 CHAPTER 52 Mr. Kennedy's Will Mr. Kennedy had fired a pistol at Phineas Finn in McPherson's hotel, with the manifest intention of blowing out the brains of his presumed enemy, and no public notice had been taken of the occurrence. Phineas himself had been only too willing to pass the thing by as a trifling accident, if he might be allowed to do so, and the McPherson's had been by far too true to their great friend to think of giving him in charge to the police. The affair had been talked about, and had come to the knowledge of reporters and editors. Most of the newspapers had contained paragraphs giving various accounts of the matter, and one or two had followed the example of the people's banner in demanding that the police should investigate the matter. But the matter had not been investigated. The police were supposed to know nothing about it. As how should they? No one having seen or heard the shot but they who were determined to be silent. Mr. Quintus's slide had been indignant all in vain so far as Mr. Kennedy and his offence had been concerned. As soon as the pistol had been fired, and Phineas had escaped from the room, the unfortunate man had sunk back in his chair conscious of what he had done, knowing that he had made himself subject to the law, and expecting every minute that Constables would enter the room to seize him. He had seen his enemy's hat lying on the floor, and when nobody would come to fetch it had thrown it down the stairs. After that he sat waiting for the police, with the pistol still loaded in every barrel but one lying by his side, hardly repenting the attempt, but trembling for the result till McPherson the landlord, who had been brought home from Chapel, knocked at his door. There was very little said between them, and no positive illusion was made to the shot that had been fired. But McPherson succeeded in getting the pistol into his possession, as to which the unfortunate man put no impediment in his way, and he managed to have it understood that Mr. Kennedy's cousin should be summoned on the following morning. "'Is anybody else coming?' Robert Kennedy asked when the landlord was about to leave the room. "'Nobody as I canna yet, lared,' said McPherson, "'but likes they will.' Nobody, however, did come, and the lared had spent the evening by himself in very wretched solitude. On the following day the cousin had come, and to him the whole story was told. After that no difficulty was found in taking the miserable man back to Laughlinter, and there he had been for the last two months in the custody of his more wretched mother and of his cousin. No legal steps had been taken to deprive him of the management either of himself or of his property, so that he was in truth his own master. And he exercised his mastery in acts of petty tyranny about his domain, becoming more and more close-fisted in regard to money, and as iris as it appeared of starving all living things about the place, cattle, sheep, and horses, so that the value of their food might be saved. But every member of the establishment knew that the lared was nageous to himself, and consequently his orders were not obeyed. And the lared knew the same of himself, and though he would give the orders, not only resolutely, but with imperious threats of penalties to follow disobedience, still he did not seem to expect compliance. While he was in this state, letters addressed to him came for a while into his own hands, and thus more than one reached him from Lord Brentfold's lawyer, demanding that restitution should be made of the interest arising from Lady Laura's fortune. Then he would fly out into bitter wrath, calling his wife foul names, and swearing that she should never have a farthing of his money to spend upon her paramour. Of course it was his money and his only. All the world knew that. Had she not left his roof, breaking her marriage vows, throwing aside every duty and bringing him down to his present state of abject misery? Her own fortune. If she wanted the interest of her wretched money, let her come to Laughlinter and receive it there. In spite of all her wickedness, her cruelty, her misconduct, which had brought him, as he now said, to the verge of the grave, he would still give her shelter and room for repentance. He recognized his vows, though she did not. She should still be his wife, though she had utterly disgraced both herself and him. She should still be his wife, though she had so lived as to make it impossible that there should be any happiness in their household. It was thus spoke, when first one and then another letter came from the Earl's lawyer, pointing out to him the injustice to which Lady Laura was subjected by the loss of her fortune. No doubt these letters would not have been written in the line assumed, had not Mr. Kennedy proved himself to be unfit to have the custody of his wife by attempting to shoot the man whom he accused of being his wife's lover. An act had been done, said the lawyer, which made it quite out of the question that Lady Laura should return to her husband. To this, when speaking of the matter to those around him, which he did with an energy which seemed to be foreign to his character, Mr. Kennedy made no direct illusion, but he swore most positively that not a shilling should be given up. The fear of policemen coming down to Loughlynter to take account of that angry shot had passed away, and though he knew, with an uncertain knowledge, that he was not in all respects obeyed as he used to be, that his orders were disobeyed by stewards and servants, in spite of his threats of dismissal, he still felt that he was sufficiently his own master to defy the Earl's attorney, and to maintain his claim upon his wife's person. Let her return to him, first of all. But after a while the cousin interfered still further, and Robert Kennedy, who so short a time since had been a member of the government graced by permission to sit in the cabinet, was not allowed to open his own post-bag. He had written a letter to one person, and then again to another, which had induced those who received them to return answers to the cousin. To Lord Brentford's lawyer he had used a few very strong words. Mr. Forster had replied to the cousin, stating how grieved Lord Brentford would be, how much grieved would be Lady Laura, to find themselves driven to take steps, in reference to what they conceived, to be the unfortunate condition of Mr. Robert Kennedy. But that such steps must be taken unless some arrangement could be made, which should be at any rate reasonable. Then Mr. Kennedy's post-bag was taken from him. The letters which he wrote were not sent, and he took to his bed. It was during this condition of affairs that the cousin took upon himself to intimate to Mr. Forster that the managers of Mr. Kennedy's estate were by no means anxious of embarrassing their charge by so trumpery and additional matter as the income derived from Lady Laura's forty thousand pounds. But things were in a terrible confusion at Laughlinter. Rints were paid as heretofore on receipts given by Robert Kennedy's agent, but the agent could only pay the money to Robert Kennedy's credit at his bank. Robert Kennedy's checks would, no doubt, have drawn the money out again, but it was almost impossible to induce Robert Kennedy to sign a check. Even in bed he inquired daily about his money, and knew accurately the sum lying at his bankers, but he could be persuaded to discourage nothing. He postponed from day to day the signing of certain checks that were brought to him, and alleged very freely that an attempt was being made to rob him. During all his life he had been very generous in subscribing to public charities, but now he stopped all his subscriptions. The cousin had to provide even for the payment of wages, and things went very badly at Laughlinter. Then there arose the question whether legal steps should be taken for placing the management of the estate in other hands on the ground of the owner's insanity, but the wretched old mother begged that this might not be done, and Dr. McNuthry, from Calender, was of opinion that no steps should be taken at present. Mr. Kennedy was very ill, very ill indeed, would take no nourishment, and seemed to be sinking under the pressure of his misfortunes. Any steps such as those suggested would probably send their friend out of the world at once. In fact Robert Kennedy was dying, and in the first week of May, when the beauty of the spring was beginning to show itself on the braze of Laughlinter, he did die. The old woman, his mother, was seated by his bedside, and into her ears he murmured his last wailing complaint. If she had the fear of God before her eyes, she would come back to me. Let us pray that he may soften her heart, said the old lady. Hey, mother, nothing can soften the heart Satan is hardened till it be hard as the Nether Millstone, and in that faith he died believing, as he had ever believed, that the spirit of evil was stronger than the spirit of good. For some time past there had been perturbation in the mind of that cousin, and of all the other Kennedys of that ilk, as to the nature of the will of the head of the family. It was feared lest he should have been generous to the wife who was believed by them all to have been so wicked and treacherous to her husband, and so it was found to be when the will was read. During the last few months no one near him had dared to speak to him of his will, for it had been known that his condition of mind rendered him unfit to alter it, nor had he ever alluded to it himself. As a matter of course there had been a settlement, and it was supposed that Lady Laura's own money would revert to her. But when it was found that in addition to this, the Laughlinter estate became hers for life in the event of Mr. Kennedy dying without a child, there was great consternation among the Kennedys generally. There were but two or three of them concerned, and for those there was money enough. But it seemed to them now that the bad wife who had utterly refused to acclimatize herself to the soil to which she had been transplanted was to be rewarded for her wicked stubbornness. Lady Laura would become mistress of her own fortune and all of Laughlinter, and would be once more a free woman with all the power that wealth and fashion can give. Alas, alas! It was too late now for the taking of any steps to sever her from her rich inheritance. And the false harlot will come and play havoc here in my son's mansion, said the old woman with extremist bitterness. The tidings were conveyed to Lady Laura through her lawyer, but did not reach her in full till some eight or ten days after the news of her husband's death. The telegram announcing that event had come to her at her father's house in Portman Square, on the day after that on which Phineas had been arrested, and the Earl had of course known that his great longing for the recovery of his wife's fortune had now been realized. To him there was no sorrow in the news. He had only known Robert Kennedy as one who had been thoroughly disagreeable to himself and who had persecuted his daughter throughout their married life. There had come no happiness, not even prosperity through the marriage. His daughter had been forced to leave the man's house and had been forced also to leave her money behind her. Then she had been driven abroad, fearing persecution, and had only dared to return when the man's madness became so notorious as to annul his power of annoying her. Now by his death a portion of the injury which he had inflicted on the great family of Standish would be remedied. The money would come back, together with a stipulated jointure, and there could no longer be any question of return. The news delighted the old lord, and he was almost angry with his daughter because she also would not confess her delight. Oh, papa! He was my husband. Yes, yes, no doubt. I was always against it, you will remember. Pray do not talk in that way now, papa. I know that I was not to him what I should have been. You're used to say it was all his fault. We will not talk of it now, papa. He is gone, and I remember his past goodness to me. She clothed herself in the deepest of mourning, and made herself a thing of sorrow by the sacrificial uncouthness of her garments, and she tried to think of him, to think of him, and not to think of Phineas Finn. She remembered with real sorrow the words she had spoken to her sister-in-law, in which she had declared, while still the wife of another man, that she would willingly marry Phineas at the foot even of the gallows if she were free. She was free now, but she did not repeat her assertion. It was impossible not to think of Phineas in his present strait, but she abstained from speaking of him as far as she could, and for the present never alluded to her former purpose of visiting him in his prison. From day to day, for the first few days of her widowhood, she heard what was going on. The evidence against him became stronger and stronger, whereas the other man, Yosef Milius, had been already liberated. There were still many