CHAPTER LXXVIII.
THE LAST VISIT TO SAULSBY.
Phineas, as he journeyed down to Saulsby, knew that he had in truthmade up his mind. He was going thither nominally that he mightlisten to the advice of almost his oldest political friend before heresolved on a matter of vital importance to himself; but in truth hewas making the visit because he felt that he could not excuse himselffrom it without unkindness and ingratitude. She had implored him tocome, and he was bound to go, and there were tidings to be told whichhe must tell. It was not only that he might give her his reasons fornot becoming an Under-Secretary of State that he went to Saulsby.He felt himself bound to inform her that he intended to ask MarieGoesler to be his wife. He might omit to do so till he had askedthe question,--and then say nothing of what he had done shouldhis petition be refused; but it seemed to him that there would becowardice in this. He was bound to treat Lady Laura as his friendin a special degree, as something more than his sister,--and he wasbound above all things to make her understand in some plainest mannerthat she could be nothing more to him than such a friend. In hisdealings with her he had endeavoured always to be honest,--gentle aswell as honest; but now it was specially his duty to be honest toher. When he was young he had loved her, and had told her so,--andshe had refused him. As a friend he had been true to her ever since,but that offer could never be repeated. And the other offer,--to thewoman whom she was now accustomed to abuse,--must be made. ShouldLady Laura choose to quarrel with him it must be so; but the quarrelshould not be of his seeking.
He was quite sure that he would refuse Mr. Gresham's offer, althoughby doing so he would himself throw away the very thing which he haddevoted his life to acquire. In a foolish, soft moment,--as he nowconfessed to himself,--he had endeavoured to obtain for his ownposition the sympathy of the Minister. He had spoken of the calumnieswhich had hurt him, and of his sufferings when he found himselfexcluded from place in consequence of the evil stories which hadbeen told of him. Mr. Gresham had, in fact, declined to listen tohim;--had said Yes or No was all that he required, and had gone on toexplain that he would be unable to understand the reasons proposed tobe given even were he to hear them. Phineas had felt himself to berepulsed, and would at once have shown his anger, had not the PrimeMinister silenced him for the moment by a civilly-worded repetitionof the offer made.
But the offer should certainly be declined. As he told himself thatit must be so, he endeavoured to analyse the causes of this decision,but was hardly successful. He had thought that he could explain thereasons to the Minister, but found himself incapable of explainingthem to himself. In regard to means of subsistence he was no betteroff now than when he began the world. He was, indeed, withoutincumbrance, but was also without any means of procuring an income.For the last twelve months he had been living on his little capital,and two years more of such life would bring him to the end of allthat he had. There was, no doubt, one view of his prospects which wasbright enough. If Marie Goesler accepted him, he need not, at anyrate, look about for the means of earning a living. But he assuredhimself with perfect confidence that no hope in that direction wouldhave any influence upon the answer he would give to Mr. Gresham. Hadnot Marie Goesler herself been most urgent with him in begging him toaccept the offer; and was he not therefore justified in concludingthat she at least had thought it necessary that he should earn hisbread? Would her heart be softened towards him,--would any furthersoftening be necessary,--by his obstinate refusal to comply with heradvice? The two things had no reference to each other,--and should beregarded by him as perfectly distinct. He would refuse Mr. Gresham'soffer,--not because he hoped that he might live in idleness on thewealth of the woman he loved,--but because the chicaneries andintrigues of office had become distasteful to him. "I don't knowwhich are the falser," he said to himself, "the mock courtesies orthe mock indignations of statesmen."
He found the Earl's carriage waiting for him at the station, andthought of many former days, as he was carried through the littletown for which he had sat in Parliament, up to the house which hehad once visited in the hope of wooing Violet Effingham. The womenwhom he had loved had all, at any rate, become his friends, and histhorough friendships were almost all with women. He and Lord Chilternregarded each other with warm affection; but there was hardlyground for real sympathy between them. It was the same with Mr. Lowand Barrington Erle. Were he to die there would be no gap in theirlives;--were they to die there would be none in his. But with VioletEffingham,--as he still loved to call her to himself,--he thought itwould be different. When the carriage stopped at the hall door he wasthinking of her rather than of Lady Laura Kennedy.
