CHAPTER XII.
KOENIGSTEIN.
Phineas Finn and Lady Laura Kennedy sat together discussing theaffairs of the past till the servant told them that "My Lord" was inthe next room, and ready to receive Mr. Finn. "You will find him muchaltered," 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 consciousthat I may use my privileges as such. But he has become quite an oldman,--not in health so much as in manner. But he will be very glad tosee you." So saying she led him into a room, in which he found theEarl seated near the fireplace, and wrapped in furs. He got up toreceive his guest, and Phineas saw at once that during the two yearsof his exile from England Lord Brentford had passed from manhood tosenility. He almost tottered as he came forward, and he wrapped hiscoat around him with that air of studious self-preservation whichbelongs 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 longjourney 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'vegot an autumn session, have they? That's always a very stupid thingto do, unless they want money."
"But there is a money bill which must be passed. That's Mr. Daubeny'sexcuse."
"Ah, if they've a money bill of course it's all right. So you're inParliament 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'sposition. "Oh, a scrutiny. We didn't use to have any scrutinies atLoughton, did we? Ah, me; well, everything seems to be going tothe dogs. I'm told they're attacking the Church now." Lady Lauraglanced at Phineas; but neither of them said a word. "I don'tquite understand it; but they tell me that the Tories are going todisestablish the Church. I'm very glad I'm out of it all. Thingshave come to such a pass that I don't see how a gentleman is to holdoffice now-a-days. Have you seen Chiltern lately?"
After a while, when Phineas had told the Earl all that there wasto tell of his son and his grandson, and all of politics and ofParliament, Lady Laura suddenly interrupted them. "You knew, Papa,that he was to see Mr. Kennedy. He has been to Loughlinter, and hasseen him."
"Oh, indeed!"
"He is quite assured that I could not with wisdom return to live withmy 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 toLady Laura that I do not think she could live with him in safety. Heis crazed about religion."
"Dear, dear, dear," exclaimed the Earl.
"The gloom of his house is insupportable. And he does not pretendthat 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 tohim chiefly because it is right that a man and wife should livetogether."
"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 wouldrenew his accusation against me. He has not told me all. Perhaps hecannot 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 toLoughlinter. What I suffered there neither of you can understand."
That afternoon Phineas went out alone to the galleries, but the nextday she accompanied him, and showed him whatever of glory the townhad to offer in its winter dress. They stood together before greatmasters, and together examined small gems. And then from day today they were always in each other's company. He had promised tostay a month, and during that time he was petted and comfortedto his heart's content. Lady Laura would have taken him into theSaxon Switzerland, in spite of the inclemency of the weather and herfather's rebukes, had he not declared vehemently that he was happierremaining in the town. But she did succeed in carrying him off to thefortress of Koenigstein; and there as they wandered along the fortressconstructed on that wonderful rock there occurred between them aconversation which he never forgot, and which it would not have beeneasy to forget. His own prospects had of course been frequentlydiscussed. He had told her everything, down to the exact amount ofmoney which he had to support him till he should again be enabled toearn an income, and had received assurances from her that everythingwould be just as it should be after a lapse of a few months. TheLiberals would, as a matter of course, come in, and equally as amatter of course, Phineas would be in office. She spoke of this withsuch certainty that she almost convinced him. Having tempted him awayfrom the safety of permanent income, the party could not do less thanprovide for him. If he could only secure a seat he would be safe; andit seemed that Tankerville would be a certain seat. This certainty hewould not admit; but, nevertheless, he was comforted by his friend.When you have done the rashest thing in the world it is very pleasantto be told that no man of spirit could have acted otherwise. It was amatter of course that he should return to public life,--so said LadyLaura;--and doubly a matter of course when he found himself a widowerwithout a child. "Whether it be a bad life or a good life," said LadyLaura, "you and I understand equally well that no other life is worthhaving after it. We are like the actors, who cannot bear to be awayfrom the gaslights when once they have lived amidst their glare." Asshe said this they were leaning together over one of the parapets ofthe great fortress, and the sadness of the words struck him as theybore upon herself. She also had lived amidst the gaslights, and nowshe was self-banished into absolute obscurity. "You could not havebeen 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 hisleg cut off can't walk. Some can walk with safety; others only witha certain peril; and others cannot at all. You are in the secondposition, 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 seclusionof Dresden, there would be the seclusion of Portman Square or ofSaulsby. Who would care to have me at their houses, or to come tomine? You know what a hazardous, chancy, short-lived thing is thefashion of a woman. With wealth, and wit, and social charm, andimpudence, she may preserve it for some years, but when she has oncelost it she can never recover it. I am as much lost to the people whodid know me in London as though I had been buried for a century. Aman makes himself really useful, but a woman can never do that."
