M. M. G.
Sunday morning.
Should he put off his journey and go to her this very
evening and claim her as his friend? The question
was asked and answered in a moment. Of course
he would not go to her. Were he to do so there
would be only one possible word for him to say, and
that word should certainly never be spoken. But
he wrote to her a reply, shorter even than her own
short note.
Thanks, dear friend. I do not
doubt but that you and I
understand each other thoroughly,
and that each trusts the
other for good wishes and honest
intentions.
Always yours,
P. F.
I write these as I am starting.
When he had written this, he kept it till the last
moment in his hand, thinking that he would not send
it. But as he slipped into the cab, he gave the
note to his late landlady to post.
At the station Bunce came to him to say a word of
farewell, and Mrs. Bunce was on his arm.
“Well done, Mr. Finn, well done,” said
Bunce. “I always knew there was a good
drop in you.”
“You always told me I should ruin myself in
Parliament, and so I have,” said Phineas.
“Not at all. It takes a deal to ruin a
man if he’s got the right sperrit. I’ve
better hopes of you now than ever I had in the old
days when you used to be looking out for Government
place;—and Mr. Monk has tried that too.
I thought he would find the iron too heavy for him.”
“God bless you, Mr. Finn,” said Mrs. Bunce
with her handkerchief up to her eyes. “There’s
not one of ’em I ever had as lodgers I’ve
cared about half as much as I did for you.”
Then they shook hands with him through the window,
and the train was off.
Conclusion
We are told that it is a bitter moment with the Lord
Mayor when he leaves the Mansion House and becomes
once more Alderman Jones, of No. 75, Bucklersbury.
Lord Chancellors going out of office have a great
fall though they take pensions with them for their
consolation. And the President of the United
States when he leaves the glory of the White House
and once more becomes a simple citizen must feel the
change severely. But our hero, Phineas Finn, as
he turned his back upon the scene of his many successes,
and prepared himself for permanent residence in his
own country, was, I think, in a worse plight than
any of the reduced divinities to whom I have alluded.
They at any rate had known that their fall would come.
He, like Icarus, had flown up towards the sun, hoping
that his wings of wax would bear him steadily aloft
among the gods. Seeing that his wings were wings
of wax, we must acknowledge that they were very good.
But the celestial lights had been too strong for them,
and now, having lived for five years with lords and
countesses, with Ministers and orators, with beautiful
women and men of fashion, he must start again in a
