Phineas Redux

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXV.

  "I HATE HER!"

  Lady Laura Kennedy had been allowed to take no active part in themanifestations of friendship which at this time were made on behalfof Phineas Finn. She had, indeed, gone to him in his prison, and madedaily efforts to administer to his comfort; but she could not go upinto the Court and speak for him. And now this other woman, whom shehated, would have the glory of his deliverance! She already beganto see a fate before her, which would make even her past misery asnothing to that which was to come. She was a widow,--not yet twomonths a widow; and though she did not and could not mourn the deathof a husband as do other widows,--though she could not sorrow inher heart for a man whom she had never loved, and from whom she hadbeen separated during half her married life,--yet the fact of herwidowhood and the circumstances of her weeds were heavy on her. Thatshe loved this man, Phineas Finn, with a passionate devotion of whichthe other woman could know nothing she was quite sure. Love him! Hadshe not been true to him and to his interests from the very firstday in which he had come among them in London, with almost more thana woman's truth? She knew and recalled to her memory over and overagain her own one great sin,--the fault of her life. When she was, asregarded her own means, a poor woman, she had refused to be this poorman's wife, and had given her hand to a rich suitor. But she had donethis with a conviction that she could so best serve the interests ofthe man in regard to whom she had promised herself that her feelingshould henceforth be one of simple and purest friendship. She hadmade a great effort to carry out that intention, but the effort hadbeen futile. She had striven to do her duty to a husband whom shedisliked,--but even in that she had failed. At one time she had beenpersistent in her intercourse with Phineas Finn, and at another hadresolved that she would not see him. She had been madly angry withhim when he came to her with the story of his love for another woman,and had madly shown her anger; but yet she had striven to get for himthe wife he wanted, though in doing so she would have abandoned oneof the dearest purposes of her life. She had moved heaven and earthfor him,--her heaven and earth,--when there was danger that he wouldlose his seat in Parliament. She had encountered the jealousy ofher husband with scorn,--and had then deserted him because he wasjealous. And all this she did with a consciousness of her own virtuewhich was almost as sublime as it was ill-founded. She had beenwrong. She confessed so much to herself with bitter tears. She hadmarred the happiness of three persons by the mistake she had made inearly life. But it had not yet occurred to her that she had sinned.To her thinking the jealousy of her husband had been preposterous andabominable, because she had known,--and had therefore felt that heshould have known,--that she would never disgrace him by that whichthe world calls falsehood in a wife. She had married him withoutloving him, but it seemed to her that he was in fault for that. Theyhad become wretched, but she had never pitied his wretchedness. Shehad left him, and thought herself to be ill-used because he hadventured to reclaim his wife. Through it all she had been true in herregard to the one man she had ever loved, and,--though she admittedher own folly and knew her own shipwreck,--yet she had always drawnsome woman's consolation from the conviction of her own constancy.He had vanished from her sight for a while with a young wife,--neverfrom her mind,--and then he had returned a widower. Through silence,absence, and distance she had been true to him. On his return tohis old ways she had at once welcomed him and strove to aid him.Everything that was hers should be his,--if only he would open hishands to take it. And she would tell it him all,--let him know everycorner of her heart. She was a married woman, and could not be hiswife. She was a woman of virtue, and would not be his mistress. Butshe would be to him a friend so tender that no wife, no mistressshould ever have been fonder! She did tell him everything as theystood together on the ramparts of the old Saxon castle. Then he hadkissed her, and pressed her to his heart,--not because he loved her,but because he was generous. She had partly understood it all,--butyet had not understood it thoroughly. He did not assure her of hislove,--but then she was a wife, and would have admitted no love thatwas sinful. When she returned to Dresden that night she stood gazingat herself in the glass and saw that there was nothing there toattract the love of such a man as Phineas Finn,--of one who washimself glorious with manly beauty; but yet for her sadness there wassome cure, some possibility of consolation in the fact that she wasa wife. Why speak of love at all when marriage was so far out of thequestion? But now she was a widow and as free as he was,--a widowendowed with ample wealth; and she was the woman to whom he had swornhis love when they had stood together, both young, by the fallsof the Linter! How often might they stand there again if only hisconstancy would equal hers?