"All those general rules mean nothing," said Phineas. "I should tryit."
"No, Phineas. I know better than that. It would only bedisappointment. I hardly think that after all you ever did understandwhen it was that I broke down utterly and marred my fortunes forever."
"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 nosecret between us."
"There need be no secret between us certainly,--and on my part thereshall be none. On my part there has been none."
"Nor on mine."
"There has been nothing for you to tell,--since you blurted out yourshort story of love that day over the waterfall, when I tried so hardto stop you."
"How was I to be stopped then?"
"No; you were too simple. You came there with but one idea, and youcould not change it on the spur of the moment. When I told you thatI was engaged you could not swallow back the words that were not yetspoken. Ah, how well I remember it. But you are wrong, Phineas. Itwas not my engagement or my marriage that has made t
he world a blankfor me." A feeling came upon him which half-choked him, so that hecould 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 witheven seeming tenderness when my mind was always thinking of you, whenmy heart was always fixed upon you? But you have been so simple, solittle given to vanity,"--she leaned upon his arm as she spoke,--"sopure and so manly, that you have not believed this, even when I toldyou. 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 fornothing in return. As my God is my judge, if I thought it possiblethat your heart should be to me as mine is to you, I could haveput a pistol to my ear sooner than speak as I have spoken." Thoughshe paused for some word from him he could not utter a word. Heremembered many things, but even to her in his present mood he couldnot allude to them;--how he had kissed her at the Falls, how she hadbade him not come back to the house because his presence to her wasinsupportable; how she had again encouraged him to come, and hadthen forbidden him to accept even an invitation to dinner from herhusband. And he remembered too the fierceness of her anger to himwhen he told her of his love for Violet Effingham. "I must insistupon it," she continued, "that you shall take me now as I reallyam,--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 thesame. I should never under any circumstances marry again. I havepassed 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 turnout to be a duck, and get away into waters where I cannot followyou, I shall go cackling round the pond, and always have my eye uponyou." He was holding her now by the hand, but he could not speakfor the tears were trickling down his cheeks. "When I was young,"she continued, "I did not credit myself with capacity for so muchpassion. I told myself that love after all should be a servant andnot a master, and I married my husband fully intending to do my dutyto 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 mewhat manner of man he was before? And I had believed you, though Idenied it. And I knew when I went to Loughlinter that it was you whomI loved. And I knew too,--I almost knew that you would ask me to beyour wife were not that other thing settled first. And I declared tomyself that, in spite of both our hearts, it should not be so. I hadno money then,--nor had you."
"I would have worked for you."
"Ah, yes; but you must not reproach me now, Phineas. I never desertedyou as regarded your interests, though what little love you hadfor me was short-lived indeed. Nay; you are not accused, and shallnot excuse yourself. You were right,--always right. When you hadfailed to win one woman your heart with a true natural spring went toanother. And so entire had been the cure, that you went to the firstwoman with the tale of your love for the second."
"To whom was I to go but to a friend?"
"You did come to a friend, and though I could not drive out of myheart the demon of jealousy, though I was cut to the very bone, Iwould have helped you had help been possible. Though it had been thefixed purpose of my life that Violet and Oswald should be man andwife, I would have helped you because that other purpose of servingyou in all things had become more fixed. But it was to no good endthat I sang your praises. Violet Effingham was not the girl to marrythis man or that at the bidding of any one;--was she?"
"No, indeed."
"It is of no use now talking of it; is it? But I want you tounderstand me from the beginning;--to understand all that was evil,and anything that was good. Since first I found that you were to methe dearest of human beings I have never once been untrue to yourinterests, though I have been unable not to be angry with you. Thencame that wonderful episode in which you saved my husband's life."
