Then he thought of her personal appearance. As yet he had hardly looked at her, but he felt that she had become old and worn, angular and hard-visaged. All this had no effect upon his feelings towards her, but filled him with ineffable regret. When he had first known her she had been a woman with a noble presence — not soft and feminine as had been Violet Effingham, but handsome and lustrous, with a healthy youth. In regard to age he and she were of the same standing. That he knew well. She had passed her thirty-second birthday, but that was all. He felt himself to be still a young man, but he could not think of her as of a young woman.
When he went down she had been listening for his footsteps, and met him at the door of the room. “Now sit down,” she said, “and be comfortable — if you can, with German surroundings. They are almost always late, and never give one any time. Everybody says so. The station at Leipsic is dreadful, I know. Good coffee is very well, but what is the use of good coffee if you have no time to drink it? You must eat our omelette. If there is one thing we can do better than you it is to make an omelette. Yes, — that is genuine German sausage. There is always some placed upon the table, but the Germans who come here never touch it themselves. You will have a cutlet, won’t you? I breakfasted an hour ago, and more. I would not wait because then I thought I could talk to you better, and wait upon you. I did not think that anything would ever please me so much again as your coming has done. Oh, how much we shall have to say! Do you remember when we last parted; — when you were going back to Ireland?”
“I remember it well.”
“Ah me; as I look back upon it all, how strange it seems. I dare say you don’t remember the first day I met you, at Mr. Mildmay’s, — when I asked you to come to Portman Square because Barrington had said that you were clever?”
“I remember well going to Portman Square.”
“That was the beginning of it all. Oh dear, oh dear; when I think of it I find it so hard to see where I have been right, and where I have been wrong. If I had not been very wrong all this evil could not have come upon me.”
“Misfortune has not always been deserved.”
“I am sure it has been so with me. You can smoke here if you like.” This Phineas persistently refused to do. “You may if you please. Papa never comes in here, and I don’t mind it. You’ll settle down in a day or two, and understand the extent of your liberties. Tell me first about Violet. She is happy?”
“Quite happy, I think.”
“I knew he would be good to her. But does she like the kind of life?”
“Oh, yes.”
“She has a baby, and therefore of course she is happy. She says he is the finest fellow in the world.”
“I dare say he is. They all seem to be contented with him, but they don’t talk much about him.”
“No; they wouldn’t. Had you a child you would have talked about him, Phineas. I should have loved my baby better than all the world, but I should have been silent about him. With Violet of course her husband is the first object. It would certainly be so from her nature. And so Oswald is quite tame?”
“I don’t know that he is very tame out hunting.”
“But to her?”
“I should think always. She, you know, is very clever.”
“So clever!”
“And would be sure to steer clear of all offence,” said Phineas, enthusiastically.
“While I could never for an hour avoid it. Did they say anything about the journey to Flanders?”
“Chiltern did, frequently. He made me strip my shoulder to show him the place where he hit me.”
“How like Oswald!”
“And he told me that he would have given one of his eyes to kill me, only Colepepper wouldn’t let him go on. He half quarrelled with his second, but the man told him that I had not fired at him, and the thing must drop. ‘It’s better as it is, you know,’ he said. And I agreed with him.”
“And how did Violet receive you?”
“Like an angel, — as she is.”
“Well, yes. I’ll grant she is an angel now. I was angry with her once, you know. You men find so many angels in your travels. You have been honester than some. You have generally been off with the old angel before you were on with the new, — as far at least as I knew.”
“Is that meant for rebuke, Lady Laura?”
“No, my friend; no. That is all over. I said to myself when you told me that you would come, that I would not utter one ill-natured word. And I told myself more than that!”
“What more?”
“That you had never deserved it, — at least from me. But surely you were the most simple of men.”
“I dare say.”
“Men when they are true are simple. They are often false as hell, and then they are crafty as Lucifer. But the man who is true judges others by himself, — almost without reflection. A woman can be true as steel and cunning at the same time. How cunning was Violet, and yet she never deceived one of her lovers, even by a look. Did she?”
“She never deceived me, — if you mean that. She never cared a straw about me, and told me so to my face very plainly.”
“She did care, — many straws. But I think she always loved Oswald. She refused him again and again, because she thought it wrong to run a great risk, but I knew she would never marry any one else. How little Lady Baldock understood her. Fancy your meeting Lady Baldock at Oswald’s house!”
“Fancy Augusta Boreham turning nun!”
“How exquisitely grotesque it must have been when she made her complaint to you.”
“I pitied her with all my heart.”
“Of course you did, — because you are so soft. And now, Phineas, we will put it off no longer. Tell me all that you have to tell me about him.”
