt that, I tell you, you are a—fool.” As she spoke the last words she pouted out her lips at him, and when he looked into her face he saw that her eyes were full of tears. He was standing now with his arm round her waist, so that it was not easy for him to look into her face.
“I am a fool,” he said.
“Yes;—you are; but I don’t love you the less on that account.”
“I will never doubt it again.”
“No;—do not; and, for me, I will not say another word, whether you choose to heave coals or not. You shall do as you please. I meant to be very wise;—I did indeed.”
“You are the grandest girl that ever was made.”
“I do not want to be grand at all, and I never will be wise any more. Only do not frown at me and look savage.” Then she put up her hand to smooth his brow. “I am half afraid of you still, you know. There. That will do. Now let me go, that I may tell my aunt. During the last two months she has been full of pity for poor Lord Chiltern.”
“It has been poor Lord Chiltern with a vengeance!” said he.
“But now that we have made it up, she will be horrified again at all your wickednesses. You have been a turtle dove lately;—now you will be an ogre again. But, Oswald, you must not be an ogre to me.”
As soon as she could get quit of her lover, she did tell her tale to Lady Baldock. “You have accepted him again!” said her aunt, holding up her hands. “Yes—I have accepted him again,” replied Violet. “Then the responsibility must be on your own shoulders,” said her aunt; “I wash my hands of it.” That evening, when she discussed the matter with her daughter, Lady Baldock spoke of Violet and Lord Chiltern, as though their intended marriage were the one thing in the world which she most deplored.
LXXIV
The Beginning of the End
The day of the debate had come, and Phineas Finn was still sitting in his room at the Colonial Office. But his resignation had been sent in and accepted, and he was simply awaiting the coming of his successor. About noon his successor came, and he had the gratification of resigning his armchair to Mr. Bonteen. It is generally understood that gentlemen leaving offices give up either seals or a portfolio. Phineas had been put in possession of no seal and no portfolio; but there was in the room which he had occupied a special armchair, and this with much regret he surrendered to the use and comfort of Mr. Bonteen. There was a glance of triumph in his enemy’s eyes, and an exultation in the tone of his enemy’s voice, which were very bitter to him. “So you are really going?” said Mr. Bonteen. “Well; I dare say it is all very proper. I don’t quite understand the thing myself, but I have no doubt you are right.” “It isn’t easy to understand; is it?” said Phineas, trying to laugh. But Mr. Bonteen did not feel the intended satire, and poor Phineas found it useless to attempt to punish the man he hated. He left him as quickly as he could, and went to say a few words of farewell to his late chief.
“Goodbye, Finn,” said Lord Cantrip. “It is a great trouble to me that we should have to part in this way.”
“And to me also, my lord. I wish it could have been avoided.”
“You should not have gone to Ireland with so dangerous a man as Mr. Monk. But it is too late to think of that now.”
“The milk is spilt; is it not?”
“But these terrible rendings asunder never last very long,” said Lord Cantrip, “unless a man changes his opinions altogether. How many quarrels and how many reconciliations we have lived to see! I remember when Gresham went out of office, because he could not sit in the same room with Mr. Mildmay, and yet they became the fastest of political friends. There was a time when Plinlimmon and the Duke could not stable their horses together at all; and don’t you remember when Palliser was obliged to give up his hopes of office because he had some bee in his bonnet?” I think, however, that the bee in Mr. Palliser’s bonnet to which Lord Cantrip was alluding made its buzzing audible on some subject that was not exactly political. “We shall have you back again before long, I don’t doubt. Men who can really do their work are too rare to be left long in the comfort of the benches below the gangway.”
