CHAPTER LXXIX.
AT LAST--AT LAST.
As he took his ticket Phineas sent his message to the Prime Minister,taking that personage literally at his word. The message was, No.When writing it in the office it seemed to him to be uncourteous, buthe found it difficult to add any other words that should make it lessso. He supplemented it with a letter on his arrival in London, inwhich he expressed his regret that certain circumstances of his lifewhich had occurred during the last month or two made him unfit toundertake the duties of the very pleasant office to which Mr. Greshamhad kindly offered to appoint him. That done, he remained in townbut one night, and then set his face again towards Matching. Whenhe reached that place it was already known that he had refused toaccept Mr. Gresham's offer, and he was met at once with regrets andcondolements. "I am sorry that it must be so," said the Duke,--whowas sorry, for he liked the man, but who said not a word moreupon the subject. "You are still young, and will have furtheropportunities," said Lord Cantrip, "but I wish that you could haveconsented to come back to your old chair." "I hope that at anyrate we shall not have you against us," said Sir Harry Coldfoot.Among themselves they declared one to another that he had been socompletely upset by his imprisonment and subsequent trial as to beunable to undertake the work proposed to him. "It is not a very nicething, you know, to be accused of murder," said Sir Gregory, "and topass a month or two under the full conviction that you are going tobe hung. He'll come right again some day. I only hope it may not betoo late."
"So you have decided for freedom?" said Madame Goesler to him thatevening,--the evening of the day on which he had returned.
"Yes, indeed."
"I have nothing to say against your decision now. No doubt yourfeelings have prompted you right."
"Now that it is done, of course I am full of regrets," said Phineas.
"That is simple human nature, I suppose."
"Simple enough; and the worst of it is that I cannot quite explaineven to myself why I have done it. Every friend I had in the worldtold me that I was wrong, and yet I could not help myself. The thingwas offered to me, not because I was thought to be fit for it, butbecause I had become wonderful by being brought near to a violentdeath! I remember once, when I was a child, having a rocking-horsegiven to me because I had fallen from the top of the house to thebottom without breaking my neck. The rocking-horse was very wellthen, but I don't care now to have one bestowed upon me for any suchreason."
"Still, if the rocking-horse is in itself a good rocking-horse--"
"But it isn't."
"I don't mean to say a word against your decision."
"It isn't good. It is one of those toys which look to be so verydesirable in the shop-windows, but which give no satisfaction whenthey are brought home. I'll tell you what occurred the other day. Thecircumstances happen to be known to me, though I cannot tell you myauthority. My dear old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon, in the performanceof his official duties, had to give an opinion on a matter affectingan expenditure of some thirty or forty thousand pounds of publicmoney. I don't think that Laurence has generally a very strong biasthis way or that on such questions, but in the case in question hetook upon himself to be very decided. He wrote, or got some one towrite, a report proving that the service of the country imperativelydemanded that the money should be spent, and in doing so was strictlywithin his duty."
"I am glad to hear that he can be so energetic."
"The Chancellor of the Exchequer got hold of the matter, and toldFitzgibbon that the thing couldn't be done."
"That was all right and constitutional, I suppose."
"Quite right and constitutional. But something had to be said aboutit in the House, and Laurence, with all his usual fluency andbeautiful Irish brogue, got up and explained that the money would beabsolutely thrown away if expended on a purpose so futile as thatproposed. I am assured that the great capacity which he has thusshown for official work and official life will cover a multitude ofsins."
"You would hardly have taken Mr. Fitzgibbon as your model statesman."
"Certainly not;--and if the story affected him only it would hardlybe worth telling. But the point of it lies in this;--that hedisgusted no one by what he did. The Chancellor of the Exchequerthinks him a very convenient man to have about him, and Mr. Greshamfeels the comfort of possessing tools so pliable."
"Do you think that public life then is altogether a mistake, Mr.Finn?"
"For a poor man I think that it is, in this country. A man of fortunemay be independent; and because he has the power of independencethose who are higher than he will not expect him to be subservient.A man who takes to parliamentary office for a living may live by it,but he will have but a dog's life of it."
"If I were you, Mr. Finn, I certainly would not choose a dog's life."