He was shown at once to his bedroom,--the very room in which he hadwritten the letter to Lord Chiltern which had brought about the duelat Blankenberg. He was told that he would find Lady Laura in thedrawing-room waiting for dinner for him. The Earl had already dined.
"I am so glad you are come," said Lady Laura, welcoming him. "Papa isnot very well and dined early, but I have waited for you, of course.Of course I have. You did not suppose I would let you sit down alone?I would not see you before you dressed because I knew that you mustbe tired and hungry, and that the sooner you got down the better. Hasit not been hot?"
"And so dusty! I only left Matching yesterday, and seem to have beenon the railway ever since."
"Government officials have to take frequent journeys, Mr. Finn. Howlong will it be before you have to go down to Scotland twice in oneweek, and back as often to form a Ministry? Your next journey must beinto the dining-room;--in making which will you give me your arm?"
She was, he thought, lighter in heart and pleasanter in manner thanshe had been since her return from Dresden. When she had made herlittle joke about his future ministerial duties the servant had beenin the room, and he had not, therefore, stopped her by a seriousanswer. And now she was solicitous about his dinner,--anxious thathe should enjoy the good things set before him, as is the manner ofloving women, pressing him to take wine, and playing the good hostessin all things. He smiled, and ate, and drank, and was graciousunder her petting; but he had a weight on his bosom, knowing, ashe did, that he must say that before long which would turn allher playfulness either to anger or to grief. "And who had you atMatching?" she asked.
"Just the usual set."
"Minus the poor old Duke?"
"Yes; minus the old Duke certainly. The greatest change is in thename. Lady Glencora was so specially Lady Glencora that she ought tohave been Lady Glencora to the end. Everybody calls her Duchess, butit does not sound half so nice."
"And is he altered?"
"Not in the least. You can trace the lines of lingering regret uponhis countenance when people be-Grace him; but that is all. There wasalways about him a simple dignity which made it impossible that anyone should slap him on the back; and that of course remains. He isthe same Planty Pall; but I doubt whether any man ever ventured tocall him Planty Pall to his face since he left Eton."
"The house was full, I suppose?"
"There were a great many there; among others Sir Gregory Grogram, whoapologised to me for having tried to--put an end to my career."
"Oh, Phineas!"
"And Sir Harry Coldfoot, who seemed to take some credit to himselffor having allowed the jury to acquit me. And Chiltern and his wifewere there for a day or two."
"What could take Oswald there?"
"An embassy of State about the foxes. The Duke's property runs intohis country. She is one of the best women that ever lived."
"Violet?"
"And one of the best wives."
"She ought to be, for she is one of the happiest. What can she wishfor that she has not got? Was your great friend there?"
He knew well what great friend she meant. "Madame Max Goesler wasthere."
"I suppose so. I can never quite forgive Lady Glencora for herintimacy with that woman."
"Do not abuse her, Lady Laura."
"I do not intend,--not to you at any rate. But I can betterunderstand
that she should receive the admiration of a gentleman thanthe affectionate friendship of a lady. That the old Duke should havebeen infatuated was intelligible."
"She was very good to the old Duke."
"But it was a kind of goodness which was hardly likely to recommenditself to his nephew's wife. Never mind; we won't talk about her now.Barrington was there?"
"For a day or two."
"He seems to be wasting his life."
"Subordinates in office generally do, I think."
"Do not say that, Phineas."
"Some few push through, and one can almost always foretell whothe few will be. There are men who are destined always to occupysecond-rate places, and who seem also to know their fate. I neverheard Erle speak even of an ambition to sit in the Cabinet."
"He likes to be useful."
"All that part of the business which distresses me is pleasantto him. He is fond of arrangements, and delights in little partysuccesses. Either to effect or to avoid a count-out is a job ofwork to his taste, and he loves to get the better of the Oppositionby keeping it in the dark. A successful plot is as dear to him asto a writer of plays. And yet he is never bitter as is Ratler, orunscrupulous as was poor Mr. Bonteen, or full of wrath as is LordFawn. Nor is he idle like Fitzgibbon. Erle always earns his salary."