who felt sure that Milius had been the murderer, among whom were all those who had been ranked among the staunch friend of our hero, the children so believed, and Lady Laura, the Duchess so believed, and Madam Gulsler, Mr. Lowe felt sure of it, and Mr. Monk and Lord Cantrip, and nobody was more sure than Mrs. Bunce. There were many who professed that they doubted, men such as Barrington Earl, Lawrence Fitzgibbon, the two Dukes, though the younger Duke never expressed such doubt at home, and Mr. Gresham himself, indeed the feeling of Parliament in general, was one of great doubt. Mr. Dobney never expressed an opinion one way or the other, feeling that the fate of two second-class Liberals could not be matter of concern to him. But Sir Orlando Drout, and Mr. Roby, and Mr. Boffin, were as eager as though they had not been Conservatives, and were full of doubt. Surely, if Finneas Finn were not the murderer, he had been more ill-used by fate than had been any man since fate first began to be unjust. But there was also a very strong party by whom no doubt whatever was entertained as to his guilt, at the head of which, as in duty bound, was the poor widow Mrs. Bontein. She had no doubt as to the hand by which her husband had fallen, and clamored loudly for the vengeance of the law. All the world, she said, knew how bitter against her husband had been this wretch, whose villainy had been exposed by her dear gracious lord, and now the evidence against him was, to her thinking, complete. She was supported strongly by Lady Eustis, who much as she wished not to be the wife of the Bohemian Jew, thought even that preferable to being known as the widow of a murderer who had been hung. Mr. Rattler, with one or two others in the house, was certain of Finne's guilt. The people's banner, though it prefaced each one of its daily paragraphs on the subject, with a statement as to the manifest duty of an influential newspaper to abstain from the expression of any opinion on such a subject till the question had been decided by a jury, nevertheless from day to day recapitulated the evidence against the member for Tinkerville, and showed how strong were the motives which had existed for such a deed. But among those who were sure of Finne's guilt, there was no one more sure than Lord Vaughn, who had seen the coat and the height of the man and the step. He declared among his intimate friends that of course he could not swear to the person. He could not venture, when upon his oath, to give an opinion. But the man who had passed him at so quick a pace had been half a foot higher than Milius. Of that there could be no doubt, nor could there be any doubt as to the gray coat. Of course there might be other men with gray coats besides Mr. Finne as Finne, and other men half a foot taller than Yosef Milius. And there might be other men with that peculiarly energetic step. And the man who hurried by him might not have been the man who murdered Mr. Bontein. Of all that Lord Vaughn could say nothing, but what he did say, of that he was sure. And all those who knew him were well aware, that in his own mind he was convinced of the guilt of Finne as Finne. And there was another man equally convinced. Mr. Moll Sr. remembered well the manner in which Madame Gulsler spoke of Finneas Finne in reference to the murder, and was quite sure that Finneas was the murderer. For a couple of days Lord Chiltern was constantly with the poor prisoner, but after that he was obliged to return to Harrington Hall. This he did a day after the news arrived of the death of his brother-in-law. Both he and Lady Chiltern had promised to return home, having left Adelaide Palliser alone in the house, and already they had overstayed their time. Of course I will remain with you, Lady Chiltern had said to her sister-in-law, but the widow had preferred to be left alone. For these first few days, when she must make pretence of sorrow because her husband had died, and had such real cause for sorrow in the miserable condition of the man she loved, she preferred to be alone. Who could sympathize with her now, or with whom could she speak of her grief? Her father was talking to her always of her money. But from him she could endure it. She was used to him, and could remember when he spoke to her of her forty thousand pounds and of her twelve hundred a year of jointure, that it had not always been with him like that. As yet nothing had been heard of the will, and the Earl did not in the least anticipate any further accession of wealth from the estate of the man whom they had all hated. But his daughter would now be a rich woman, and was yet young, and there might still be splendor. I suppose you won't care to buy land, he said. Oh, papa, do not talk of buying anything yet. But, my dear Laura, you must put your money into something. You can get very nearly five percent from Indian stock. Not yet, papa, she said. But he proceeded to explain to her how very important and a fair money is, and that persons who have got money cannot be excused for not considering what they had better do with it. No doubt she could get four percent on her money by buying up certain existing mortgages on the Salisbury property, which would no doubt be very convenient if, hereafter, the money should go to her brother's child. Not yet, papa, she said again, having however already made up her mind that her money should have a different destination. She could not interest her father at all in the fate of Finneas Finn, when the story of the murder had first been told to him, he had been amazed, and no doubt somewhat gratified, as we all are, at tragic occurrences which do not concern ourselves. But he could not be made to tremble for the fate of Finneas Finn, and yet he had known the man during the last few years most intimately and had had much in common with him. He had trusted Finneas in respect to his son, and had trusted him also in respect to his daughter. Finneas had been his guest at Dresden, and on his return to London, had been the first friend he had seen with the exception of his lawyer, and yet he could hardly be induced to express the slightest interest as to the fate of this friend who was to be tried for murder. Oh, he's committed, is he? I think I remember that Prathero once told me that, in thirty-nine cases out of forty, men committed for serious offenses have been guilty of them. The Prathero here spoken of as an authority on criminal matters was at present Lord Weisling, the Lord Chancellor. But Mr. Finn has not been guilty, Papa. There is always the one chance out of forty, but as I was saying, if you like to take up the Salisbury mortgages, Mr. Forster can't be told too soon. Papa, I shall do nothing of the kind, said Lady Laura, and then she rose and walked down to the room. At the end of ten days from the death of Mr. Kennedy there came the tidings of the will. Lady Laura had written to Mrs. Kennedy a letter which had taken her much time in composition, expressing her deep sorrow and condoling with the old woman. And the old woman had answered, Madam, I am too old now to express either grief or anger. My dear son's death, caused by domestic wrong, has robbed me of any remaining comfort which the undeserved sorrows of his latter years had not already dispelled. Your obedient servant, Sarah Kennedy, from which it may be inferred that she had also taken considerable trouble in composition of her letter. Other communications between Laughlinter and Portman Square there were none, but there came through the lawyers a statement of Mr. Kennedy's will, as far as the interests of Lady Laura were concerned. This reached Mr. Forster first, and he brought it personally to Portman Square. He asked for Lady Laura and saw her alone. He has bequeathed to you the use of Laughlinter for your life, Lady Laura. To me? Yes, Lady Laura, the will is dated in the first year of his marriage, and has not been altered since. What can I do with Laughlinter? I will give it back to them. Then Mr. Forster explained that the legacy referred not only to the house in immediate grounds, but to the whole estate known as the Domain of Laughlinter. There could be no reason why she should give it up, but very many why she should not do so. Circumstance, as Mr. Kennedy had been, with no one nearer to him than a first cousin, with a property purchased with money saved by his father, a property to which no cousin could by inheritance have any claim, he could not have done better with it than to leave it to his widow in fault of any issue of his own. Then the lawyer explained that were she to give it up the world would, of course, say that she had done so from a feeling of her own unworthiness. Why should I feel myself to be unworthy? she asked. The lawyer smiled and told her that, of course, she would retain Laughlinter. Then at her request he was taken to the Earl's room, and there repeated the good news. Lady Laura preferred not to hear her father's first exultations. But while this was being done, she also exulted. Might it not still be possible that there should be before her a happy evening to her days, and that she might stand once more beside the falls of Laughlinter? contented, hopeful, nay, almost glorious, with her hand in his, to whom she had once refused her own, on that very spot. CHAPTER 53 NONE BUT THE BRAVE DESERVE THE FAIR Though Mr. Robert Kennedy was lying dead at Laughlinter, and though Finneas Finn, a member of Parliament, was in prison, accused of murdering another member of Parliament, still the world went on with its old ways, down in the neighbourhood of Harrington Hall and Spoon Hall, as at other places. The hunting with the breakhounds was now over for the season, had indeed been brought to an auspicious end three weeks since, and such gentlemen as Thomas Spooner had time on their hands to look about at their other concerns. When a man hunts five days a week regardless of distances, and devotes a due proportion of his energies to the necessary circumstances of hunting, the preservation of foxes, the maintenance of good humour with the farmers, the proper compensation for poultry really killed by four-legged favourites, the growth and arrangement of covarts, the lying in of vixens, and the subsequent guardianship of nurseries, the persecution of enemies, and the warm protection of friends. When he follows the sport, accomplishing all the concomitant duties of a true sportsman, he has not much time left for anything. Such a one as Mr. Spooner of Spoon Hall finds that his off-day is occupied from breakfast to dinner with grooms, keepers, old women with turkeys' heads, and gentlemen in velveteens with information about wires and unknown earths. His letters fall naturally to the Sunday afternoon and are hardly written before sleep overpowers him. Many a large fortune has been made with less of true devotion to the work than is given to hunting by so genuine a sportsman as Mr. Spooner. Our friend had some inkling of this himself, and felt that many of the less important affairs of his life were neglected because he was so true to the one great object of his existence. He had wisely endeavored to prevent rack and ruin among the affairs of Spoon Hall, and had thoroughly succeeded by joining his cousin Ned with himself in the administration of his estate. But there were things which Ned with all his zeal and all his cleverness could not do for him. He was conscious that had he been as remiss in the matter of hunting as that hard riding but otherwise idle young scamp Gerard Mall, he might have succeeded much better than he had done hitherto with Adelaide Palliser. Hanging about and flandering, that's what they want, he said to his cousin Ned. I suppose it is, said Ned. I was fond of a girl once myself, and I hung about a good deal, but we hadn't six months between us. That was Polly Maxwell, I remember. You behaved very badly, then. Very badly, Tom, about as bad as a man could behave, and she was as bad. I loved her with all my heart, and I told her so, and she told me the same. There was never anything worse. We just had nothing between us, and nobody to give us anything. It doesn't pay, does it, Ned, that kind of thing. It doesn't pay at all. I wouldn't give her up, nor she me. She was about as pretty a girl as I remember to have seen. I suppose you were a decent-looking fellow in those days yourself. They say so, but I never quite believed it. There wasn't much in that, said Ned. Girls don't want a man to be good-looking, but that he should speak up and not be afraid of them. There were lots of fellows came after her. You remember Blinks of the Carabineers? He was full of money, and he asked her three times. She's an old maid to this day, and is living as companion to some crusty, crotchety countess. I think you did behave badly, Ned. Why didn't you set her free? Of course I behaved badly. And why didn't she set me free if you come to that? I might have found a female Blinks on my own, only for her. I wonder whether it will come against us when we die, and whether we shall be brought up together to receive punishment. Not if you