When Mrs Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield—or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return.
There was a good deal to be said on Mr Cheesacre’s behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one’s comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr Cheesacre. So far she resolved,—resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor.
But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman’s true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,—as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,—what was a man to do who hadn’t got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,—that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,—that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield.
Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night.
“Jeannette,” she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, “I’m afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled.”
“Oh, laws, ma’am, in course they have! How was they to help it?”
Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,—and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress.
“And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It’s very foolish.”
“I don’t know about being foolish, ma’am; but it’s the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other’s heads. There’s some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time’s what I say.”
“You’re a young thing, Jeannette.”
“Well, ma’am—yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won’t say but what I’ve had a beau, young as I look.”
“But you don’t suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, as you wants ‘em exactly. That’s as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other’s brains out in the gig tonight, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised for one. There’s nothing won’t quiet them at Oileymead tonight, if brandy-and-water don’t do it.” As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears.
“Why, you silly child, they’re not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?”
“The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready.”
“They won’t fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting.”
“Have they, ma’am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It’d be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other’s heads about,—I do. So Mr Cheesacre and the Captain won’t fight, ma’am?”
“Of course they won’t, you little fool, you.”
“Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,—and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn’t be wounded in any of his wital parts—unless it was his heart, you know, ma’am.”
“But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing.”
“Well, ma’am, I don’t know about that. What else is they to do? There’s some things as you can cry halves about, but there’s no crying halves about this.”
“About what, Jeannette?”—”Why, about you, ma’am.”
“Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it’s not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn’t say so.” Whereupon Mrs Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers.
“To be sure, ma’am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard.”
“Indeed I have, Jeannette.”
“And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn’t your fault; is it, ma’am?”
“But I’m so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;—quite all in all to each other.”
“When you’ve settled which it’s to be, ma’am, that’ll all come right again,—seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say.” Then there was a little pause. “I suppose, ma’am, it won’t be Mr Cheesacre? To be sure, he’s a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world.”
“What’s all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he’ll never be more than that.”
“Then it’ll be the Captain, ma’am? I’m sure, for my part, I’ve always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,—and have always said so.”
“He’s nothing to me, girl.”
“And as for money,—what’s the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can’t you, ma’am?”
“He’s nothing to me, girl,” repeated Mrs Greenow.
“But he will be?” said Jeannette, plainly asking a question.
“Well, I’m sure! What’s the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It’s near ten o’clock.”
“I hope I haven’t said anything amiss, ma’am;” and Jeannette rose from her seat.
“It’s my fault for encouraging you,” said Mrs Greenow. “Go downstairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there’ll be all my things to see to before that.” So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs Greenow herself went to her bedroom.
Mr Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. “She can’t really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn’t got a shilling,” he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield’s ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes’ heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog’s-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,—as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the marketplace to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps.
“Is that you, Cheesacre?” said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. “Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!” It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. “A little bit of private business,” he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. “I’m not going to be afraid of a woman—not if I know it,” he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook’s, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy.
“Mrs Greenow is at home,” he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question.
“Oh, yes, sir; she is at home,” said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel.
“Mr Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?” said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly.
“There’s no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs Greenow, or when I mayn’t. I’m one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go.” Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. “There’s one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won’t say what that is just at present.”
“Won’t you sit down, Mr Cheesacre?”
“Well,—thank you,—I will sit down for a few minutes if you’ll let me, Mrs Greenow. Mrs Greenow, I’m in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage.”
“Dear me! what has happened to you? You’re going out shooting, presently; are you not?” and Mrs Greenow looked down at his garments.
“No, Mrs Greenow, I’m not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn’t take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?”
“Not in the least, so long as he is decent.”
“I’m sure I’m always that, Mrs Greenow.”
“Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire.”
“I don’t pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it.” Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. “But it don’t matter what a man wears if his heart isn’t easy within him.”
“I don’t know why you should speak in that way, Mr Cheesacre; but it’s what I have felt every hour since—since Greenow left me.”
Mr Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at lovemaking had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief.
“Mrs Greenow,” he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; “dearest Mrs Greenow; darling Mrs Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I’ve got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;—oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don’t think there’s a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I’ve been in love to that extent that I’ve not known what I’ve been about. If you’ll ask them at home, they’ll tell you that I’ve not been able to look after anything about the place,—not as it should be done. I haven’t really. I don’t suppose I’ve opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July.”
“And has that been my fault, Mr Cheesacre?”
“Upon my word it has. I can’t move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind’s made up; I won’t stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress.”