He said not a word to her on that occasion about herself, havingmade up his mind that a certain period of the following day shouldbe chosen for the purpose, and he had hardly yet arranged in hismind what words he would use on that occasion. It seemed to him thatthere would be so much to be said that he must settle beforehand someorder of saying it. It was not as though he had merely to tell her ofhis love. There had been talk of love between them before, on whichoccasion he had been compelled to tell her that he could not acceptthat which she offered to him. It would be impossible, he knew, notto refer to that former conversation. And then he had to tell herthat he, now coming to her as a suitor and knowing her to be a veryrich woman, was himself all but penniless. He was sure, or almostsure, that she was as well aware of this fact as he was himself; but,nevertheless, it was necessary that he should tell her of it,--and ifpossible so tell her as to force her to believe him when he assuredher that he asked her to be his wife, not because she was rich, butbecause he loved her. It was impossible that all this should be saidas they sat side by side in the drawing-room with a crowd of peoplealmost within hearing, and Madame Goesler had just been called uponto play, which she always did directly she was asked. He was invitedto make up a rubber, but he could not bring himself to care for cardsat the present moment. So he sat apart and listened to the music.
If all things went right with him to-morrow that music,--or themusician who made it,--would be his own for the rest of his life. Washe justified in expecting that she would give him so much? Of hergreat regard for him as a friend he had no doubt. She had shown it invarious ways, and after a fashion that had made it known to all theworld. But so had Lady Laura regarded him when he first told her ofhis love at Loughlinter. She had been his dearest friend, but she haddeclined to become his wife; and it had been partly so with VioletEffingham, whose friendship to him had been so sweet as to make himfor a while almost think that there was more than friendship. MarieGoesler had certainly once loved him;--but so had he once loved LauraStandish. He had been wretched for a while because Lady Laura hadrefused him. His feelings now were altogether changed, and why shouldnot the feelings of Madame Goesler have undergone a similar change?There was no doubt of her friendship; but then neither was there anydoubt of his for Lady Laura. And in spite of her friendship, wouldnot revenge be dear to her,--revenge of that nature which a slightedwoman must always desire? He had rejected her, and would it not befair also that he should be rejected? "I suppose you'll be in yourown room before lunch to-morrow," he said to her as they separatedfor the night. It had come to pass from the constancy of her visitsto Matching in the old Duke's time, that a certain small morning-roomhad been devoted to her, and this was still supposed to be herproperty,--so that she was not driven to herd with the public or toremain in her bedroom during all the hours of the morning. "Yes," shesaid; "I shall go out immediately after breakfast, but I shall soonbe driven in by the heat, and then I shall be there till lunch. TheDuchess always comes about half-past twelve, to complain generally ofthe guests." She answered him quite at her ease, making arrangementfor privacy if he should desire it, but doing so as though shethought that he wanted to talk to her about his trial, or aboutpolitics, or the place he h
ad just refused. Surely she would hardlyhave answered him after such a fashion had she suspected that heintended to ask her to be his wife.
At a little before noon the next morning he knocked at her door, andwas told to enter. "I didn't go out after all," she said. "I hadn'tcourage to face the sun."
"I saw that you were not in the garden."
"If I could have found you I would have told you that I should behere all the morning. I might have sent you a message, only--onlyI didn't."
"I have come--"
"I know why you have come."
"I doubt that. I have come to tell you that I love you."
"Oh Phineas;--at last, at last!" And in a moment she was in his arms.
It seemed to him that from that moment all the explanations, and allthe statements, and most of the assurances were made by her and notby him. After this first embrace he found himself seated beside her,holding her hand. "I do not know that I am right," said he.
"Why not right?"
"Because you are rich and I have nothing."
"If you ever remind me of that again I will strike you," she said,raising up her little fist and bringing it down with gentle pressureon his shoulder. "Between you and me there must be nothing more aboutthat. It must be an even partnership. There must be ever so muchabout money, and you'll have to go into dreadful details, and makejourneys to Vienna to see that the houses don't tumble down;--butthere must be no question between you and me of whence it came."
"You will not think that I have to come to you for that?"