repent, I suppose," said Tom Spooner, very seriously. I sometimes ask myself whether she has repented. I made her swear that she'd never give me up. She might have broken her word a score of times, and I wish she had. I think she was a fool, Ned. Of course she was a fool. She knows that now, I dare say. And perhaps she has repented. Do you mean to try it again with that girl at Harrington Hall? Mr. Tom Spooner did mean to try it again with the girl at Harrington Hall. He had never quite trusted the note which he had got from his friend Chilton, and had made up his mind that to say the least of it there had been very little friendship shown in the letter. Had Chilton meant to have stood to him like a brick, as he ought to have stood by his right-hand man in the break-country, at any rate a fair chance might have been given him. Where the devil would he be in such a country as this without me? Tom had said to his cousin. Not knowing his soul and with all the shooting men against him? I might have had the hounds myself, and might have him now if I cared to take him. It's not standing by a fellow, as he ought to do. He writes to me by George, just as he might do to some fellow who never had a fox about his place. I suppose he didn't put the two things together, said Ned Spooner. I hate a fellow that can't put two things together. If I stand to you, you have a right to stand to me. That's what you mean by putting two things together. I mean to have another shy at her. She has quarrelled with that fellow Maul altogether. I've learned that from the gardener's girl at Harrington. Yes, he would make another attempt. All history, all romance, all poetry, and all prose taught him that perseverance and love was generally crowned with success, that true love rarely was crowned with success except by perseverance. Such a simple little tale aboys passion, as that told him by his cousin, had no attraction for him. A wife would hardly be worth having, and worth keeping so one. And all proverbs were on his side. None but the brave deserve the fair, said his cousin. I shall stick to it, said Tom Spooner. Labour Omnia Winkit, said his cousin. But what should be his next step? Gerard Maul had been sent away with a flea in his ear. So at least, Mr. Spooner asserted, and expressed an undoubting opinion that this imperative dismissal had come from the fact that Gerard Maul, when put through his facings, about income, was not able to show the money. She's not one of your Polly Maxwells, Ned. Ned said he supposed she was not one of that sort. Heaven knows I couldn't show the money, said Ned. But that didn't make her any wiser. Then Tom gave it as his opinion that Miss Palliser was one of those young women who won't go anywhere without having everything about them. She could have her own carriage with me, and her own horses, and her own maid, and everything. Her own way into the bargain, said Ned, whereupon Tom Spooner winked, and suggested that that might be, as things turned out after the marriage. He was quite willing to run his chance for that. But how was he to get at her to prosecute his suit? As to writing her direct, he didn't much believe in that. It looks as though one were afraid of her, you know, which I ain't the least. I stood up to her before, and I wasn't a bit more nervous than I am at this moment. Were you nervous in that affair with Miss Maxwell? Ah, it's a long time ago. There wasn't much nervousness there. A sort of milk-maid affair? Just that. That is different, you know. I tell you what I'll do. I'll just drive Slap over to Harrington and chance it. I'll take the two bays and the fayton. Who's afraid? There's nothing to be afraid of, said Ned. Old Chilton is such a de-cantankerous fellow. And perhaps Lady C may say that I oughtn't to have taken advantage of her absence. But what's the odds? If she takes me, there'll be an end of it. If she don't, they can't eat me. The only thing is whether they'll let you in. I'll try at any rate, said Tom, and you shall go over with me. You won't mind trotting about the grounds while I'm carrying on the war inside. I'll take the two bays and Dick Farron behind, and I don't think there's a prettier got-up trap in the county. We'll go to Morrow. And on the Morrow they did start, having heard on that very morning of the arrest of Phineus Finn. By George don't it feel odd, said Tom, just as they started. A fellow that we used to know down here, having him out hunting and all that, and now he's a murderer. Isn't it a coincidence? It startles one, said Ned. That's what I mean. It's such a strange thing that it should be the man we know ourselves. These things always are happening to me. Do you remember when poor Fred Fallows got his bad fall and died the next year? You weren't here, then. I've heard you speak of it. I was in the very same field, and should have been the man to pick him up, only the hounds had just turned to the left. It's very odd that these coincidences always are happening to some men, and never do happen to others. It makes one feel that he's marked out, you know. I hope you'll be marked out by victory today. Well, yes. It's more important just now than Mr. Bontein's murder. You know I wish you'd drive. These horses are pulling, and I don't want to be all in a flurry when I get the Harrington. Now, it was a fact very well known to all concerned with Spoon Hall that there was nothing as to which the squire was so jealous as the driving of his own horses. He would never trust the reins to a friend, and even Ned had hardly ever been allowed the honour of the whip when sitting with his cousin. I'm apt to get red in the face when I'm overheated, said Tom, as he made himself comfortable and easy in the left-hand seat. There were not many more words spoken during the journey. The lover was probably justified in feeling some intrepidation. He had been quite correct in suggesting that the matter between him and Miss Palliser bore no resemblance at all to that old affair between his cousin Ned and Polly Maxwell. There had been as little trepidation as money in that case. Simply love and kisses, parting, despair, and a broken heart. Here things were more august. There was plenty of money, and let affairs go as they might. There would be no broken heart. But that perseverance and love of which Mr. Spooner intended to make himself so bright an example does require some courage. The Adelaide palaces of the world have a way of making themselves uncommonly unpleasant to a man when they refuse him for the third or fourth time. They allow themselves sometimes to express a contempt which is almost akin to disgust, and to speak to a lover as though he would know better than a footman. And then the lover is bound to bear it all, and when he is born it finds it so very difficult to get out of the room. Mr. Spooner had some idea of all this, as his cousin drove him up to the door at what he then thought a very fast pace. Th' it all, he said. You needn't have brought them up so confoundedly hot. But it was not of the horses that he was really thinking, but of the colour of his own nose. There was something working within him which had flouried him in spite of the tranquillity of his idle seat. Not the less did he spring out of the Fayeten with a quite youthful junk. It was well that every one about Harrington Hall should know how alert he was on his legs, a little weather-beaten about the face he might be, but he could get in and out of his saddle as quickly as Gerard Mall even yet, and for a short distance would run Gerard Mall for a ten-pound note. He dashed briskly up to the door and rang the bell, as though he feared neither Adelaide nor Lord Chiltern any more than he did his own servants at Spoon Hall. Was Miss Palliser at home? The maid servant who opened the door told him that Miss Palliser was at home with a celerity which he certainly had not expected. The male members of the establishment were probably desporting themselves in the absence of their master and mistress, and Adelaide Palliser was thus left to the insufficient guardianship of young women who were all together without discretion. Yes, sir, Miss Palliser is at home. So said the indiscreet female, and Mr. Spooner was for the moment confounded by his own success. He had hardly told himself what reception he had expected, or whether, in the event of the servant informing him at the front door, that the young lady was not at home, he would make any further immediate effort to prolong the siege so as to force an entry. But now, when he had carried the very fortress by surprise, his heart almost misgave him. He certainly had not thought, when he descended from his chariot like a young Bacchus in quest of his Ariadne, that he should so soon be unable to repeat the tale of his love. But there he was, confronted with Ariadne, before he had had a moment to shake his godlike locks, or arrange the divinity of his thoughts. Mr. Spooner, said the maid, opening the door. Oh, dear! exclaimed Ariadne, feeling the vainness of her wish to fly from the god. You know, Mary, that Lady Chilton is up in London. But he didn't ask for Lady Chilton, Miss. Then there was a pause, during which the maid-servant managed to shut the door and to escape. Our Chilton is up in London, said Miss. Palliser, rising from her chair. And Lady Chilton is with him. They will be at home, I think, tomorrow. But I am not quite sure. She looked at him rather as Diana might have looked at poor Orion than as any Ariadne at any Bacchus. And for a moment Mr. Spooner felt that the pale chillness of the moon was entering in upon his very heart and freezing the blood in his veins. Miss. Palliser, he began. But Adelaide was for the moment an unmitigated Diana. Mr. Spooner, she said, I cannot for an instant suppose that you wish to say anything to me. But I do, he said, laying his hand upon his heart. Then I must declare that you ought not to. And I hope you won't. Lady Chilton is not in the house, and I think that you ought to go away. I do indeed. But Mr. Spooner, though the interview had been commenced with unexpected and almost painful suddenness, was too much a man to be driven off by the first angry word. He remembered that this Diana was but mortal, and he remembered too that though he had entered in upon her privacy he had done so in a manner recognized by the world as lawful. There was no reason why he should allow himself to be congealed, or even banished out of the grotto of the nymph, without speaking a word on his own behalf. Were he to fly now, he must fly for ever. Whereas if he fought now, fought well, even though not successfully at the moment, he might fight again. While Miss. Palliser was scowling at him, he resolved upon fighting. Miss. Palliser, he said, I did not come to see Lady Chilton. I came to see you. And now that I have been happy enough to find you, I hope you will listen to me for a minute. I shan't do you any harm. I'm not afraid of any harm, but I cannot think that you have anything to say that can do anybody any good. She sat down, however, and so far yielded. Of course I cannot make you go away, Mr. Spooner, but I should have thought when I asked you—Mr. Spooner also seated himself, and uttered a sigh. Making love to a sweet, soft, blushing, willing, though silent, girl, is a pleasant employment. But the task of declaring love to a stony-hearted, obdurate, ill-conditioned Diana is very disagreeable for any gentleman. And it is the more so when the gentleman really loves, or thinks that he loves, his Diana. Mr. Spooner did believe himself to be verily in love. Having sighed, he began, Miss Palliser, this opportunity of declaring to you the state of my heart is too valuable to allow me to give it up without using it. It can't be of any use. Oh, Miss Palliser, if you knew my feelings. But I know my own. They may change, Miss Palliser. No, they can't. Don't say that, Miss Palliser. But I do say it. I say it over and over again. I don't know what any gentleman can gain by persecuting a lady. You oughtn't have been shown up here at all. Mr. Spooner knew well that women have been won even at the tenth time of asking, and this with him was only the third. I think if you knew my heart, he commenced. I don't want to know your heart. You might listen to a man at any rate. I don't want to listen. It can't do any good. I only want you to leave me alone and go away. I don't know what you take me for, said Mr. Spooner, beginning to wax angry. I haven't taken you for anything at all. This is very disagreeable and very foolish. A lady has a right to know her own mind, and she has a right not to be persecuted. She would have referred to Lord Children's letter had not all the hopes of her heart been so terribly crushed since that letter had been written. In it he had openly declared that she was already engaged to be married to Mr. Mall, thinking that he would thus put an end to Mr. Spooner's little adventure. But since the writing of Lord Children's letter that unfortunate reference had been made to Boulogne, and every particle of her happiness had been destroyed, she was a