“Not stay at Oileymead?”
“No, indeed. I’ll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What’s the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn’t do it, Mrs Greenow; I couldn’t, indeed. Of course I’ve got everything there that money can buy,—but it’s all of no use to a man that’s in love. Do you know, I’ve come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven’t had my banker’s book home these last three months. Only think of that now.”
“But how can I help you, Mr Cheesacre?”
“Just say one word, and the thing’ll be done. Say you’ll be my wife? I’ll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don’t care that for it! I’m not like somebody else; it’s yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life.”
“No, Mr Cheesacre; it cannot be.”
“And why not? Look here, Arabella!” At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease.
“Mr Cheesacre, don’t make a fool of yourself. Get up,” said she.
“Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!”
“Then you’ll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won’t have you take hold of my hand, Mr Cheesacre. I tell you to have done.” Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise.
“I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life,” said she. “If you don’t get up, I’ll push you over. There; don’t you hear? There’s somebody coming.”
But Cheesacre, whose senses were less acute than the lady’s, did not hear. “I’ll never get up,” said he, “till you have bid me hope.”
“Bid you play the fiddle. Get away from my knees, at any rate. There;—he’ll be in the room now before—”
Cheesacre now did hear a sound of steps, and the door was opened while he made his first futile attempt to get back to a standing position. The door was opened, and Captain Bellfield entered. “I beg ten thousand pardons,” said he, “but as I did not see Jeannette, I ventured to come in. May I venture to congratulate my friend Cheesacre on his success?”
In the meantime Cheesacre had risen; but he had done so slowly, and with evident difficulty. “I’ll trouble you to leave the room, Captain Bellfield,” said he. “I’m particularly engaged with Mrs Greenow, as any gentleman might have seen.”
“There wasn’t the slightest difficulty in seeing it, old fellow,” said the Captain. “Shall I wish you joy?”
“I’ll trouble you to leave the room, sir,” said Cheesacre, walking up to him.
“Certainly, if Mrs Greenow will desire me to do so,” said the Captain.
Then Mrs Greenow felt herself called upon to speak.
“Gentlemen, I must beg that you will not make my drawing-room a place for quarrelling. Captain Bellfield, lest there should be any misconception, I must beg you to understand that the position in which you found Mr Cheesacre was one altogether of his own seeking. It was not with my consent that he was there.”
“I can easily believe that, Mrs Greenow,” said the Captain.
“Who cares what you believe, sir?” said Mr Cheesacre.
“Gentlemen! gentlemen! this is really unkind. Captain Bellfield, I think I had better ask you to withdraw.”
“By all means,” said Mr Cheesacre.
“As it is absolutely necessary that I should give Mr Cheesacre a definite answer after what has occurred—”
“Of course,” said Captain Bellfield, preparing to go. “I’ll take another opportunity of paying my respects to you. Perhaps I might be allowed to come this evening?”
To this Mrs Greenow half assented with an uncertain nod, and then the Captain went. As soon as the door was closed behind his back, Mr Cheesacre again prepared to throw himself into his former position, but to this Mrs Greenow decidedly objected. If he were allowed to go down again, there was no knowing what force might be necessary to raise him. “Mr Cheesacre,” she said, “let there be an end to this little farce between us.”
“Farce!” said he, standing with his hand on his heart, and his legs and knickerbockers well displayed.
“It is certainly either a farce or a mistake. If the latter,—and I have been at all to blame,—I ask your pardon most sincerely.”
“But you’ll be Mrs Cheesacre; won’t you?”
“No, Mr Cheesacre; no. One husband is enough for any woman, and mine lies buried at Birmingham.”
“Oh, damn it!” said he, in utter disgust at this further reference to Mr Greenow. The expression, at such a moment, militated against courtesy; but even Mrs Greenow herself felt that the poor man had been subjected to provocation.
“Let us part friends,” said she, offering him her hand.
But he turned his back upon her, for there was something in his eye that he wanted to hide. I believe that he really did love her, and that at this moment he would have taken her, even though he had learned that her fortune was gone.
“Will you not give me your hand,” said she, “in token that there is no anger between us?”
“Do think about it again—do!” said he. “If there’s anything you like to have changed, I’ll change it at once. I’ll give up Oileymead altogether, if you don’t like being so near the farmyard. I’ll give up anything; so I will. Mrs Greenow, if you only knew how I’ve set my heart upon it!” And now, though his back was turned, the whimpering of his voice told plainly that tears were in his eyes.