"When I said he was wasting his life, I meant that he did not marry.But perhaps a man in his position had better remain unmarried."Phineas tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded well. "That, however, isa delicate subject, and we will not touch it now. If you won't drinkany wine we might as well go into the other room."
Nothing had as yet been said on either of the subjects which hadbrought him to Saulsby, but there had been words which made theintroduction of them peculiarly unpleasant. His tidings, however,must be told. "I shall not see Lord Brentford to-night?" he asked,when they were together in the drawing-room.
"If you wish it you can go up to him. He will not come down."
"Oh, no. It is only because I must return to-morrow."
"To-morrow, Phineas!"
"I must do so. I have pledged myself to see Mr. Monk,--and othersalso."
"It is a short visit to make to us on my first return home! I hardlyexpected you at Loughlinter, but I thought that you might haveremained a few nights under my father's roof." He could only reasserthis assurance that he was bound to be back in London, and explain asbest he might that he had come to Saulsby for a single night, onlybecause he would not refuse her request to him. "I will not troubleyou, Phineas, by complaints," she said.
"I would give you no cause for complaint if I could avoid it."
"And now tell me what has passed between you and Mr. Gresham," shesaid as soon as the servant had given them coffee. They were sittingby a window which opened down to the ground, and led on to theterrace and to the lawns below. The night was soft, and the air washeavy with the scent of many flowers. It was now past nine, and thesun had set; but there was a bright harvest moon, and the light,though pale, was clear as that of day. "Will you come and take a turnround the garden? We shall be better there than sitting here. I willget my hat; can I find yours for you?" So they both strolled out,down the terrace steps, and went forth, beyond the gardens, into thepark, as though they had both intended from the first that it shouldbe so. "I know you have not accepted Mr. Gresham's offer, or youwould have told me so."
"I have not accepted."
"Nor have you refused?"
"No; it is still open. I must send my answer by telegramto-morrow--Yes or No,--Mr. Gresham's time is too precious to admit ofmore."
"Phineas, for Heaven's sake do not allow little feelings to injureyou at such a time as this. It is of your own career, not of Mr.Gresham's manners, that you should think."
"I have nothing to object to in Mr. Gresham. Yes or No will be quitesufficient."
"It must be Yes."
"It cannot be Yes, Lady Laura. That which I desired so ardently sixmonths ago has now become so distasteful to me that I cannot acceptit. There is an amount of hustling on the Treasury Bench which makesa seat there almost ignominious."
"Do they hustle more than they did three years ago?"
"I think they do, or if not it is more conspicuous to my eyes. Ido not say that it need be ignominious. To such a one as was Mr.Palliser it certainly is not so. But it becomes so when a man goesthere to get his bread, and has to fight his way as though for barelife. When office first comes, unasked for, almost unexpected, fullof the charms which distance lends, it is pleasant enough. Thenew-comer begins to feel that he too is entitled to rub his shouldersamong those who rule the world of Great Britain. But when it has beenexpected, longed for as I longed for it, asked for by my friendsand refused, when all the world comes to know that you are a suitorfor that which should come without any suit,--then the pleasantnessvanishes."
"I thought it was to be your career."
"And I hoped so."
"What will you do, Phineas? You cannot live without an income."
"I must try," he said, laughing.
"You will not share with your friend, as a friend should?"
"No, Lady Laura. That cannot be done."
"I do not see why it cannot. Then you might be independent."
"Then I should indeed be dependent."
"You are too proud to owe me anything."