miserable, blighted young woman who had quarreled irretrievably with her lover, feeling greatly angry with herself because she had made the quarrel, and yet conscious that her own self-respect had demanded the quarrel. She was full of regret declaring to herself for mourning to-night that in spite of all his manifest wickedness in having talked to Boulogne, she never could care at all for any other man. And now there was this aggravation to her misery, this horrid suitor, who disgraced her by making those around her supposed to be possible that she should ever accept him, who had probably heard of her quarrel, and had been mean enough to suppose that therefore there might be a chance for himself. She did despise him, and wanted him to understand that she despised him. I believe I am in a condition to offer my hand and fortune to any young lady without impropriety, said Mr. Spooner. I don't know anything about your condition. But I will tell you everything. I don't want to know anything about it. I have an estate of—I don't want to know about your estate. I won't hear about your estate. It can be nothing to me. It is generally considered to be a matter of some importance. It is of no importance to me at all, Mr. Spooner, and I won't hear anything about it. If all the parish belonged to you, it would not make any difference. All the parish does belong to me, and nearly all the next, replied Mr. Spooner with great dignity. Then you'd better find some lady who would like to have two parishes. They haven't any weight with me at all. At that moment she told herself how much she would prefer even Boulogne to Mr. Spooner's two parishes. What is it you find so wrong about me? asked the unhappy suitor. Adelaide looked at him, and longed to tell him that his nose was red. And though she would not do quite that, she could not bring herself to spare him. What right had he to come to her, a nasty red-nosed old man who knew nothing about anything but foxes and horses, to her who had never given him the encouragement of a single smile? She could not allude to his nose, but in regard to his other defects she would not spare him. Our tastes are not the same of Mr. Spooner. You are very fond of hunting. And our ages are not the same. I always thought there should be a difference of age, said Mr. Spooner, becoming very red. And, and, and, it's altogether quite preposterous. I don't believe that you can really think it yourself. But I do. Then you must unthink it, and indeed, Mr. Spooner, since you drive me to say so, I consider it to be very unmanly of you after what Lord Children told you in his letter. But I believe that is all over. Then her anger flashed up very high. And if you do believe it, what a mean man you must be to come to me when you must know how miserable I am, and to think that I should be driven to accept you after losing him. You never could have been anything to me. If you wanted to get married at all, you should have done it before I was born. This was hard upon the man, as at the time he could not have been much more than twenty. But you don't know anything of the difference in people if you think that any girl would look at you after having been loved by Mr. Maul. Now, as you do not seem inclined to go away, I shall leave you. So, saying, she walked off with stately step out of the room, leaving the door open behind her, to facilitate her escape. She had certainly been very rude to him, and had treated him very badly of that, he was sure. He had conferred upon her what is commonly called the highest compliment which a gentleman can pay a lady, and she had insulted him, had doubly insulted him. She had referred to his age, greatly exaggerating his misfortune in that respect, and she had compared him to that poor beggar Maul in language most offensive. When she left him, he put his hand beneath his waistcoat, and turned with an air almost majestic towards the window. But in an instant he remembered that there was nobody there to see how he bore his punishment, and he sank down into human nature, damnation, he said, as he put his hands into his trousers pockets. Slowly he made his way down the hall, and slowly he opened for himself the front door, and escaped from the house on to the gravel drive. There he found his cousin Ned, still seated in the Fayeten, and slowly driving round the circle in front of the hall door. The squire succeeded in gaining such command over his own gate and countenance that his cousin divide nothing of the truth as he clambered up into his seat. But he soon showed his temper, what the devil if you got the reins in this way for. The reins are all right, said Ned. No, they ain't, they're all wrong. And then he drove down the avenue to Spoon Hall as quickly as he could make the horses trot. Did you see her, said Ned, as soon as they were beyond the gates? See your grandmother. Do you mean to say that I'm not to ask? There's nothing I hate so much as a fellow that's always asking questions, said Tom Spooner. There were some men so sick-headed that they never know when they ought to hold their tongue. For a minute or two Ned bore the reproof in silence and then he spoke. If you are unhappy, Tom, I can bear a good deal, but don't overdo it, unless you want me to leave you. She's the vixen that ever had a tongue in her head, said Tom Spooner, lifting his whip and striking the poor off-horse in his agony. Then Ned forgave him. End of chapter 53 Chapter 54 of Phineas Redux This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Adele Carson Phineas Redux by Anthony Trollup Chapter 54 The Duchess Takes Council Phineas Finn, when he had been thrice remanded before the Bow Street Magistrate and four times examined, was at last committed to be tried for the murder of Mr. Bonteen. This took place on Wednesday, May 19th, a fortnight after the murder. But during those fourteen days little was learned or even surmised by the police, in addition to the circumstances which had transpired at once. Indeed the delay, slight as it was, had arisen from a desire to find evidence that might affect Mr. Amelius, rather than with a view to strengthen that which did affect Phineas Finn. But no circumstance could be found tending in any way to add to the suspicion to which the converted Jew was made subject by his own character, and by the supposition that he would have been glad to get rid of Mr. Bonteen. He did not even attempt to run away, for which attempt certain pseudo-facilities were put in his way by police ingenuity. But Mr. Amelius stood his ground and courted inquiry. Mr. Bonteen had been to him, he said, a very bitter, unjust, and cruel enemy. Mr. Bonteen had endeavored to rob him of his dearest wife, had charged him with bigamy, had got up false evidence in the hope of ruining him. He had undoubtedly hated Mr. Bonteen, and might probably have said so. But, as it happened through God's mercy, he was enabled to prove that he could not possibly have been at the scene of the murder when the murder was committed. During that hour of the night he had been in his own bed, and had he been out, could not have re-entered the house without calling up the inmates. But independently of his alibi, Amelius was able to rely on the absolute absence of any evidence against him. No gray coat could be traced to his hands even for an hour. His height was very much less than that attributed by Lord Fawn to the man whom he had seen hurrying to the spot. No weapon was found in his possession by which the deed could have been done. Inquiry was made as to the purchase of life preservers, and the Reverend Gentleman was taken to half a dozen shops at which such instruments had lately been sold. But there had been a run upon life preservers, in consequence of recommendations as to their use given by certain newspapers, and it was found as impossible to trace one particular purchase as it would have been that of a loaf of bread. At none of the half dozen shops to which he was taken was Mr. Amelius remembered, and then all further inquiry in that direction was abandoned, and Mr. Amelius was set at liberty. I forgive my persecutors from the bottom of my heart, he said, but God will requite it to them. In the meantime Phineas was taken to Newgate, and was there confined, almost with the glory and attendance of a state prisoner. This was no common murder and no common murderer. Nor were they who interested themselves in the matter the ordinary rag tag and bobtail of the people, the mere wives and children or perhaps fathers and mothers or brothers and sisters of the slayer or the slain. Dukes and earls, duchesses and countesses, members of the cabinet, great statesmen, judges, bishops, and queens-counselors, beautiful women, and women of highest fashion seemed for a while to think of but little else than the fate of Mr. Bontein and the fate of Phineas Finn. People became intimately acquainted with each other through similar sympathies in this matter, who had never before spoken or seen each other. On the day after the full committal of the man, Mr. Low received a most courteous letter from the duchess of Omnium, begging him to call at Carleton Terrace if his engagements would permit him to do so. The duchess had heard that Mr. Low was devoting all his energies to the protection of Phineas Finn, and as a certain friend of hers, a lady, was doing the same, she was anxious to bring them together. Indeed, she herself was equally prepared to devote her energies for the present to the same object. She had declared to all her friends, especially to her husband and to the Duke of St. Bungay, her absolute conviction of the innocence of the accused man, and had called upon them to defend him. My dearest of the Elder Duke, I do not think that in my time any innocent man has ever lost his life upon the scaffold. Is that a reason why our friend should be the first instance, said the duchess? He must be tried according to the laws of his countries of the Younger Duke. Plantagenet, you always speak as if everything were perfect, whereas you know very well that everything is imperfect. If that man is, is hung, I— Glen Cora, said her husband, do not connect yourself with the fate of a stranger from any misdirected enthusiasm. I do connect myself. If that man be hung, I shall go into mourning for him. You had better look to it! Mr. Low obeyed the summons and called on the duchess, but in truth the invitation had been planned by Madame Gessler, who was present when the lawyer about five o'clock in the afternoon was shown into the presence of the duchess. T. was immediately ordered, and Mr. Low was almost embraced. He was introduced to Madame Gessler, of whom he did not before remember that he had heard the name, and was at once given to understand that the fate of Phineas was now in question. We know so well, said the duchess, how true you are to him. He is an old friend of mine, said the lawyer, and I cannot believe him to have been guilty of a murder. Guilty! He is no more guilty than I am. We are as sure of that as we are of the son. We know that he is innocent. Do we not, Madame Gessler? And we, too, are very dear friends of his, that is, I am. And so am I, said Madame Gessler, in a voice very low and sweet, but yet so energetic as to make Mr. Low almost rivet his attention upon her. You must understand, Mr. Low, that Mr. Phine is a man horribly hated by certain enemies, that wretched Mr. Bontein hated his very name, but there are other people who think very differently of him. He must be saved. Indeed, I hope that he may, said Mr. Low. We wanted to see you for ever so many reasons. Of course you understand that—that any sum of money can be spent that the case may want. Nothing will be spared on that account, certainly, said the lawyer. But money will do a great many things. We would send all around the world if we could get evidence against that other man, Lady Eustis's husband, you know. Can any good be done by sending all around the world? He went back to his own home not long ago, in Poland, I think, said Madame Gessler. Perhaps he got the instrument there and brought it with him. Mr. Low shook his head. Of course we are very ignorant, but it would be a pity that everything should not be tried. He might have got in and out of the window, you know, so the duchess. Still Mr. Low shook his head. I believe things can always be found out if only you take trouble enough, and trouble means money, does it not? We wouldn't mind how many thousand pounds it cost, would we marry? I fear that the spending of thousands can do no good, said Mr. Low. But something must be done. You don't mean to say that Mr. Finn is to be hung because Lord Faun says he saw a man running along the street in a gray coat. Certainly not. There is nothing else against him. Nobody else saw him. If there be nothing else against him he will be acquitted. You think, then, said Madame Gessler, that there will be no use in tracing what the man Milius did when he was out of England? He might have bought a gray coat then and have hidden it till this night, and then have thrown it away. Mr. Low listened to