She was a little touched. No woman would feel disposed to marry a man simply because he cried, and perhaps few women would be less likely to give way to such tenderness than Mrs Greenow. She understood men and women too well, and had seen too much both of the world’s rough side and of its smooth side to fall into such a blunder as that; but she was touched. “My friend,” she said, putting her hand upon his arm, “think no more of it.”
“But I can’t help thinking of it,” said he, almost blubbering in his earnestness.
“No, no, no,” said she, still touching him with her hand. “Why, Mr Cheesacre, how can you bring yourself to care for an old woman like me, when so many pretty young ladies would give their eyes to get a kind word from you?”
“I don’t want any young lady,” said he.
“There’s Charlie Fairstairs, who would make as good a wife as any girl I know.”
“Psha! Charlie Fairstairs, indeed!” The very idea of having such a bride palmed off upon him did something to restore him to his manly courage.
“Or my niece, Kate Vavasor, who has a nice little fortune of her own, and who is as accomplished as she is good-looking.”
“She’s nothing to me, Mrs Greenow.”
“That’s because you never asked her to be anything. If I get her to come back to Yarmouth next summer, will you think about it? You want a wife, and you couldn’t do better if you searched all England over. It would be so pleasant for us to be such near friends; wouldn’t it?” And again she put her hand upon his arm.
“Mrs Greenow, just at present there’s only one woman in the world that I can think of.”
“And that’s my niece.”
“And that’s yourself. I’m a brokenhearted man,—I am, indeed. I didn’t ever think I should feel so much about a thing of the kind—I didn’t, really. I hardly know what to do with myself; but I suppose I’d better go back to Oileymead.” He had become so painfully unconscious of his new coat and his knickerbockers that it was impossible not to pity him. “I shall always hate the place now,” he said,—”always.”
“That will pass away. You’d be as happy as a king there, if you’d take Kate for your queen.”
“And what’ll you do, Mrs Greenow?”
“What shall I do?”—”Yes; what will you do?”
“That is, if you marry Kate? Why, I’ll come and stay with you half my time, and nurse the children, as an old grand-aunt should.”
“But about—.” Then he hesitated, and she asked him of what he was thinking.
“You don’t mean to take that man Bellfield, do you?”
“Come, Mr Cheesacre, that’s rank jealousy. What right can you have to ask me whether I shall take any man or no man? The chances are that I shall remain as I am till I’m carried to my grave; but I’m not going to give any pledge about it to you or to any one.”
“You don’t know that man, Mrs Greenow; you don’t, indeed. I tell it you as your friend. Does not it stand to reason, when he has got nothing in the world, that he must be a beggar? It’s all very well saying that when a man is courting a lady, he shouldn’t say much about his money; but you won’t make me believe that any man will make a good husband who hasn’t got a shilling. And for lies, there’s no beating him!”
“Why, then, has he been such a friend of yours?”
“Well, because I’ve been foolish. I took up with him just because he looked pleasant, I suppose.”
“And you want to prevent me from doing the same thing.”
“If you were to marry him, Mrs Greenow, it’s my belief I should do him a mischief; it is, really. I don’t think I could stand it;—a mean, skulking beggar! I suppose I’d better go now?”
“Certainly, if that’s the way you choose to talk about my friends.”
“Friends, indeed! Well, I won’t say any more at present. I suppose if I was to talk for ever it wouldn’t be any good?”
“Come and talk to Kate Vavasor for ever, Mr Cheesacre.”
To this he made no reply, but went forth from the house, and got his gig, and drove himself home to Oileymead, thinking of his disappointment with all the bitterness of a young lover. “I didn’t ever think I should ever care so much about anything,” he said, as he took himself up to bed that night.
That evening Captain Bellfield did call in the Close, as he had said he would do, but he was not admitted. “Her mistress was very bad with a headache,” Jeannette said.
Early in April, the Easter recess being all over, Lady Monk gave a grand party in London. Lady Monk’s town house was in Gloucester Square. It was a large mansion, and Lady Monk’s parties in London were known to be very great affairs. She usually gave two or three in the season, and spent a large portion of her time and energy in so arranging matters that her parties should be successful. As this was her special line in life, a failure would have been very distressing to her;—and we may also say very disgraceful, taking into consideration, as we should do in forming our judgement on the subject, the very large sums of Sir Cosmo’s money which she spent in this way. But she seldom did fail. She knew how to select her days, so as not to fall foul of other events. It seldom happened that people could not come to her because of a division which occupied all the Members of Parliament, or that they were drawn away by the superior magnitude of some other attraction in the world of fashion. This giving of parties was her business, and she had learned it thoroughly. She worked at it harder than most men work at their trades, and let us hope that the profits were consolatory.