"Not his life."
"Was it not singular that it should come from your hand? It seemedlike Fate. I tried to use the accident, to make his friendship foryou as thorough as my own. And then I was obliged to separate you,because,--because, after all I was so mere a woman that I could notbear to have you near me. I can bear it now."
"Dear Laura!"
"Yes; as your sister. I think you cannot but love me a little whenyou know how entirely I am devoted to you. I can bear to have younear me now and think of you only as the hen thinks of her duckling.For a moment you are out of the pond, and I have gathered you undermy wing. You understand?"
"I know that I am unworthy of what you say of me."
"Worth has nothing to do with it,--has no bearing on it. I do not saythat you are more worthy than all whom I have known. But when didworth create love? What I want is that you should believe me, andknow that there is one bound to you who will never be unbound, onewhom you can trust in all things,--one to whom you can confess thatyou have been wrong if you go wrong, and yet be sure that you willnot lessen her regard. And with this feeling you must pretend tonothing more than friendship. You will love again, of course."
"Oh, no."
"Of course you will. I tried to blaze into power by a marriage, andI failed,--because I was a woman. A woman should marry only forlove. You will do it yet, and will not fail. You may remember thistoo,--that I shall never be jealous again. You may tell me everythingwith safety. You will tell me everything?"
"If there be anything to tell, I will."
"I will never stand between you and your wife,--though I would fainhope that she should know how true a friend I am. Now we have walkedhere till it is dark, and the sentry will think we are taking plansof the place. Are you cold?"
"I have not thought about the cold."
"Nor have I. We will go down to the inn and warm ourselves before thetrain comes. I wonder why I should have brought you here to tell youmy story. Oh, Phineas." Then she threw herself into his arms, and hepressed her to his heart, and kissed first her forehead and then herlips. "It shall never be so again," she said. "I will kill it outof my heart even though I should crucify my body. But it is not mylove that I will kill. When you are happy I will be happy. When youprosper I will prosper. When you fail I will fail. When you rise,--asyou will rise,--I will rise with you. But I will never again feel thepressure of your arm round my waist. Here is the gate, and the oldguide. So, my friend, you see that we are not lost." Then they walkeddown the very steep hill to the little town below the fortress, andthere they remained till the evening train came from Prague, and tookthem back to Dresden.
Two days after this was the day fixed for Finn's departure. Onthe intermediate day the Earl begged for a few minutes' privateconversation with him, and the two were closeted together for anhour. The Earl, in truth, had little or nothing to say. Things hadso gone with him that he had hardly a will of his own left, and didsimply that which his daughter directed him to do. He pretended toconsult Phineas as to the expediency of his returning to Saulsby.Did Phineas think that his return would be of any use to the party?Phineas knew very well that the party would not recognise thedifference whether the Earl lived at Dresden or in London. When aman has come to the end of his influence as the Earl had done he isas much a nothing in politics as though he had never risen abovethat quantity. The Earl had never risen very high, and even Phineas,with all his desire to be civil, could not say that the Earl'spresence would materially serve the interests of the Liberal party.He made what most civil excuses he could, and suggested that if LordBrentford should choose to return, Lady Laura would very willinglyremain at Dresden alone. "But why shouldn't she come too?" asked theEarl. And then, with the tardiness of old age, he proposed his littleplan. "Why should she not make an attempt to live once more with herhusband?"
"She never will," said Phineas.
"But think how much she loses," said the Earl.
"I a
m quite sure she never will. And I am quite sure that she oughtnot to do so. The marriage was a misfortune. As it is they are betterapart." After that the Earl did not dare to say another word abouthis daughter; but discussed his son's affairs. Did not Phineas thinkthat Chiltern might now be induced to go into Parliament? "Nothingwould make him do so," said Phineas.
"But he might farm?"
"You see he has his hands full."
"But other men keep hounds and farm too," said the Earl.
"But Chiltern is not like other men. He gives his whole mind to it,and finds full employment. And then he is quite happy, and so is she.What more can you want for him? Everybody respects him."
"That goes a very great way," said the Earl. Then he thanked Phineascordially, and felt that now as ever he had done his duty by hisfamily.