He wanted to tell her that he was too proud to owe such obligation asshe had suggested to any man or any woman; but he hardly knew how todo so, intending as he did to inform her before they returned to thehouse of his intention to ask Madame Goesler to be his wife. He coulddiscern the difference between enjoying his wife's fortune and takinggifts of money from one who was bound to him by no tie;--but to herin her present mood he could explain no such distinction. On a suddenhe rushed at the matter in his mind. It had to be done, and must bedone before he brought her back to the house. He was conscious thathe had in no degree ill-used her. He had in nothing deceived her. Hehad kept back from her nothing which the truest friendship had calledupon him to reveal to her. And yet he knew that her indignation wouldrise hot within her at his first word. "Laura," he said, forgettingin his confusion to remember her rank, "I had better tell you at oncethat I have determined to ask Madame Goesler to be my wife."
"Oh, then;--of course your income is certain."
"If you choose to regard my conduct in that light I cannot help it. Ido not think that I deserve such reproach."
"Why not tell it all? You are engaged to her?"
"Not so. I have not asked her yet."
"And why do you come to me with the story of your intentions,--to meof all persons in the world? I sometimes think that of all the heartsthat ever dwelt within a man's bosom yours is the hardest."
"For God's sake do not say that of me."
"Do you remember when you came to me about Violet,--to me,--to me? Icould bear it then because she was good and earnest, and a woman thatI could love even though she robbed me. And I strove for you evenagainst my own heart,--against my own brother. I did; I did. But howam I to bear it now? What shall I do now? She is a woman I loathe."
"Because you do not know her."
"Not know her! And are your eyes so clear at seeing that you mustknow her better than others? She was the Duke's mistress."
"That is untrue, Lady Laura."
"But what difference does it make to me? I shall be sure that youwill have bread to eat, and horses to ride, and a seat in Parliamentwithout being forced to earn it by your labour. We shall meet nomore, of course."
"I do not think that you can mean that."
"I will never receive that woman, nor will I cross the sill of herdoor. Why should I?"
"Should she become my wife,--that I would have thought might havebeen the reason why."
"Surely, Phineas, no man ever understood a woman so ill as you do."
"Because I would fain hope that I need not quarrel with my oldestfriend?"
"Yes, sir; because you think you can do this without quarrelling. Howshould
I speak to her of you; how listen to what she would tell me?Phineas, you have killed me at last." Why could he not tell her thatit was she who had done the wrong when she gave her hand to RobertKennedy? But he could not tell her, and he was dumb. "And so it'ssettled!"
"No; not settled."
"Psha! I hate your mock modesty! It is settled. You have become fartoo cautious to risk fortune in such an adventure. Practice hastaught you to be perfect. It was to tell me this that you came downhere."
"Partly so."
"It would have been more generous of you, sir, to have remainedaway."
"I did not mean to be ungenerous."
Then she suddenly turned upon him, throwing her arms round his neck,and burying her face upon his bosom. They were at the moment in thecentre of the park, on the grass beneath the trees, and the moon wasbright over their heads. He held her to his breast while she sobbed,and then relaxed his hold as she raised herself to look into hisface. After a moment she took his hat from his head with one hand,and with the other swept the hair back from his brow. "Oh, Phineas,"she said, "Oh, my darling! My idol that I have worshipped when Ishould have worshipped my God!"
Then she suddenly turned upon him, throwingher arms round his neck.]
After that they roamed for nearly an hour backwards and forwardsbeneath the trees, till at last she became calm and almostreasonable. She acknowledged that she had long expected such amarriage, looking forward to it as a great sorrow. She repeatedover and over again her assertion that she could not "know" MadameGoesler as the wife of Phineas, but abstained from further evil wordsrespecting the lady. "It is better that we should be apart," she saidat last. "I feel that it is better. When we are both old, if I shouldlive, we may meet again. I knew that it was coming, and we had betterpart." And yet they remained out there, wandering about the park fora long portion of the summer night. She did not reproach him again,nor did she speak much of the future; but she alluded to all theincidents of their past life, showing him that nothing which he haddone, no words which he had spoken, had been forgotten by her. "Ofcourse it has been my fault," she said, as at last she parted withhim in the drawing-room. "When I was younger I did not understandhow strong the heart can be. I should have known it, and I payfor my ignorance with the penalty of my whole life." Then he lefther, kissing her on both cheeks and on her brow, and went to hisbedroom with the understanding that he would start for London on thefollowing morning before she was up.