It was generally acknowledged to be the proper thing to go to Lady Monk’s parties. There were certain people who were asked, and who went as a matter of course,—people who were by no means on intimate terms with Lady Monk, or with Sir Cosmo; but they were people to have whom was the proper thing, and they were people who understood that to go to Lady Monk’s was the proper thing for them. The Duchess of St Bungay was always there, though she hated Lady Monk, and Lady Monk always abused her; but a card was sent to the Duchess in the same way as the Lord Mayor invites a Cabinet Minister to dinner, even though the one man might believe the other to be a thief. And Mrs Conway Sparkes was generally there; she went everywhere. Lady Monk did not at all know why Mrs Conway Sparkes was so favoured by the world; but there was the fact, and she bowed to it. Then there were another set, the members of which were or were not invited, according to circumstances, at the time; and these were the people who were probably the most legitimate recipients of Lady Monk’s hospitality. Old family friends of her husband were among the number. Let the Tuftons come in April, and perhaps again in May; then they will not feel their exclusion from that seventh heaven of glory,—the great culminating crush in July. Scores of young ladies who really loved parties belonged to this set. The mothers and aunts knew Lady Monk’s sisters and cousins. They accepted so much of Lady Monk’s good things as she vouchsafed them, and were thankful. Then there was another lot, which generally became, especially on that great July occasion, the most numerous of the three. It comprised all those who made strong interest to obtain admittance within her ladyship’s house,—who struggled and fought almost with tooth and nail to get invitations. Against these people Lady Monk carried on an internecine war. Had she not done so she would have been swamped by them, and her success would have been at an end; but yet she never dreamed of shutting her doors against them altogether, or of saying boldly that none such should hamper her staircases. She knew that she must yield, but her effort was made to yield to as few as might be possible. When she was first told by her factotum in these operations that Mr Bott wanted to come, she positively declined to have him. When it was afterwards intimated to her that the Duchess of St Bungay had made a point of it, she sneered at the Duchess, and did not even then yield. But when at last it was brought home to her understanding that Mr Palliser wished it, and that Mr Palliser probably would not come himself unless his wishes were gratified, she gave way. She was especially anxious that Lady Glencora should come to her gathering, and she knew that Lady Glencora could not be had without Mr Palliser.
It was very much desired by her that Lady Glencora should be there. “Burgo,” said she to her nephew, one morning, “look here.” Burgo was at the time staying with his aunt, in Gloucester Square, much to the annoyance of Sir Cosmo, who had become heartily tired of his nephew. The aunt and the nephew had been closeted together more than once lately, and perhaps they understood each other better now than they had done down at Monkshade. The aunt had handed a little note to Burgo, which he read and then threw back to her. “You see that she is not afraid of coming,” said Lady Monk.
“I suppose she doesn’t think much about it,” said Burgo.
“If that’s what you really believe, you’d better give it up. Nothing on earth would justify such a step on your part except a thorough conviction that she is attached to you.”
Burgo looked at the fireplace, almost savagely, and his aunt looked at him very keenly. “Well,” she said, “if there’s to be an end of it, let there be an end of it.”
“I think I’d better hang myself,” he said.
“Burgo, I will not have you here if you talk to me in that way. I am trying to help you once again; but if you look like that, and talk like that, I will give it up.”
“I think you’d better give it up.”
“Are you becoming cowardly at last? With all your faults I never expected that of you.”
“No; I am not a coward. I’d go out and fight him at two paces’ distance with the greatest pleasure in the world.”
“You know that’s nonsense, Burgo. It’s downright braggadocio. Men do not fight now; nor at any time would a man be called upon to fight, because you simply wanted to take his wife from him. If you had done it, indeed!”
“How am I to do it? I’d do it tomorrow if it depended on me. No one can say that I’m afraid of anybody or of anything.”
“I suppose something in the matter depends on her?”
“I believe she loves me,—if you mean that?”