There was no renewal of the passionate conversation which had takenplace on the ramparts, but much of tenderness and of sympathy arosefrom it. Lady Laura took upon herself the tone and manners of anelder sister,--of a sister very much older than her brother,--andPhineas submitted to them not only gracefully but with delight tohimself. He had not thanked her for her love when she expressed it,and he did not do so afterwards. But he accepted it, and bowed to it,and recognised it as constituting one of the future laws of his life.He was to do nothing of importance without her knowledge, and hewas to be at her command should she at any time want assistance inEngland. "I suppose I shall come back some day," she said, as theywere sitting together late on the evening before his departure.
"I cannot understand why you should not do so now. Your father wishesit."
"He thinks he does; but were he told that he was to go to-morrow, ornext summer, it would fret him. I am assured that Mr. Kennedy coulddemand my return,--by law."
"He could not enforce it."
"He would attempt it. I will not go back until he consents to myliving apart from him. And, to tell the truth, I am better here forawhile. They say that the sick animals always creep somewhere undercover. I am a sick animal, and now that I have crept here I willremain till I am stronger. How terribly anxious you must be aboutTankerville!"
"I am anxious."
"You will telegraph to me at once? You will be sure to do that?"
"Of course I will, the moment I know my fate."
"And if it goes against you?"
"Ah,--what then?"
"I shall at once write to Barrington Erle. I don't suppose he woulddo much now for his poor cousin, but he can at any rate say what canbe done. I should bid you come here,--only that stupid people wouldsay that you were my lover. I should not mind, only that he wouldhear it, and I am bound to save him from annoyance. Would you not godown to Oswald again?"
"With what object?"
"Because anything will be better than returning to Ireland. Why notgo down and look after Saulsby? It would be a home, and you need nottie yourself to it. I will speak to Papa about that. But you will getthe seat."
"I think I shall," said Phineas.
"Do;--pray do! If I could only get hold of that judge by the ears!Do you know what time it is? It is twelve, and your train starts ateight." Then he arose to bid her adieu. "No," she said; "I shall seeyou off."
"Indeed you will not. It will be almost night when I leave this, andthe frost is like iron."
"Neither the night nor the frost will kill me. Do you think I willnot give you your last breakfast? God bless you, dear."
And on the following morning she did give him his breakfast bycandle-light, and went down with him to the station. The morning wasblack, and the frost was, as he had said, as hard as iron, but shewas thoroughly good-humoured, and apparently happy. "It has been somuch to me to have you here, that I might tell you everything," shesaid. "You will understand me now."
"I understand, but I know not how to believe," he said.
"You do believe. You would be worse than a Jew if you did not believeme. But you understand also. I want you to marry, and you must tellher all the truth. If I can I will love her almost as much as I doyou. And if I live to see them, I will love your children as dearlyas I do you. Your children shall be my children;--or at least one ofthem shall be mine. You will tell me when it is to be."
"If I ever intend such a thing, I will tell you."
"Now, good-bye. I shall stand back there till the train starts, butdo not you notice me. God bless you, Phineas." She held his handtight within her own for some seconds, and looked into his face withan unutterable love. Then she drew down her veil, and went and stoodapart till the train had left the platform.
"He has gone, Papa," Lady Laura said, as she stood afterwards by herfather's bedside.
"Has he? Yes; I know he was to go, of course. I was very glad to seehim, Laura."
"So was I, Papa;--very glad indeed. Whatever happens to him, we mustnever lose sight of him again."
"We shall hear of him, of course, if he is in the House."
"Whether he is in the House or out of it we must hear of him. Whilewe have aught he must never want." The Earl stared at his daughter.The Earl was a man of large possessions, and did not as yetunderstand that he was to be called upon to share them with PhineasFinn. "I know, Papa, you will never think ill of me."
"Never, my dear."
"I have sworn that I will be a sister to that man, and I will keep myoath."
"I know you are a very good sister to Chiltern," said the Earl. LadyLaura had at one time appropriated her whole fortune, which had beenlarge, to the payment of her brother's debts. The money had beenreturned, and had gone to her husband. Lord Brentford now supposedthat she intended at some future time to pay the debts of PhineasFinn.