"Have you ever known me to have a low opinion of myself? Is itprobable that I shall account myself to be personally so mean and ofso little value as to imagine that you cannot love me? I know youlove me. But Phineas, I have not been sure till very lately that youwould ever tell me so. As for me--! Oh, heavens! when I think of it."
"Tell me that you love me now."
"I think I have said so plainly enough. I have never ceased to loveyou since I first knew you well enough for love. And I'll tell youmore,--though perhaps I shall say what you will think condemnsme;--you are the only man I ever loved. My husband was very goodto me,--and I was, I think, good to him. But he was many years mysenior, and I cannot say I loved him,--as I do you." Then she turnedto him, and put her head on his shoulder. "And I loved the old Duke,too, after a fashion. But it was a different thing from this. I willtell you something about him some day that I have never yet told to ahuman being."
"Tell me now."
"No; not till I am your wife. You must trust me. But I will tellyou," she said, "lest you should be miserable. He asked me to be hiswife."
"The old Duke?"
"Yes, indeed, and I refused to be a--duchess. Lady Glencora knew itall, and, just at the time I was breaking my heart,--like a fool, foryou! Yes, for you! But I got over it, and am not broken-hearted abit. Oh, Phineas, I am so happy now."
Exactly at the time she had mentioned on the previous evening, athalf-past twelve, the door was opened, and the Duchess entered theroom. "Oh dear," she exclaimed, "perhaps I am in the way; perhaps Iam interrupting secrets."
"No, Duchess."
"Shall I retire? I will at once if there be anything confidentialgoing on."
"It has gone on already, and been completed," said Madame Goeslerrising from her seat. "It is only a trifle. Mr. Finn has asked me tobe his wife."
"Well?"
"I couldn't refuse Mr. Finn a little thing like that."
"I should think not, after going all the way to Prague to find alatch-key! I congratulate you, Mr. Finn, with all my heart."
"Thanks, Duchess."
"And when is it to be?"
"We have not thought about that yet, Mr. Finn,--have we?" said MadameGoesler.
"Adelaide Palliser is going to be married from here some time in theautumn," said the Duchess, "and you two had better take advantage ofthe occasion." This plan, however, was considered as being too rapidand rash. Marriage is a very serious affair, and many things wouldrequire arrangement. A lady with the wealth which belonged to MadameGoesler cannot bestow herself off-hand as may a curate's daughter,let her be ever so willing to give her money as well as herself. Itwas impossible that a day should be fixed quite at once; but theDuchess was allowed to understand that the affair might be mentioned.Before dinner on that day every one of the guests at Matching Prioryknew that the man who had refused to be made Under-Secretary of Statehad been accepted by that possessor of fabulous wealth who was wellknown to the world as Madame Goesler of Park Lane. "I am very gladthat you did not take office under Mr. Gresham," she said to him whenthey first met each other again in London. "Of course when I wasadvising you I could not be sure that this would happen. Now you canbide your time, and if the opportunity offers you can go to workunder better auspices."
CHAPTER LXXX.
CONCLUSION.
There remains to us the very easy task of collecting together theends of the thread of our narrative, and tying them into a simpleknot, so that there may be no unravelling. Of Mr. Emilius it has beenalready said that his good fortune clung to him so far that it wasfound impossible to connect him with the tragedy of Bolton Row. Buthe was made to vanish for a certain number of years from the world,and dear little Lizzie Eustace was left a free woman. When last weheard of her she was at Naples, and there was then a rumour thatshe was about to join her fate to that of Lord George de BruceCarruthers, with whom pecuniary matters had lately not been goingcomfortably. Let us hope that the match, should it be a match, maylead to the happiness and respectability of both of them.
As all the world knows, Lord and Lady Chiltern still live atHarrington Hall, and he has been considered to do very well withthe Brake country. He still grumbles about Trumpeton Wood, and saysthat it will take a lifetime to repair the injuries done by Mr.Fothergill;--but then who ever knew a Master of Hounds who wasn'till-treated by the owners of coverts?