“Look here, Burgo,” and the considerate aunt gave to the impoverished and ruined nephew such counsel as she, in accordance with her lights, was enabled to bestow. “I think you were much wronged in that matter. After what had passed I thought that you had a right to claim Lady Glencora as your wife. Mr Palliser, in my mind, behaved very wrongly in stepping in between you and—you and such a fortune as hers, in that way. He cannot expect that his wife should have any affection for him. There is nobody alive who has a greater horror of anything improper in married women than I have. I have always shown it. When Lady Madeline Madtop left her husband, I would never allow her to come inside my doors again,—though I have no doubt he illused her dreadfully, and there was nothing ever proved between her and Colonel Graham. One can’t be too particular in such matters. But here, if you,—if you can succeed, you know, I shall always regard the Palliser episode in Lady Glencora’s life as a tragical accident. I shall indeed. Poor dear! It was done exactly as they make nuns of girls in Roman Catholic countries; and as I should think no harm of helping a nun out of her convent, so I should think no harm of helping her now. If you are to say anything to her, I think you might have an opportunity at the party.”
Burgo was still looking at the fireplace; and he sat on, looking and still looking, but he said nothing.
“You can think of what I have said, Burgo,” continued his aunt, meaning that he should get up and go. But he did not go. “Have you anything more that you wish to say to me?” she asked.
“I’ve got no money,” said Burgo, still looking at the fireplace.
Lady Glencora’s property was worth not less than fifty thousand a year. He was a young man ambitious of obtaining that almost incredible amount of wealth, and who once had nearly reached it, by means of her love. His present obstacle consisted in his want of a twenty-pound note! “I’ve got no money.” The words were growled out rather than spoken, and his eyes were never turned even for a moment towards his aunt’s face.
“You’ve never got any money,” said she, speaking almost with passion.
“How can I help it? I can’t make money. If I had a couple of hundred pounds, so that I could take her, I believe that she would go with me. It should not be my fault if she did not. It would have been all right if she had come to Monkshade.”
“I’ve got no money for you, Burgo. I have not five pounds belonging to me.”
“But you’ve got—?”
“What?” said Lady Monk, interrupting him sharply.
“Would Cosmo lend it me?” said he, hesitating to go on with that suggestion which he had been about to make. The Cosmo of whom he spoke was not his uncle, but his cousin. No eloquence could have induced his uncle, Sir Cosmo, to lend him another shilling. But the son of the house was a man rich with his own wealth, and Burgo had not taxed him for some years.
“I do not know,” said Lady Monk. “I never see him. Probably not.”
“It is hard,” said Burgo. “Fancy that a man should be ruined for two hundred pounds, just at such a moment of his life as this!” He was a man bold by nature, and he did make his proposition. “You have jewels, aunt;—could you not raise it for me? I would redeem them with the very first money that I got.”
Lady Monk rose in a passion when the suggestion was first made, but before the interview was over she had promised that she would endeavour to do something in the way of raising money for him yet, once again. He was her favourite nephew, and the same almost to her as a child of her own. With one of her own children indeed she had quarrelled, and of the other, a married daughter, she rarely saw much. Such love as she had to give she gave to Burgo, and she promised him the money though she knew that she must raise it by some villanous falsehood to her husband.
On the same morning Lady Glencora went to Queen Anne Street with the purpose of inducing Alice to go to Lady Monk’s party; but Alice would not accede to the proposition, though Lady Glencora pressed it with all her eloquence. “I don’t know her,” said Alice.
“My dear,” said Lady Glencora, “that’s absurd. Half the people there won’t know her.”
“But they know her set, or know her friends,—or, at any rate, will meet their own friends at her house. I should only bother you, and should not in the least gratify myself.”
“The fact is, everybody will go who can, and I should have no sort of trouble in getting a card for you. Indeed I should simply write a note and say I meant to bring you.”
“Pray don’t do any such thing, for I certainly shall not go. I can’t conceive why you should wish it.”
“Mr Fitzgerald will be there,” said Lady Glencora, altering her voice altogether, and speaking in that low tone with which she used to win Alice’s heart down at Matching. She was sitting close over the fire, leaning low, holding up her little hands as a screen to her face, and looking at her companion earnestly. “I’m sure that he will be there, though nobody has told me.”
“That may be a reason for your staying away,” said Alice, slowly, “but hardly a reason for my going with you.”
Lady Glencora would not condescend to tell her friend in so many words that she wanted her protection. She could not bring herself to say that, though she wished it to be understood. “Ah! I thought you would have gone,” said she.
“It would be contrary to all my habits,” said Alice: “I never go to people’s houses when I don’t know them. It’s a kind of society which I don’t like. Pray do not ask me.”
