CHAPTER LXXIX

At Last--At Last

As he took his ticket Phineas sent his message to the Prime Minister,
taking that personage literally at his word. The message was, No.
When writing it in the office it seemed to him to be uncourteous, but
he found it difficult to add any other words that should make it less
so. He supplemented it with a letter on his arrival in London, in
which he expressed his regret that certain circumstances of his life
which had occurred during the last month or two made him unfit to
undertake the duties of the very pleasant office to which Mr. Gresham
had kindly offered to appoint him. That done, he remained in town
but one night, and then set his face again towards Matching. When
he reached that place it was already known that he had refused to
accept Mr. Gresham's offer, and he was met at once with regrets and
condolements. "I am sorry that it must be so," said the Duke,--who
was sorry, for he liked the man, but who said not a word more
upon the subject. "You are still young, and will have further
opportunities," said Lord Cantrip, "but I wish that you could have
consented to come back to your old chair." "I hope that at any
rate we shall not have you against us," said Sir Harry Coldfoot.
Among themselves they declared one to another that he had been so
completely upset by his imprisonment and subsequent trial as to be
unable to undertake the work proposed to him. "It is not a very nice
thing, you know, to be accused of murder," said Sir Gregory, "and to
pass a month or two under the full conviction that you are going to
be hung. He'll come right again some day. I only hope it may not be
too late."

"So you have decided for freedom?" said Madame Goesler to him that
evening,--the evening of the day on which he had returned.

"Yes, indeed."

"I have nothing to say against your decision now. No doubt your
feelings have prompted you right."

"Now that it is done, of course I am full of regrets," said Phineas.

"That is simple human nature, I suppose."

"Simple enough; and the worst of it is that I cannot quite explain
even to myself why I have done it. Every friend I had in the world
told me that I was wrong, and yet I could not help myself. The thing
was offered to me, not because I was thought to be fit for it, but
because I had become wonderful by being brought near to a violent
death! I remember once, when I was a child, having a rocking-horse
given to me because I had fallen from th