her with close attention, but again shook his head. If it could be shown that the man had a gray coat at the time it would certainly weaken the effect of Mr. Finn's gray coat. And if he bought a bludgeon there it would weaken the effect of Mr. Finn's bludgeon, and if he bought rope to make a ladder it would show that he had got out. It was a dark night, you know, and nobody would have seen it. We have been talking it all over, Mr. Low, and we really think you ought to send somebody. I will mention what you say to the gentlemen who are employed on Mr. Finn's defence. But will you not be employed? Then Mr. Low explained that the gentleman to whom he referred with the attorneys who would get up the case on their friend's behalf, and that as he himself practised in the Courts of Equity only he could not defend Mr. Finn on his trial. He must have the very best min, said the Duchess. He must have good min, certainly. And a great mini. Couldn't we get Sir Gregory Grogham? Mr. Low shook his head. I know very well that if you get min who are really, really swells, for that is what it is, Mr. Low, and pay them well enough and so make it really an important thing they can browbeat any judge and hoodwink any jury. I dare say it is very dreadful to say so, Mr. Low, but nevertheless I believe it, and as this man is certainly innocent it ought to be done. I dare say it's very shocking, but I do think that twenty thousand pounds spent among the lawyers would get him off. I hope we can get him off without expending twenty thousand pounds, Duchess. But you can have the money and welcome, cannot he, Madam Gessler? He could have double that if double were necessary. I would fill the Courts with lawyers for him, continue the Duchess. I would cross-examine the witnesses off their legs. I would rake up every wicked thing that horror Jew has done since he was born. I would make witnesses speak. I would give a carriage and pair of horses to every one of the juror's wives if that would do any good. You may shake your head, Mr. Low, but I would. You may shake your head, Mr. Low, but I would. And I'd carry Lourd Fawn off to the antipodes too, and I shouldn't care if you left him there. I know that this man is innocent and I'd do anything to save him. A woman I know can't do much, but she has this privilege that she can speak out what men only think. I'd give them two carriages and two pairs of horses apiece if I could do it that way. Mr. Low did his best to explain to the Duchess that the desired object could hardly be affected after the fashion she proposed, and he endeavored to persuade her that justice was sure to be done in an English court of law. Then why are people so very anxious to get this lawyer or that to bamboozle the witnesses, said the Duchess. Mr. Low declared it to be his opinion that the poorest man in England was not more likely to be hung for a murder he had not committed than the richest. Then why would you, if you were accused, have ever so many lawyers to defend you? Mr. Low went on to explain. The more money you spend, said the Duchess, the more fuss you make, and the longer a trial is about and the greater the interest the more chance a man has to escape. If a man is tried for three days you always think he'll get off, but if it lasts ten minutes he is sure to be convicted and hung. I'd have Mr. Finn's trial made so long that they never could convict him. I'd tire out all the judges and juries in London. If you get lawyers enough they may speak forever. Mr. Low endeavored to explain that this might prejudice the prisoner. And I'd examine every member of the House of Commons and all the Cabinet and all their wives, and I'd ask them all what Mr. Bonteen had been saying. I'd do it in such a way as a trial was never done before and I'd take care that they should know what was coming. And if he were convicted afterwards? My, by up the Home Secretary! It's very hard to say so, of course, Mr. Low, and I daresay there is nothing wrong ever done in Chancery, but I know what Cabinet ministers are. If they could get a majority by granting a pardon they'd do it quick enough. You are speaking of a liberal government, of course, Duchess. There isn't two pins to choose between them in that respect. Just at this moment I believe Mr. Finn is the most popular member of the House of Commons and I'd bring all that to bear. You can't but know that if everything of that kind is done it will have an effect. I believe you could make him so popular that the people would pull down the prison rather than have him hung so that a jury would not dare to say he was guilty. Would that be justice, ladies, as the just man? It would be success, Mr. Low, which is a great deal the better thing of the two. If Mr. Finn were found guilty, I could not in my heart believe that that would be justice, said Madame Gessler. Mr. Low did his best to make them understand that the plan of pulling down Newgate by the instrumentality of Finneas Finn's popularity or of buying up the Home Secretary by threats of parliamentary defection would hardly answer their purpose. He would, he assured them, suggest to the attorneys employed the idea of searching for evidence against the man Milius in his own country and would certainly take care that nothing was omitted from want of means. You had better let us put a check in your hands to the Duchess, but to this he would not assent. He did admit that it would be well to leave no stone unturned and that the turning of such stones must cost money, but the money he said would be forthcoming. He is not a rich man himself, said the Duchess. Mr. Low assured her that if money were really wanting he would ask for it. And now, so the Duchess, there is one other thing that we want. Can we see him? You yourself? Yes, I myself and Madame Gessler. You look as if it would be very wicked. Mr. Low thought that it would be wicked, that the Duke would not like it and that such a visit would occasion ill-natured remarks. People do visit him, I suppose, he's not locked up like a criminal. I visit him, said Mr. Low, and one or two other friends have done so. Lord Chiltern has been with him and Mr. Earl. Has no lady seen him as the Duchess? Not to my knowledge. Then it's time some lady should do so. I suppose we could be admitted if we were his sisters they'd let us in. You must excuse me, Duchess, but... Of course I will excuse you, but what? You're not his sisters. If I were engaged to him, to be his wife, said Madame Gessler, standing up, I am not so. There is nothing of that kind. You must not misunderstand me, but if I were, on that plea I presume you could be admitted. Why not as a friend? Lord Chiltern is admitted as his friend. Because of the prudery of a prison, said the Duchess, all things are wrong to the looker's after wickedness, my dear. If it would comfort him to see us, why should he not have that comfort? Would you have gone to him in his own lodgings, as Mr. Low? I would, if he had been ill, said Madame Gessler. Madame, said Mr. Low, speaking with the gravity which for a moment had its effect upon even the Duchess of Omnium. I think at any rate that if you visit Mr. Finn in prison, you should do so through the instrumentality of his grace, your husband. Of course you suspect me of all manner of evil. I suspect nothing, but I am sure that it should be so. It shall be so, so the Duchess. Thank you, sir. We are much obliged to you for your wise counsel. I am obliged to you, said Madame Gessler, because I know that you have his safety at heart. And so am I, said the Duchess, relenting in giving him her hand. We are really ever so much obliged to you. You don't quite understand about the Duke, and how should you? I never do anything without telling him, but he hasn't time to attend to things. I hope I have not offended you. Your dear me know, you can't offend me unless you mean it. Goodbye, and remember to have a great many lawyers and all with new wigs, and let them all get in a great rage that anybody should suppose it possible that Mr. Finn is a murderer. I'm sure I am. Goodbye, Mr. Low. You'll never be able to get to him, said the Duchess, as soon as they were alone. I suppose not. And what good could you do? Of course I'd go with you if we could get in, but what would be the use? To let him know that people do not think him guilty. Mr. Low would tell him that. I suppose too we can write to him. Would you mind writing? I would rather go. You might as well tell the truth when you're about it. You're breaking your heart for him. If he were to be condemned and executed, I should break my heart. I could never appear bright before the world again. That is just what I told Plantagenet. I said I would go into mourning. And I should really mourn. And yet were he free tomorrow? He would be no more to me than any other friend. Do you mean you would not marry him? No, I would not, nor would he ask me. I will tell you what will be his law in life if he escapes from the present danger. Of course he will escape. They don't really hang innocent men. Then he will become the husband of Lady Laura Kennedy. Poor fellow! If I believed that I should think it cruel to help him escape from Newgate. Anthony Trollop. Chapter Fifty-Five. Phineas Finn himself, during the fortnight in which he was carried backwards and forwards between his prison and the Bow Street police office, was able to maintain some outward show of manly dignity, as though he felt that the terrible accusation and great material inconvenience to which he was subjected were only and could only be temporary in their nature, and that the truth would soon prevail. During this period he had friends constantly with him, either Mr. Low, or Lord Chiltern, or Barrington Earl, or his landlord, Mr. Bunce, who in these days was very true to him, and he was very frequently visited by the attorney, Mr. Wickerby, who had been expressly recommended to him for this occasion. If anybody could be counted upon to see him through his difficulty it was Wickerby. But the company of Mr. Wickerby was not pleasant to him because, as far as he could judge, Mr. Wickerby did not believe in his innocence. Mr. Wickerby was willing to do his best for him, was so to speak moving heaven and earth on his behalf, was fully conscious that this case was a great affair, and in no respect similar to those which were constantly placed in his hands. But there never fell from him a sympathetic expression of assurance of his client's absolute freedom from all taint of guilt in the matter. From day to day, and ten times a day, Phineas would express his indignant surprise that anyone should think it possible that he had done this deed. But to all these expressions Mr. Wickerby would make no answer whatever. At last Phineas asked him the direct question. I never suspect anybody of anything, said Mr. Wickerby. Do you believe in my innocence? demanded Phineas. Everybody is entitled to be believed innocent till he has been proved to be guilty, said Mr. Wickerby. Then Phineas appealed to his friend Mr. Low, asking whether he might not be allowed to employ some lawyer whose feelings would be more in unison with his own. But Mr. Low adjured him to make no change. Mr. Wickerby understood the work and was a most zealous man. His client was entitled to his services, but to nothing more than his services. And so Mr. Wickerby carried on the work, fully believing that Phineas Finn had in truth murdered Mr. Bonteen. But the prisoner was not without sympathy and confidence. Mr. Low, Lord Chiltern and Lady Chiltern, who on one occasion came to visit him with her husband, entertained no doubts prejudicial to his honour. They told him, perhaps almost more than was quite true of the feelings of the world in his favour. He heard of the friendship and faith of the Duchess of Omnium, of Madam Gessler, and of Lady Laura Kennedy, hearing also that Lady Laura was now a widow. And then at length his two sisters came over to him from Ireland and wept and sobbed and fell into hysterics in his presence. They were sure that he was innocent, as was everyone, they said, throughout the length and breadth of Ireland. And Mrs. Bunce, who came to see Phineas in his prison, swore that she would tear the judge from his bench if he did not at once pronounce a verdict in favour of her darling without waiting for any nonsense of a jury. And Bunce, her husband, having convinced himself that his lodger had not committed the murder, was zealous in another way, taking delight in the case and proving that no jury could find a verdict of guilty. During that week Phineas, buoyed up by the sympathy of his friends and in some measure supported by the excitement of the occasion, carried himself well and bore bravely the terrible misfortune to which he had been subjected by untoward circumstances. But when the magistrate fully committed him, giving the first public decision on the matter from the bench, declaring to the world at large that on the evidence as given, prima facie, he, Phineas Phine, must be regarded as the murderer of Mr. Bonteen, our hero's courage almost gave way. If such was now