“Oh! very well. If it must be so, I won’t press it.” Lady Glencora had moved the position of one of her hands so as to get it to her pocket, and there had grasped a letter, which she still carried; but when Alice said those last cold words, “Pray do not ask me,” she released the grasp, and left the letter where it was. “I suppose he won’t bite me, at any rate,” she said, and she assumed that look of childish drollery which she would sometimes put on, almost with a grimace, but still with so much prettiness that no one who saw her would regret it.
“He certainly can’t bite you, if you will not let him.”
“Do you know, Alice, though they all say that Plantagenet is one of the wisest men in London, I sometimes think that he is one of the greatest fools. Soon after we came to town I told him that we had better not go to that woman’s house. Of course he understood me. He simply said that he wished that I should do so. ‘I hate anything out of the way,’ he said. ‘There can be no reason why my wife should not go to Lady Monk’s house as well as to any other.’ There was an end of it, you know, as far as anything I could do was concerned. But there wasn’t an end of it with him. He insists that I shall go, but he sends my duenna with me. Dear Mrs Marsham is to be there!”
“She’ll do you no harm, I suppose?”
“I’m not so sure of that, Alice. In the first place, one doesn’t like to be followed everywhere by a policeman, even though one isn’t going to pick a pocket. And then, the devil is so strong within me, that I should like to dodge the policeman. I can fancy a woman being driven to do wrong simply by a desire to show her policeman that she can be too many for him.”
“Glencora, you make me so wretched when you talk like that.”
“Will you go with me, then, so that I may have a policeman of my own choosing? He asked me if I would mind taking Mrs Marsham with me in my carriage. So I up and spoke, very boldly, like the proud young porter, and told him I would not; and when he asked why not, I said that I preferred taking a friend of my own,—a young friend, I said, and I then named you or my cousin, Lady Jane. I told him I should bring one or the other.”
“And was he angry?”
“No; he took it very quietly,—saying something, in his calm way, about hoping that I should get over a prejudice against one of his earliest and dearest friends. He twits at me because I don’t understand Parliament and the British Constitution, but I know more of them than he does about a woman. You are quite sure you won’t go, then?” Alice hesitated a moment. “Do,” said Lady Glencora; and there was an amount of persuasion in her accent which should, I think, have overcome her cousin’s scruples.
“It is against the whole tenor of my life’s way,” she said, “And, Glencora, I am not happy myself. I am not fit for parties. I sometimes think that I shall never go into society again.”
“That’s nonsense, you know.”
“I suppose it is, but I cannot go now. I would if I really thought—”
“Oh, very well,” said Lady Glencora, interrupting her. “I suppose I shall get through it. If he asks me to dance, I shall stand up with him, just as though I had never seen him before.” Then she remembered the letter in her pocket,—remembered that at this moment she bore about with her a written proposition from this man to go off with him and leave her husband’s house. She had intended to show it to Alice on this occasion; but as Alice had refused her request, she was glad that she had not done so. “You’ll come to me the morning after,” said Lady Glencora, as she went. This Alice promised to do; and then she was left alone.
Alice regretted,—regretted deeply that she had not consented to go with her cousin. After all, of what importance had been her objection when compared with the cause for which her presence had been desired? Doubtless she would have been uncomfortable at Lady Monk’s house; but could she not have borne some hour or two of discomfort on her friend’s behalf? But, in truth, it was only after Lady Glencora had left her that she began to understand the subject fully, and to feel that she might possibly have been of service in a great danger. But it was too late now. Then she strove to comfort herself with the reflection that a casual meeting at an evening party in London could not be perilous in the same degree as a prolonged sojourn together in a country house.