CHAPTER XII
Königstein
Phineas Finn and Lady Laura Kennedy sat together discussing the affairs of the past till the servant told them that “My Lord” was in the next room, and ready to receive Mr. Finn. “You will find him much altered,” said Lady Laura, “even more than I am.”
“I do not find you altered at all.”
“Yes, you do, — in appearance. I am a middle-aged woman, and conscious that I may use my privileges as such. But he has become quite an old man, — not in health so much as in manner. But he will be very glad to see you.” So saying she led him into a room, in which he found the Earl seated near the fireplace, and wrapped in furs. He got up to receive his guest, and Phineas saw at once that during the two years of his exile from England Lord Brentford had passed from manhood to senility. He almost tottered as he came forward, and he wrapped his coat around him with that air of studious self-preservation which belongs only to the infirm.
“It is very good of you to come and see me, Mr. Finn,” he said.
“Don’t call him Mr. Finn, Papa. I call him Phineas.”
“Well, yes; that’s all right, I dare say. It’s a terrible long journey from London, isn’t it, Mr. Finn?”
“Too long to be pleasant, my lord.”
“Pleasant! Oh, dear. There’s no pleasantness about it. And so they’ve got an autumn session, have they? That’s always a very stupid thing to do, unless they want money.”
“But there is a money bill which must be passed. That’s Mr. Daubeny’s excuse.”
“Ah, if they’ve a money bill of course it’s all right. So you’re in Parliament again?”
“I’m sorry to say I’m not.” Then Lady Laura explained to her father, probably for the third or fourth time, exactly what was their guest’s position. “Oh, a scrutiny. We didn’t use to have any scrutinies at Loughton, did we? Ah, me; well, everything seems to be going to the dogs. I’m told they’re attacking the Church now.” Lady Laura glanced at Phineas; but neither of them said a word. “I don’t quite understand it; but they tell me that the Tories are going to disestablish the Church. I’m very glad I’m out of it all. Things have come to such a pass that I don’t see how a gentleman is to hold office now-a-days. Have yo
u seen Chiltern lately?”
After a while, when Phineas had told the Earl all that there was to tell of his son and his grandson, and all of politics and of Parliament, Lady Laura suddenly interrupted them. “You knew, Papa, that he was to see Mr. Kennedy. He has been to Loughlinter, and has seen him.”
“Oh, indeed!”
“He is quite assured that I could not with wisdom return to live with my husband.”
“It is a very grave decision to make,” said the Earl.
“But he has no doubt about it,” continued Lady Laura.
“Not a shadow of doubt,” said Phineas. “I will not say that Mr. Kennedy is mad; but the condition of his mind is such in regard to Lady Laura that I do not think she could live with him in safety. He is crazed about religion.”
“Dear, dear, dear,” exclaimed the Earl.
“The gloom of his house is insupportable. And he does not pretend that he desires her to return that he and she may be happy together.”
“What for then?”
“That we might be unhappy together,” said Lady Laura.
“He repudiates all belief in happiness. He wishes her to return to him chiefly because it is right that a man and wife should live together.”
“So it is,” said the Earl.
“But not to the utter wretchedness of both of them,” said Lady Laura. “He says,” and she pointed to Phineas, “that were I there he would renew his accusation against me. He has not told me all. Perhaps he cannot tell me all. But I certainly will not return to Loughlinter.”
“Very well, my dear.”
“It is not very well, Papa; but, nevertheless, I will not return to Loughlinter. What I suffered there neither of you can understand.”
That afternoon Phineas went out alone to the galleries, but the next day she accompanied him, and showed him whatever of glory the town had to offer in its winter dress. They stood together before great masters, and together examined small gems. And then from day to day they were always in each other’s company. He had promised to stay a month, and during that time he was petted and comforted to his heart’s content. Lady Laura would have taken him into the Saxon Switzerland, in spite of the inclemency of the weather and her father’s rebukes, had he not declared vehemently that he was happier remaining in the town. But she did succeed in carrying him off to the fortress of Königstein; and there as they wandered along the fortress constructed on that wonderful rock there occurred between them a conversation which he never forgot, and which it would not have been easy to forget. His own prospects had of course been frequently discussed. He had told her everything, down to the exact amount of money which he had to support him till he should again be enabled to earn an income, and had received assurances from her that everything would be just as it should be after a lapse of a few months. The Liberals would, as a matter of course, come in, and equally as a matter of course, Phineas would be in office. She spoke of this with such certainty that she almost convinced him. Having tempted him away from the safety of permanent income, the party could not do less than provide for him. If he could only secure a seat he would be safe; and it seemed that Tankerville would be a certain seat. This certainty he would not admit; but, nevertheless, he was comforted by his friend. When you have done the rashest thing in the world it is very pleasant to be told that no man of spirit could have acted otherwise. It was a matter of course that he should return to public life, — so said Lady Laura; — and doubly a matter of course when he found himself a widower without a child. “Whether it be a bad life or a good life,” said Lady Laura, “you and I understand equally well that no other life is worth having after it. We are like the actors, who cannot bear to be away from the gaslights when once they have lived amidst their glare.” As she said this they were leaning together over one of the parapets of the great fortress, and the sadness of the words struck him as they bore upon herself. She also had lived amidst the gaslights, and now she was self-banished into absolute obscurity. “You could not have been content with your life in Dublin,” she said.