  She had seen him once since Fate had made her a widow; but then shehad been but a few days a widow, and his life had at that moment beenin strange jeopardy. There had certainly been no time then for otherlove than that which the circumstances and the sorrow of the hourdemanded from their mutual friendship. From that day, from the firstmoment in which she had heard of his arrest, every thought, everyeffort of her mind had been devoted to his affairs. So great was hisperil and so strange, that it almost wiped out from her mind theremembrance of her own condition. Should they hang him,--undoubtedlyshe would die. Such a termination to all her aspirations for him whomshe had selected as her god upon earth would utterly crush her. Shehad borne much, but she could never bear that. Should he escape, butescape ingloriously;--ah, then he should know what the devotion ofa woman could do for a man! But if he should leave his prison withflying colours, and come forth a hero to the world, how would it bewith her then? She could foresee and understand of what nature wouldbe the ovation with which he would be greeted. She had already heardwhat the Duchess was doing and saying. She knew how eager on hisbehalf were Lord and Lady Cantrip. She discussed the matter dailywith her sister-in-law, and knew what her brother thought. If theacquittal were perfect, there would certainly be an ovation,--inwhich, was it not certain to her, that she would be forgotten? Andshe heard much, too, of Madame Goesler. And now there came thenews. Madame Goesler had gone to Prague, to Cracow,--and wherenot?--spending her wealth, employing her wits, bearing fatigue,openly before the world on this man's behalf; and had done sosuccessfully. She had found this evidence of the key, and now becausethe tracings of a key had been discovered by a woman, people wereready to believe that he was innocent, as to whose innocence she,Laura Kennedy, would have been willing to stake her own life from thebeginning of the affair!

  Why had it not been her lot to go to Prague? Would not she have drunkup Esil, or swallowed a crocodile against any she-Laertes that wouldhave thought to rival and to parallel her great love? Would notshe have piled up new Ossas, had the opportunity been given her?Womanlike she had gone to him in her trouble,--had burst throughhis prison doors, had thrown herself on his breast, and had weptat his feet. But of what avail had been that? This strange female,this Moabitish woman, had gone to Prague, and had found a key,--andeverybody said that the thing was done! How she hated the strangewoman, and remembered all the evil things that had been said of theintruder! She told herself over and over again that had it beenany one else than this half-foreigner, this German Jewess, thisintriguing unfeminine upstart, she could have borne it. Did not allthe world know that the woman for the last two years had been themistress of that old doting Duke who was now dead? Had one ever heardwho was her father or who was her mother? Had it not always beendeclared of her that she was a pushing, dangerous, scheming creature?And then she was old enough to be his mother, though by some Medeantricks known to such women, she was able to postpone,--not theravages of age,--but the manifestation of them to the eyes of theworld. In all of which charges poor Lady Laura wronged her rivalfoully;--in that matter of age especially, for, as it happened,Madame Goesler was by some months the younger of the two. But LadyLaura was a blonde, and trouble had told upon her outwardly, as itis wont to do upon those who are fair-skinned, and, at the same time,high-hearted. But Madame Goesler was a brunette,--swarthy, Lady Laurawould
have called her,--with bright eyes and glossy hair and thincheeks, and now being somewhat over thirty she was at her best. LadyLaura hated her as a fair woman who has lost her beauty can hate thedark woman who keeps it.

  "What made her think of the key?" said Lady Chiltern.

  "I don't believe she did think of it. It was an accident."

  "Then why did she go?"

  "Oh, Violet, do not talk to me about that woman any more, or I shallbe mad."

  "She has done him good service."

  "Very well;--so be it. Let him have the service. I know they wouldhave acquitted him if she had never stirred from London. Oswald saysso. But no matter. Let her have her triumph. Only do not talk to meabout her. You know what I have thought about her ever since shefirst came up in London. Nothing ever surprised me so much as thatyou should take her by the hand."

  "I do not know that I took her specially by the hand."

  "You had her down at Harrington."

  "Yes; I did. And I do like her. And I know nothing against her. Ithink you are prejudiced against her, Laura."

  "Very well. Of course you think and can say what you please. I hateher, and that is sufficient." Then, after a pause, she added, "Ofcourse he will marry her. I know that well enough. It is nothing tome whom he marries--only,--only,--only, after all that has passed itseems hard upon me that his wife should be the only woman in Londonthat I could not visit."

  "Dear Laura, you should control your thoughts about this young man."

  "Of course I should;--but I don't. You mean that I am disgracingmyself."

  "No."

  "Yes, you do. Oswald is more candid, and tells me so openly. Andyet what have I done? The world has been hard upon me, and I havesuffered. Do I desire anything except that he shall be happy andrespectable? Do I hope for anything? I will go back and lingerout my life at Dresden, where my disgrace can hurt no one." Hersister-in-law with all imaginable tenderness said what she could toconsole the miserable woman;--but there was no consolation possible.They both knew that Phineas Finn would never renew the offer which hehad once made.