Lady Monk’s house in Gloucester Square was admirably well adapted for the giving of parties. It was a large house, and seemed to the eyes of guests to be much larger than it was. The hall was spacious, and the stairs went up in the centre, facing you as you entered the inner hall. Round the top of the stairs there was a broad gallery, with an ornamented railing, and from this opened the doors into the three reception-rooms. There were two on the right, the larger of which looked out backwards, and these two were connected by an archway, as though made for folding-doors; but the doors, I believe, never were there. Fronting the top of the staircase there was a smaller room, looking out backwards, very prettily furnished, and much used by Lady Monk when alone. It was here that Burgo had held that conference with his aunt of which mention has been made. Below stairs there was the great dining-room, on which, on these occasions, a huge buffet was erected for refreshments,—what I may call a masculine buffet, as it was attended by butlers and men in livery,—and there was a smaller room looking out into the square, in which there was a feminine battery for the dispensing of tea and such like smaller good things, and from which female aid could be attained for the arrangement or mending of dresses in a further sanctum within it. For such purposes as that now on foot the house was most commodious. Lady Monk, on these occasions, was moved by a noble ambition to do something different from that done by her neighbours in similar circumstances, and therefore she never came forward to receive her guests. She ensconced herself, early in the evening, in that room at the head of the stairs, and there they who chose to see her made their way up to her, and spoke their little speeches. They who thought her to be a great woman,—and many people did think her to be great,—were wont to declare that she never forgot those who did come, or those who did not. And even they who desired to describe her as little,—for even Lady Monk had enemies,—would hint that though she never came out of the room, she would rise from her chair and make a step towards the door whenever any name very high in fashionable life greeted her ears. So that a mighty Cabinet Minister, or a duchess in great repute, or any special wonder of the season, could not fail of entering her precincts and being seen there for a few moments. It would, of course, happen that the doorway of her chamber would become blocked; but there were precautions taken to avoid this inconvenience as far as possible, and one man in livery was employed to go backwards and forwards between his mistress and the outer world, so as to keep the thread of a passage open.
But though Lady Monk was in this way enabled to rest herself during her labours, there was much in her night’s work which was not altogether exhilarating. Ladies would come into her small room and sit there by the hour, with whom she had not the slightest wish to hold conversation. The Duchess of St Bungay would always be there,—so that there was a special seat in one corner of the room which was called the Duchess’ stool. “I shouldn’t care a straw about her,” Lady Monk had been heard to complain, “if she would talk to anybody. But nobody will talk to her, and then she listens to everything.”
There had been another word or two between Burgo Fitzgerald and his aunt before the evening came, a word or two in the speaking of which she had found some difficulty. She was prepared with the money,—with that two hundred pounds for which he had asked,—obtained with what wiles, and lies, and baseness of subterfuge I need not stop here to describe. But she was by no means willing to give this over into her nephew’s hands without security. She was willing to advance him this money; she had been willing even to go through unusual dirt to get it for him; but she was desirous that he should have it only for a certain purpose. How could she bind him down to spend it as she would have it spent? Could she undertake to hand it to him as soon as Lady Glencora should be in his power? Even though she could have brought herself to say as much,—and I think she might also have done so after what she had said,—she could not have carried out such a plan. In that case the want would be instant, and the action must be rapid. She therefore had no alternative but to entrust him with the banknotes at once. “Burgo,” she said, “if I find that you deceive me now, I will never trust you again.” “All right,” said Burgo, as he barely counted the money before he thrust it into his breast-pocket. “It is lent to you for a certain purpose, should you happen to want it,” she said, solemnly. “I do happen to want it very much,” he answered. She did not dare to say more; but as her nephew turned away from her with a step that was quite light in its gaiety, she almost felt that she was already cozened. Let Burgo’s troubles be as heavy as they might be, there was something to him ecstatic in the touch of ready money which always cured them for the moment.
On the morning of Lady Monk’s party a few very uncomfortable words passed between Mr Palliser and his wife.
“Your cousin is not going, then?” said he.
“Alice is not going.”
“Then you can give Mrs Marsham a seat in your carriage?”
“Impossible, Plantagenet. I thought I had told you that I had promised my cousin Jane.”
“But you can take three.”
“Indeed I can’t,—unless you would like me to sit out with the coachman.”
There was something in this,—a tone of loudness, a touch of what he called to himself vulgarity,—which made him very angry. So he turned away from her, and looked as black as a thundercloud.
“You must know, Plantagenet,” she went on, “that it is impossible for three women dressed to go out in one carriage. I am sure you wouldn’t like to see me afterwards if I had been one of them.”
“You need not have said anything to Lady Jane when Miss Vavasor refused. I had asked you before that.”
“And I had told you that I liked going with young women, and not with old ones. That’s the long and the short of it.”
“Glencora, I wish you would not use such expressions.”
“What! not the long and the short? It’s good English. Quite as good as Mr Bott’s, when he said in the House the other night that the Government kept their accounts in a higgledy-piggledy way. You see, I have been studying the debates, and you shouldn’t be angry with me.”
“I am not angry with you. You speak like a child to say so. Then, I suppose, the carriage must go for Mrs Marsham after it has taken you?”
“It shall go before. Jane will not be in a hurry, and I am sure I shall not.”
“She will think you very uncivil; that is all. I told her that she could go with you when I heard that Miss Vavasor was not to be there.”