“Are you content with your life in Dresden?”
“Certainly not. We all like exercise; but the man who has had his leg cut off can’t walk. Some can walk with safety; others only with a certain peril; and others cannot at all. You are in the second position, but I am in the last.”
“I do not see why you should not return.”
“And if I did what would come of it? In place of the seclusion of Dresden, there would be the seclusion of Portman Square or of Saulsby. Who would care to have me at their houses, or to come to mine? You know what a hazardous, chancy, short-lived thing is the fashion of a woman. With wealth, and wit, and social charm, and impudence, she may preserve it for some years, but when she has once lost it she can never recover it. I am as much lost to the people who did know me in London as though I had been buried for a century. A man makes himself really useful, but a woman can never do that.”
“All those general rules mean nothing,” said Phineas. “I should try it.”
“No, Phineas. I know better than that. It would only be disappointment. I hardly think that after all you ever did understand when it was that I broke down utterly and marred my fortunes for ever.”
“I know the day that did it.”
“When I accepted him?”
“Of course it was. I know that, and so do you. There need be no secret between us.”
“There need be no secret between us certainly, — and on my part there shall be none. On my part there has been none.”
“Nor on mine.”
“There has been nothing for you to tell, — since you blurted out your short story of love that day over the waterfall, when I tried so hard to stop you.”
“How was I to be stopped then?”
“No; you were too simple. You came there with but one idea, and you could not change it on the spur of the moment. When I told you that I was engaged you could not swallow back the words that were not yet spoken. Ah, how well I remember it. But you are wrong, Phineas. It was not my engagement or my marriage that has made the world a blank for me.” A feeling came upon him which half-choked him, so that he could ask her no further question. “You know that, Phineas.”
“It was your marriage,” he said, gruffly.
“It was, and has been, and still will be my strong, unalterable, unquenchable love for you. How could I behave to that other man with even seeming tenderness when my mind was always thinking of you, when my heart was always fixed upon you? But you have been so simple, so little given to vanity,” — she leaned upon his arm as she spoke, — “so pure and so manly, that you have not believed this, even when I told you. Has it not been so?”
“I do not wish to believe it now.”
“But you do believe it? You must and shall believe it. I ask for nothing in return. As my God is my judge, if I thought it possible that your heart should be to me as mine is to you, I could have put a pistol to my ear sooner than speak as I have spoken.” Though she paused for some word from him he could not utter a word. He remembered many things, but even to her in his present mood he could not allude to them; — how he had kissed her at the Falls, how she had bade him not come back to the house because his presence to her was insupportable; how she had again encouraged him to come, and had then forbidden him to accept even an invitation to dinner from her husband. And he remembered too the fierceness of her anger to him when he told her of his love for Violet Effingham. “I must insist upon it,” she continued, “that you shall take me now as I really am, — as your dearest friend, your sister, your mother, if you will. I know what I am. Were my husband not still living it would be the same. I should never under any circumstances marry again. I have passed the period of a woman’s life when as a woman she is loved; but I have not outlived the power of loving. I shall fret about you, Phineas, like an old hen after her one chick; and though you turn out to be a duck, and get away into waters where I cannot follow you, I shall go cackling round the pond, and alwa
ys have my eye upon you.” He was holding her now by the hand, but he could not speak for the tears were trickling down his cheeks. “When I was young,” she continued, “I did not credit myself with capacity for so much passion. I told myself that love after all should be a servant and not a master, and I married my husband fully intending to do my duty to him. Now we see what has come of it.”
“It has been his fault; not yours,” said Phineas.
“It was my fault, — mine; for I never loved him. Had you not told me what manner of man he was before? And I had believed you, though I denied it. And I knew when I went to Loughlinter that it was you whom I loved. And I knew too, — I almost knew that you would ask me to be your wife were not that other thing settled first. And I declared to myself that, in spite of both our hearts, it should not be so. I had no money then, — nor had you.”
“I would have worked for you.”
“Ah, yes; but you must not reproach me now, Phineas. I never deserted you as regarded your interests, though what little love you had for me was short-lived indeed. Nay; you are not accused, and shall not excuse yourself. You were right, — always right. When you had failed to win one woman your heart with a true natural spring went to another. And so entire had been the cure, that you went to the first woman with the tale of your love for the second.”
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