the judicial opinion of the magistrate, how could he expect a different verdict from a jury in two months' time when he would be tried before a final court? As far as he could understand, nothing more could be learned on the matter. All the facts were known that could be known, as far as he, or rather his friends on his behalf, were able to search for facts. It seemed to him that there was no tittle whatever of evidence against him. He had walked straight home from his club with a life preserver in his pocket, and had never turned to the right or to the left. Till he found himself committed, he would not believe that any serious and prolonged impediment could be thrown in the way of his liberty. He would not believe that a man altogether innocent could be in danger of the gallows on a false accusation. It had seemed to him that the police had kept their hold on him with a rabid ferocity, straining every point with the view of showing that it was possible that he should have been the murderer. Every policeman who had been near him, carrying him backward and forward from his prison, or giving evidence as to the circumstances of the locality and of his walk home on that fatal night, had seemed to him to be an enemy. But he had looked for impartiality from the magistrate, and now the magistrate had failed him. He had seen in court the faces of men well known to him, men known in the world, with whom he had been on pleasant terms in Parliament, who had sat up on the bench while he was standing as a culprit between two constables, and they who had been his familiar friends had appeared at once to have been removed from him by some unmeasurable distance. But all that he had, as it were, discounted, believing that a few hours, the very longest a few days, would remove the distance. But now he was sent back to his prison, there to await his trial for the murder. And it seemed to him that his committals startled no one but himself. Could it be that even his dearest friends thought it possible that he had been guilty? When that day came, and he was taken back to Newgate on his last journey there from Bow Street, Lord Chiltern had returned for a while to Harrington Hall, having promised that he would be back in London as soon as his business would permit. But Mr. Low came to him almost immediately to his prison room. This is a pleasant state of things, said Phineas, with a forced laugh. But as he laughed he also sobbed with a low, irrepressible, convulsive movement in his throat. Phineas, the time has come in which you must show yourself to be a man. A man? Oh, yes, I can be a man. A murderer, you mean. I shall have to be... hung, I suppose. May God in His mercy forbid. No. Not in His mercy, in His justice. There can be no need for mercy here, not even from heaven. When they take my life, may He forgive my sins through the merits of my Saviour. But for this there can be no mercy. Why do you not speak? Do you mean to say that I am guilty? I am sure that you are innocent. And yet look here. What more can be done to prove that it has been done? That blundering fool will swear my life away. Then he threw himself on his bed, and gave way to his sobs. That evening he was alone, as indeed most of his evenings had been spent, and the minutes were minutes of agony to him. The external circumstances of his position were as comfortable as circumstances would allow. He had a room to himself looking out through the heavy iron bars into one of the courts of the prison. The chamber was carpeted, and was furnished with bed and chairs and two tables. Books were allowed him, as he pleased, and pen and ink. It was May, and no fire was necessary. At certain periods of the day he could walk alone in the court below, the restriction on such liberty being that at other certain hours the place was wanted for other prisoners. As far as he knew, no friend who called was denied to him, though he was by no means certain that his privilege in that respect would not be curtailed now that he had been committed for trial. His food had been plentiful and well-cooked, and even luxuries such as fish and wine and fruit had been supplied to him. That the fruit had come from the hot houses of the Duchess of Omnium, and the wine from Mr. Lowe's cellar, and the fish and lamb and spring vegetables, the cream and coffee and fresh butter from the unrestricted orders of another friend, that Lord Chiltern had sent him champagne and cigars, and that Lady Chiltern had given directions about the books and stationery he did not know. But as far as he could be consoled by such comforts, there had been the consolation. If lamb and salad could make him happy, he might have enjoyed his sojourn in Newgate. Now, this evening, he was past all enjoyment. It was impossible that he should read. How could a man fix his attention on any book with the charge of murder against himself affirmed by the deliberate decision of a judge? And he knew himself to be as innocent as the magistrate himself. Every now and then he would rise from his bed and almost rush across the room as though he would dash his head against the wall. Murder! They really believed that he had deliberately murdered the man. He, Phineas Finn, who had served his country with repute, who had sat in parliament, who had prided himself on living with the best of his fellow creatures, who had been the friend of Mr. Monk and of Lord Cantrip, the trusted intimate of such women as Lady Laura and Lady Chiltern, who had never put his hand to a mean action, or allowed his tongue to speak a mean word. He laughed in his wrath, and then almost howled in his agony. He thought of the young, loving wife who had lived with him little more than for one fleeting year, and wondered whether she was looking down upon him from heaven, and how her spirit would bear this accusation against the man upon whose bosom she had slept, and in whose arms she had gone to her long rest. They can't believe it, he said aloud. It is impossible. Why should I have murdered him? And then he remembered an example in Latin from some rule of grammar, and repeated it to himself over and over again. No one at an instant of a sudden becomes most base. It seemed to him that there was such a want of knowledge of human nature in the supposition that it was possible that he should have committed such a crime. And yet there he was, committed to take his trial for the murder of Mr. Bontein. The days were long, and it was daylight till nearly nine. Indeed the twilight lingered even through those iron bars till after nine. He had once asked for candles, but had been told that they could not be allowed him without an attendant in the room, and he had dispensed with them. He had been treated doubtless with great respect, but nevertheless he had been treated as a prisoner. They hardly denied him anything that he asked, but when he asked for that which they did not choose to grant, they would annex conditions which induced him to withdraw his request. He understood their ways now, and did not rebel against them. On a sudden he heard the key in the door, and the man who attended him entered the room with a candle in his hand. A lady had come to call, and the governor had given permission for her entrance. He would return for the light and for the lady in half an hour. He had said all this before Phineas could see who the lady was, and when he did see the form of her who followed the jailer and who stood with hesitating steps behind him in the doorway, he knew her by her somber solemn raiment, and not by her countenance. She was dressed from head to foot in the deepest weeds of widowhood, and a heavy veil fell from her bonnet over her face. Lady Laura, is it you? said Phineas, putting out his hand. Of course it was Lady Laura. While the Duchess of Omnium and Madame Gessler were talking about such a visit, allowing themselves to be deterred by the wisdom of Mr. Low, she had made her way through bolts and bars, and was now with him in his prison. Oh Phineas! she slowly raised her veil and stood gazing at him. Of all my troubles this, to see you here is the heaviest, and of all my consolations to see you here is the greatest. He should not have so spoken. Could he have thought of things as they were and restrained himself? He should not have uttered words to her which were pleasant, but not true. There came a gleam of sunshine across her face as she listened to him, and then she threw herself into his arms and wept upon his shoulder. I did not expect that you would have found me, he said. She took the chair opposite to that on which he usually sat, and then began her tale. Her cousin, Barrington Earl, had brought her there and was below waiting for her in the Governor's House. He had procured an order for her admission that evening, direct from Sir Harry Coldfoot, the Home Secretary, which, however, as she admitted, had been given under the idea that she and Earl were to see him together. But I would not let him come with me, she said. I could not have spoken to you had he been here, could I? It would not have been the same, Lady Laura. He had thought much of his mode of addressing her on occasions before this, at Dresden and at Portman Square, and had determined that he would always give her her title. Once or twice he had lacked the courage to be so hard to her. Now, as she heard the name, the gleam of sunshine passed from her altogether. We hardly expected that we should ever meet in such a place as this, he said. I cannot understand it. They cannot really think you killed him. He smiled and shook his head. Then she spoke of her own condition. You have heard what has happened? You know that I am... a widow? Yes. I had heard. And then he smiled again. You will have understood why I could not come to you, as I should have done but for this little accident. He died on the day that they arrested you. Was it not strange that such a double blow should fall together? Oswald, no doubt, told you all. He told me of your husband's death. But not of his will. Perhaps he has not seen you since he heard it. Lord Chiltern had heard of the will before his last visit to Phineas and Newgate, but had not chosen then to speak of his sister's wealth. I have heard nothing of Mr. Kennedy's will. It was made immediately after our marriage, and he never changed it, though he had so much cause of anger against me. He has not injured you, then, as regards money? Injured me? No. Indeed, I am a rich woman, very rich. All loflinter is my own for life. But of what use can it be to me? He, in his present state, could tell her of no uses for such a property. I suppose, Phineas, it cannot be that you are really in danger. In the greatest danger, I fancy. Do you mean that they will say you are guilty? The magistrates have said so already. But surely that is nothing. If I thought so, I should die. If I believed it, they should never take me out of the prison while you are here. Barrington says it cannot be. Oswald and Violet are sure that such a thing can never happen. It was that Jew who did it. I cannot say who did it. I did not. You! Oh Phineas! The world must be mad when any man can believe it. But they do believe it? This, he said, meaning to ask a question as to that outside world. We do not. Barrington says— What does Barrington say? That there are some who do. Just a few who are Mr. Bonteen's special friends. The police believe it. That is what I cannot understand, men who ought to be keen-eyed and quick-witted. That magistrate believes it. I saw men in the court who used to know me well, and I could see that they believed it. Mr. Monk was here yesterday. Does he believe it? I asked him, and he told me, No, but I did not quite trust him as he told me. There are two or three who believe me innocent. Who are they? Low, and Chilton, and his wife, and that man Bunce and his wife. If I escape from this, if they do not hang me, I will remember them. And there are two other women who know me well enough not to think me a murderer. Who are they, Phineas? Madam Gessler and the Duchess of Omnium. Have they been here? She asked with jealous eagerness. Oh, no, but I hear that it is so, and I know it. One learns to feel even from here, say, what is in the minds of people. And what do I believe, Phineas? Can you read my thoughts? I know them of old, without reading them now. Then he put forth his hand and took hers. Had I murdered him in real truth, you would not have believed it. Because I love you, Phineas. Then the key was again heard in the door, and Barrington Earl appeared with the jailers. The time was up, he said, and he had come to redeem his promise. He spoke cordially to his old friend and grasped the prisoner's hand cordially, but not the less did he believe that there was blood on it, and Phineas knew that such was his belief. It appeared on his arrival that Lady Laura had not at all accomplished the chief object of her visit. She had brought with her various checks all drawn by Barrington Earl on his banker, amounting altogether to many hundreds of pounds which it was intended that Phineas should use from time to time for