Of Mr. Tom Spooner it can only be said that he is still a bachelor,living with his cousin Ned, and that none of the neighbours expectto see a lady at Spoon Hall. In one winter, after the period of hismisfortune, he became slack about his hunting, and there were rumoursthat he was carrying out that terrible threat of his as to thecrusade which he would go to find a cure for his love. But his cousintook him in hand somewhat sharply, made him travel abroad during thesummer, and brought him out the next season, "as fresh as paint,"as the members of the Brake Hunt declared. It was known to everysportsman in the country that poor Mr. Spooner had been in love; butthe affair was allowed to be a mystery, and no one ever spoke toSpooner himself upon the subject. It is probable that he now reaps noslight amount of gratification from his memory of the romance.
The marriage between Gerard Maule and Adelaide Palliser wascelebrated with great glory at Matching, and was mentioned in all theleading papers as an alliance in high life. When it became known toMr. Maule, Senior, that this would be so, and that the lady wouldhave a very considerable fortune from the old Duke, he reconciledhimself to the marriage altogether, and at once gave way in thatmatter of Maule Abbey. Nothing he thought would be more suitable thanthat the young people should live at the old family place. So MauleAbbey was fitted up, and Mr. and Mrs. Maule have taken up theirresidence there. Under the influence of his wife he has promised toattend to his farming, and proposes to do no more than go out and seethe hounds when they come into his neighbourhood. Let us hope that hemay prosper. Should the farming come to a good end more will probablyhave been due to his wife's enterprise than to his own. The energeticfather is, as all the world knows, now in pursuit of a widow withthree thousand a year who has lately come out in Cavendish Square.
Of poor Lord Fawn no good account can be given. To his thinking,official life had none of those drawbacks with which the fantasticfeelings of Phineas Finn had invested it. He could have been happyfor ever at the India Board or at the Colonial Office;--but his lifewas made a burden to him by the affair of the Bonteen murder. He wascharged with having nearly led to the fatal catastrophe of Ph
ineasFinn's condemnation by his erroneous evidence, and he could not bearthe accusation. Then came the further affair of Mr. Emilius, and hismind gave way;--and he disappeared. Let us hope that he may returnsome day with renewed health, and again be of service to his country.
Poetical justice reached Mr. Quintus Slide of The People's Banner.The acquittal and following glories of Phineas Finn were gall andwormwood to him; and he continued his attack upon the member forTankerville even after it was known that he had refused office, andwas about to be married to Madame Goesler. In these attacks he madeallusions to Lady Laura which brought Lord Chiltern down upon him,and there was an action for libel. The paper had to pay damages andcosts, and the proprietors resolved that Mr. Quintus Slide was tooenergetic for their purposes. He is now earning his bread in somehumble capacity on the staff of The Ballot Box,--which is supposedto be the most democratic daily newspaper published in London. Mr.Slide has, however, expressed his intention of seeking his fortune inNew York.
Laurence Fitzgibbon certainly did himself a good turn by his obligingdeference to the opinion of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He hasbeen in office ever since. It must be acknowledged of all our leadingstatesmen that gratitude for such services is their characteristic.It is said that he spends much of his eloquence in endeavouring tomake his wife believe that the air of County Mayo is the sweetest inthe world. Hitherto, since his marriage, this eloquence has beenthrown away, for she has always been his companion through theSession in London.
It is rumoured that Barrington Erle is to be made Secretary forIreland, but his friends doubt whether the office will suit him.
The marriage between Marie Goesler and our hero did not take placetill October, and then they went abroad for the greater part of thewinter, Phineas having received leave of absence officially fromthe Speaker and unofficially from his constituents. After all thathe had gone through it was acknowledged that so much ease shouldbe permitted to him. They went first to Vienna, and then back intoItaly, and were unheard of by their English friends for nearly sixmonths. In April they reappeared in London, and the house in ParkLane was opened with great _eclat_. Of Phineas every one says thatof all living men he has been the most fortunate. The present writerwill not think so unless he shall soon turn his hand to some usefultask. Those who know him best say that he will of course go intooffice before long.
Of poor Lady Laura hardly a word need be said. She lives at Saulsbythe life of a recluse, and the old Earl her father is still alive.
The Duke, as all the world knows, is on the very eve of success withthe decimal coinage. But his hair is becoming grey, and his back isbecoming bent; and men say that he will never live as long as hisuncle. But then he will have done a great thing,--and his uncle didonly little things. Of the Duchess no word need be said. Nothing willever change the Duchess.
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