the necessities of his trial. Barrington Earl explained that the money was in fact to be a loan from Lady Laura's father, and was simply passed through his banker's account. But Phineas knew that the loan must come from Lady Laura, and he positively refused to touch it. His friend, Mr. Low, was managing all that for him, and he would not embarrass the matter by a fresh account. He was very obstinate, and at last the checks were taken away in Barrington Earl's pocket. Good night, old fellow, said Earl affectionately. I'll see you again before long. May God send you through it all. Good night, Barrington. It was kind of you to come to me. Then Lady Laura, watching to see whether her cousin would leave her alone for a moment, with the object of her idolatry, paused before she gave him her hand. Good night, Lady Laura, he said. Good night. Barrington Earl was now just outside the door. I shall not forget your coming here to me. How should we either of us forget it? Come, Laura, said Barrington Earl, we had better make an end of it. But if I should never see him again, of course you'll see him again. When? And where? Oh, God, if they should murder him! Then she threw herself into his arms and covered him with kisses, though her cousin had returned into the room and stood over her as she embraced him. Laura, said he, you are doing him an injury. How should he support himself if you behave like this? Come away. Oh, my God, if they should kill him, she exclaimed. But she allowed her cousin to take her in his arms, and Phineas Finn was left alone, without having spoken another word to either of them. Phineas Redux, by Antony Trollop. On the day after the committal, a lady, who had got out of a cab at the corner of Northumberland Street and the Marilabone Road, walked up that very uninviting street and knocked at a door just opposite to the deadest part of the dead wall of the Marilabone Workhouse. Here lived Mrs. and Miss Meager, and also on occasions Mr. Meager, who, however, was simply a trouble and annoyance in the world, going about to race courses and occasionally perhaps to worse places, and being of no slightest use to the two poor, hard-worked women, mother and daughter, who endeavored to get their living by letting lodgings. The task was difficult, for it is not everybody who likes to look out upon the dead wall of a workhouse, and they who do are disposed to think that their willingness that way should be considered in the rent. But Mr. Emilius, when the cruelty of his wife's friends deprived him of the short-lived luxury of his mansion in Lowne Square, had found in Northumberland Street a congenial retreat, and had for a while trusted to Mrs. and Miss Meager for all his domestic comforts. Mr. Emilius was always a favorite with new friends, and had not as yet had as Northumberland Street gloss rubbed altogether off him when Mr. Bonteen was murdered. As it happened, on that night, or rather early in the day, for Meager had returned to the bosom of his family after a somewhat prolonged absence in the provinces, and therefore the date had become specially remarkable in the Meager family from the double event. Mr. Meager had declared that unless his wife could supply him with a five-pound note, he must cut his throat instantly. His wife and daughter had regretted the necessity, but had declared the alternative to be out of the question, whereupon Mr. Meager had endeavored to force the lock of an old bureau with a carving knife, and there had been some slight personal encounter, after which he had had some gin and had gone to bed. Mrs. Meager remembered the day very well indeed, and Miss Meager, when the police came the next morning, had accounted for her black eye by a tragic account of a fall she had had against the bed-post in the dark. Up to that period Mr. Amelius had been everything that was sweet and good, an excellent, eloquent clergyman who was being ill-treated by his wife's wealthy relations, who was soft in his manners and civil in his words, and never gave more trouble than was necessary. The period, too, would have been one of comparative prosperity to the Meager ladies, but for that inopportune return of the head of the family, as two other lodgers had been inclined to look out upon the dead wall or else into the cheerful backyard. Which circumstance came to have some bearing upon our story, as Mrs. Meager had been driven by the press of her increased household, to let that good-natured Mr. Amelius know that if he didn't mind it, the latch-key might be an accommodation on occasions. To give him his due indeed he had, when first taking the rooms, offered to give up the key when not intending to be out at night. After the murder Mr. Amelius had been arrested, and had been kept in endurance for a week. Ms. Meager had been sure that he was innocent. Mrs. Meager had trusted the policemen, who evidently thought that the clergyman was guilty. Of the policemen who were concerned on the occasion, it may be said in a general way that they believed that both the gentlemen had committed the murder. So anxious were they not to be foiled in the attempts at discovery which their duty called upon them to make. Mr. Meager had left the house on the morning of the arrest, having arranged that little matter of the five-pound note by a compromise. When the policeman came for Mr. Amelius, Mr. Meager was gone. For a day or two the lodger's rooms were kept vacant for the clergyman, till Mrs. Meager became quite convinced that he had committed the murder, and then all his things were packed up and placed in the passage. When he was liberated he returned to the house, and expressed unbounded anger at what had been done. He took his two boxes away in a cab, and was seen no more by the ladies of Northumberland Street. But a further gleam of prosperity fell upon them in consequence of the tragedy which had been so interesting to them. Hitherto the inquiries made at their house had had referenced solely to the habits and doings of their lodger during the last few days. But now there came to them a visitor who made a more extended investigation, and this was one of their own sex. It was Madame Giesler who got out of the cab at the workhouse corner and walked from Thence to Mrs. Meager's house. This was her third appearance in Northumberland Street, and that each coming she had spoken kind words and had left behind her liberal recompense for the trouble which she gave. She had no scruples as to paying for the evidence which she desired to obtain, no fear of any questions which might afterwards be asked in cross-examination. She dealt out sovereigns, womanfully, and had had Mrs. and Mrs. Meager at her feet. Before the second visit was completed they were both certain that the Bohemian-converted Jew had murdered Mr. Bontein and were quite willing to assist in hanging him. Yes, ma'am, said Mrs. Meager. He did take the key with him. Amelia remembers we were a key short at the time he was away. The absence here alluded to was that occasion by the journey which Mr. Amelia's took to Prague when he heard that evidence of his former marriage was being sought against him in his own country. That he did, said Amelia, because we were put out ever so, and he had no business, for he was not paying for the room. You have only one key. There is three, ma'am. The front attic has one regular because he's on a daily paper, and of course he doesn't get to bed till morning. Meager always takes another, and we can't get it from him ever so. And Mr. Amelia's took the other away with him, asked Madame Giesler. That he did, ma'am. When he came back he said it had been in a drawer, but it wasn't in the drawer. We always knows what's in the drawers. The drawer wasn't left locked, then. Yes it was, ma'am, and he took that key, unbeknownst to us, said Mrs. Meager. But there is other keys that open the drawers. We are obliged in our line to know about the lodgers, ma'am. This was certainly no time for Madame Giesler to express disapprobation of the practices which were thus divulged. She smiled and nodded her head, and was quite sympathetic with Mrs. Meager. She had learned that Mr. Amelia's had taken the latch key with him to Bohemia, and was convinced that a dozen other latch keys might have been made after the pattern without any apparent detection by the London police. And now about the coat, Mrs. Meager. Well, ma'am, Mr. Meager has not been here since. No, ma'am, Mr. Meager, ma'am, isn't what he ought to be. I never do own it up, only when I'm driven. He hasn't been home. I suppose he still has the coat. Well, ma'am, no. We sent a young man after him, as you said, and the young man found him at the New Market Spring. Some water cure? asked Madame Giesler. No, ma'am. It ain't a water cure, but the races. He hadn't got the coat. He does always manage a tidy, great coat when November is coming on, because it covers everything, and is respectable. But he mostly parts with it in April. He gets short, and then he just pawns it. But he had it the night of the murder. Yes, ma'am, he had. Amelia and I remembered it as special. When we went to bed, which we did soon after ten, it was left in this room, lying there on the sofa. They were now sitting in the little-back parlor in which Mrs. and Mrs. Meager were accustomed to live. And it was there in the morning. Father had it on when he went out, said Amelia. If we paid him, he would get it out of the pawn-chop and bring it to us. Would he not? asked the lady. To this Mrs. Meager suggested that it was quite on the cards that Mr. Meager might have been able to do better with his coat by selling it. And if so, it certainly would have been sold, as no prudent idea of redeeming his garment for the next winter's wear would ever enter his mind. And Mrs. Meager seemed to think that such a sale would not have taken place between her husband and any old friend. He wouldn't know where he sold it, said Mrs. Meager. Any ways he'd tell us so, said Amelia. But if we paid him to be more accurate, said Madame Giesler. They is so afraid of being took up themselves, said Mrs. Meager. There was, however, ample evidence that Mr. Meager had possessed a gray greatcoat, which during the night of the murder had been left in the little sitting-room in which they had supposed to have lain there all night. To this coat Mr. Amelius might have had easy access. But then it was a big man that was seen, and Amelius isn't no ways a big man. Meager's coat would be too long for him ever so much. Nevertheless we must try and get the coat, said Madame Giesler. I'll speak to a friend about it. I suppose we can find your husband when we want him. I don't know, ma'am. We never can find him. But then we never do want him, not now. The police know him at the race is no doubt. You won't go and get him into trouble, ma'am, worse than he is. He's always been in trouble. But I wouldn't like to be means of making it worse on him than it is. Madame Giesler, as she again paid the woman for her services, assured her that she would do no injury to Mr. Meager. All that she wanted of Mr. Meager was his gray coat. And that not with any view that could be detrimental either to his honor or to his safety, and she was willing to pay any reasonable price, or almost any unreasonable price, for the coat. But the coat must be made to be forthcoming if it were still in existence, and had not been as yet torn to pieces by the shoddy makers. It ain't near come to that yet, said Amelia. I don't know that I ever see father more respectable. That is, in the way of a gray coat. End of Chapter 56. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 57 Of Phineas Redux This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Phineas Redux By Antony Trollop Chapter 57 The Beginning of the Search for the Key and the Coat When Madame Giesler revealed her plans and ideas to Mr. Wickerby, the attorney, who had been employed to bring Phineas's fin through his troubles, that gentleman evidently did not think much of the unprofessional assistance which the lady proposed to give him. I'm afraid it is far-fetched, ma'am, if you understand what I mean, said Mr. Wickerby. Madame Giesler declared that she understood very well what Mr. Wickerby meant, but that she could hardly agree with him. According to that, the gentleman must have plotted the murder more than a month before he committed it, said Mr. Wickerby. And why not? Murder plots are generally the work of a few hours at the longest, Madame Giesler. Anger, combined with an indifference to self-sacrifice, does not endure the wear of many days, and the object here was insufficient. I don't think we can ask to have the trial put off in order to find out whether a false key may have been made in Prague. And you will not look for the coat. We can look for it, and probably get it, if the woman has not lied to you. But I don't think it will do us any good. The woman probably is lying. You have been paying her very liberally, so that she has been making an excellent livelihood out of the murder. No jury would believe her. And a gray coat is a very common thing. After all, it would prove nothing. It would only let the jury know that Mr. Meager had a gray coat, as well as Mr. Finn. That Mr. Finn wore a gray coat on that night is a fact which we can't upset. If you got hold of Meager's coat, you wouldn't be a bit nearer to proof that Amelius had worn it. There would be the fact that he might have worn it. Madame Giesler, indeed it would not help our client. You see, what are the difficulties in our way? Mr. Finn was on the spot at the moment, or so near it as to make it certainly possible that he might have been there. There is no such evidence as to Amelius, even if he could be shown to have had a latch key. The man was killed by such an instrument as Mr. Finn had about him. There is no evidence that Mr. Amelius had such an instrument in his hand. A tall man in a gray coat was seeing hurrying to the spot at the exact hour. Mr. Finn is a tall man and wore a gray coat at the time. Amelius is not a tall man, and even though Meager had a gray coat, there is no evidence to show that Amelius ever wore it. Mr. Finn had quarreled violently with Mr. Bonteen within the hour. It does not appear that Amelius ever quarreled with Mr. Bonteen, though Mr. Bonteen had exerted himself in opposition to Amelius. Is there to be no defense then? Certainly there will be a defense, and such a defense as I think will prevent any jury from being unanimous in convicting my client, though there is a great deal of evidence against him. It is all what we call circumstantial. I understand, Mr. Wickerby. Nobody saw him commit the murder. Indeed, no, said Madame Giesler. Although there is personal similarity, there is no personal identity, there is no positive proof of anything illegal on his part, or of anything that would have been suspicious had no murder been committed, such as the purchase of poison or carrying of a revolver. The Life Preserver, had no such instrument been unfortunately used, might have been regarded as a thing of custom. But I am sure that that Bohemian did murder Mr. Bonteen, said Madame Giesler with enthusiasm. Madame, said Mr. Wickerby, holding up both his hands, I can only wish that you could be upon the jury. And you won't try to show that the other man might have done it? I think not. Next to an alibi that breaks down. You know what an alibi is, Madame Giesler? Yes, Mr. Wickerby. I know what an alibi is. Next to an alibi that breaks down, an unsuccessful attempt to affix the fault on another party is the most fatal blow which a prisoner's counsel can inflict upon him. It is always taken by the jury as so much evidence against him. We must depend all together on a different line of defense. What line, Mr. Wickerby? Juries are always unwilling to hang. Madame Giesler shuddered as the horrid word was broadly pronounced, and are apt to think that simply circumstantial evidence cannot be suffered to demand so disagreeable a duty. They are peculiarly averse to hanging a gentleman, and will hardly be induced to hang a member of Parliament. Then Mr. Fenn is very good-looking and has been popular, which is all in his favour, and we shall have such evidence on the score of character as was never before brought into one of our courts. We shall have half the cabinet. There will be two dukes. Madame Giesler, as she listened to the admiring enthusiasm of the attorney while he went on with his list, acknowledged to herself that her dear friend the Duchess had not been idle. There will be three Secretaries of State. The Secretary of State for the Home Department himself will be examined. I am not quite sure that we may not get the Lord Chancellor. There will be Mr. Monk, about the most popular man in England, who will speak of the prisoner as his particular friend. I don't think any jury would hang a particular friend of Mr. Monks. And there will be ever so many ladies. That has never been done before, but we mean to try it. Madame Giesler had heard all this, and had herself assisted in the work. I rather think we shall get four or five leading members of the opposition, for they all disliked Mr. Bonteen. If we could manage Mr. Dobbany and Mr. Gresham, I think we might reckon ourselves quite safe. I forgot to say that the Bishop of Barchester has promised. All that won't prove his innocence, Mr. Wickerby. Mr. Wickerby shrugged his shoulders. If he be acquitted after that fashion, men then will say that he was guilty. We must think of his life first, Madame Giesler, said the attorney. Madame Giesler, when she left the attorney's room, was very ill-satisfied with him. She desired some adherent to her cause, who would, with affectionate zeal, resolve upon washing Phineus' fin, with the help of his wife. Resolve upon washing Phineus' fin, widest snow in reference to the charge now made against him. But no man would so resolve who did not believe in his innocence, as Madame Giesler believed herself. She herself knew that her own belief was romantic and unpractical. Nevertheless, the conviction of the guilt of that other man, towards which she still thought that much could be done if that coat were found, and the making of a secret key were proved, was so strong upon her that she would not allow herself to drop it. It would not be sufficient for her that Phineus' fin should be acquitted. She desired that the real murderer should be hung for the murder, so that all the world might be sure, as she was sure, that her hero had been wrongfully accused. Do you mean that you were going to start yourself? The Duchess said to her that same afternoon. Yes, I am. Then you must be very far gone in love, indeed. You would do as much, Duchess, if you were free as I am. It isn't a matter of love at all. It's womanly enthusiasm for the cause one has taken up. I'm quite as enthusiastic, only I shouldn't like to go to Prague in June. I'd go to Siberia in January if I could find out that that horrid man really committed the murder. Who are going with you? We shall be quite a company. We've got a detective policeman and an interpreter who understands Czech and German to go about with the policeman and a lawyer's clerk, and there will be my own maid. Everybody will know all about it before you get there. We are not to go quite together. The policeman and the interpreter are to form one party, and I and my maid another. The poor clerk is to be alone. If they get the code, of course, you'll telegraph to me. Who is to have the coat? I suppose they'll take it to Mr. Wickerby. He says he doesn't want it, that it would do no good, but I think that if we could show that the man might very easily have been out of the house, that he had certainly provided himself with means of getting out of the house secretly, the coat would be of service. I am going at any rate, and shall be in Paris tomorrow morning. I think it very grand of you, my dear, and for your sake I hope he may live to be Prime Minister. Perhaps, after all, he may give Plantagenet his garter. When the old Duke died, a garter became vacant, and had, of course, fallen to the gift of Mr. Gresham. The Duchess had expected that it would be continued in the family, as had been the lieutenancy of Barsetscher, which also had been held by the old Duke. But the garter had been given to Lord Cantrip, and the Duchess was sore. With all her radical propensities and inclination to laugh at Dukes and Marquises, she thought very much of garters and lieutenancies. But her husband would not think of them at all, and hence there were words between them. The Duchess had declared that the Duke should insist on having the garter. These are things that men do not ask for, the Duke had said. Don't tell me Plantagenet about not asking. Everybody asks for everything nowadays. Your everybody is not correct, Glencora. I never yet asked for anything, and never shall. No honour has any value in my eyes unless it comes unasked. Thereupon it was that the Duchess now suggested that Phineas Finn, when Prime Minister, might perhaps bestow a garter upon her husband. And so Madame Giesler started for Prague with the determination of being back, if possible, before the trial began. It was to be commenced at the Old Bailey towards the end of June, and people already began to foretell that it would extend over a very long period. The circumstances seemed to be simple, but they who understood such matters declared that the duration of a trial depended a great deal more on the public interest felt in the matter than upon its own nature. Now it was already perceived that no trial of modern days had ever been so interesting as would be this trial. It was already known that the Attorney General, Sir Gregory Grogram, was to lead the case for the prosecution, and that the Solicitor General, Sir Simon Slope, was to act with him. It had been thought to be due to the memory and character of Mr. Bontein, who, when he was murdered, had held the office of President of the Board of Trade, and who had very nearly been Chancellor of the Ex-Checker, that so unusual a task should be imposed on these two high legal officers of the government. No doubt there would be a crowd of juniors with them, but it was understood that Sir Gregory Grogram would himself take the burden of the task upon his own shoulders. It was declared everywhere that Sir Gregory did believe Phineas Fin to be guilty, but it was also declared that Sir Simon Slope was convinced he was innocent. The defense was to be entrusted to the well-practiced but now aged hands of that most experienced practitioner, Mr. Schaffenbrass, than whom no barrister living or dead ever rescued more culprits from the fangs of the law. With Mr. Schaffenbrass, who quite late in life had consented to take a silk gown, was to be associated Mr. Sargent Birdbold, who was said to be employed in order that the case might be in safe hands should the strength of Mr. Schaffenbrass fail him at the last moment, and Mr. Snow, who was supposed to handle a witness more judiciously than any of the rising men, and that subtle, courageous, eloquent, and painstaking youth, Mr. Goldightly, who now, with no more than 10 or 15 years practice, was already known to be earning his bread and supporting a wife and family. But the glory of this trial would not depend chiefly on the array of counsel, nor on the fact that the Lord Chief Justice himself would be the judge, so much as on the social position of the murdered man and of the murderer. Noble lords and great statesmen would throng the bench of the court to see Phineus Finn tried, and all the world who could find an entrance would do the same to see the great statesmen and the noble lords. The importance of such an affair increases like a snowball as it is rolled on. Many people talk much, and then very many people talk very much more. The undersheriffs of the city, praiseworthy gentlemen not hitherto widely known to fame, became suddenly conspicuous and popular as being the dispensers of admissions to seats in the court. It had been already admitted by judges and counsel that sundry other cases must be postponed, because it was known that the Bontein murder would occupy at least a week. It was supposed that Mr. Chaffenbrass would consume a whole day at the beginning of the trial and getting a jury to his mind, a matter on which he was known to be very particular. And another whole day at the end of the trial and submitting to the jury the particulars of all the great cases on record in which circumstantial evidence was known to have led to improper verdicts. It was therefore understood that the last week in June would be devoted to the trial, to the exclusion of all other matters of interest. When Mr. Gresham, hard-pressed by Mr. Turnbull for a convenient day offered that gentleman Thursday the twenty-fourth of June for suggesting to the house a little proposition of his own with reference to the English Church establishment, Mr. Turnbull openly repudiated the offer, because on that day the trial of Phineas Finn would be commenced. I hope, said Mr. Gresham, that the work of the country will not be impeded by that unfortunate affair. I am afraid, said Mr. Turnbull, that the right honorable gentleman will find that the member for Tancerville will on that day monopolize the attention of this house. The remark was thought to have been made in very bad taste, but nobody doubted its truth. Perhaps the interest was enhanced among politicians by the existence very generally of an opinion that though Phineas Finn had murdered Mr. Bonteen he would certainly be acquitted. Nothing could then prevent the acquitted murderer from resuming his seat in the house, and gentlemen were already beginning to ask themselves after what fashion it would become them to treat him. Would the speaker catch his eye when he rose to speak? Would he still be Phineas to the very large number of men with whom his general popularity had made him intimate? Would he be cold shouldered at the clubs, and treated as one whose hands were red with blood? Or would he become more popular than ever and receive an ovation after his acquittal? In the meantime, Madame Giesler started on her journey for Prague.