“Then, Plantagenet, you shouldn’t have told her so, and that’s the long—; but I mustn’t say that. The truth is this, if you give me any orders I’ll obey them,—as far as I can. If I can’t I’ll say so. But if I’m left to go by my own judgement, it’s not fair that I should be scolded afterwards.”
“I have never scolded you.”
“Yes, you have. You have told me that I was uncivil.”
“I said that she would think you so.”
“Then, if it’s only what she thinks, I don’t care two straws about it. She may have the carriage to herself if she likes, but she shan’t have me in it,—not unless I’m ordered to go. I don’t like her, and I won’t pretend to like her. My belief is that she follows me about to tell you if she thinks that I do wrong.”
“Glencora!”
“And that odious baboon with the red bristles does the same thing,—only he goes to her because he doesn’t dare to go to you.”
Plantagenet Palliser was struck wild with dismay. He understood well who it was whom his wife intended to describe; but that she should have spoken of any man as a baboon with red bristles, was terrible to his mind! He was beginning to think that he hardly knew how to manage his wife. And the picture she had drawn was very distressing to him. She had no mother; neither had he; and he had wished that Mrs Marsham should give to her some of that matronly assistance and guidance which a mother does give to her young married daughter. It was true, too, as he knew, that a word or two as to some socially domestic matters had filtered through to him from Mr Bott, down at Matching Priory, but only in such a way as to enable him to see what counsel it was needful that he should give. As for espionage over his wife,—no man could despise it more than he did! No man would be less willing to resort to it! And now his wife was accusing him of keeping spies, both male and female.
“Glencora!” he said again; and then he stopped, not knowing what to say to her.
“Well, my dear, it’s better you should know at once what I feel about it. I don’t suppose I’m very good; indeed I dare say I’m bad enough, but these people about me won’t make me any better. The duennas don’t make the Spanish ladies worth much.”
“Duennas!” After that, Lady Glencora sat herself down, and Mr Palliser stood for some moments looking at her.
It ended in his making her a long speech, in which he said a good deal of his own justice and forbearance, and something also of her frivolity and childishness. He told her that his only complaint of her was that she was too young, and, as he did so, she made a little grimace,—not to him, but to herself, as though saying to herself that that was all he knew about it. He did not notice it, or, if he did, his notice did not stop his eloquence. He assured her that he was far from keeping any watch over her, and declared that she had altogether mistaken Mrs Marsham’s character. Then there was another little grimace. “There’s somebody has mistaken it worse than I have,” the grimace said. Of the bristly baboon he condescended to say nothing, and he wound up by giving her a cold kiss, and saying that he would meet her at Lady Monk’s.
When the evening came,—or rather the night,—the carriage went first for Mrs Marsham, and having deposited her at Lady Monk’s, went back to Park Lane for Lady Glencora. Then she had herself driven to St James’s Square, to pick up Lady Jane, so that altogether the coachman and horses did not have a good time of it. “I wish he’d keep a separate carriage for her,” Lady Glencora said to her cousin Jane,—having perceived that her servants were not in a good humour. “That would be expensive,” said Lady Jane. “Yes, it would be expensive,” said Lady Glencora. She would not condescend to make any remark as to the non-importance of such expense to a man so wealthy as her husband, knowing that his wealth was, in fact, hers. Never to him or to any other,—not even to herself,—had she hinted that much was due to her because she had been magnificent as an heiress. There were many things about this woman that were not altogether what a husband might wish. She was not softly delicate in all her ways; but in disposition and temper she was altogether generous. I do not know that she was at all points a lady, but had Fate so willed it she would have been a thorough gentleman.
Mrs Marsham was by no means satisfied with the way in which she was treated. She would not have cared to go at all to Lady Monk’s party had she supposed that she would have to make her entry there alone. With Lady Glencora she would have seemed to receive some of that homage which would certainly have been paid to her companion. The carriage called, moreover, before she was fully ready, and the footman, as he stood at the door to hand her in, had been very sulky. She understood it all. She knew that Lady Glencora had positively declined her companionship; and if she resolved to be revenged, such resolution on her part was only natural. When she reached Lady Monk’s house, she had to make her way up stairs all alone. The servants called her Mrs Marsh, and under that name she got passed on into the front drawing-room. There she sat down, not having seen Lady Monk, and meditated over her injuries.
It was past eleven before Lady Glencora arrived, and Burgo Fitzgerald had begun to think that his evil stars intended that he should never see her again. He had been wickedly baulked at Monkshade, by what influence he had never yet ascertained; and now he thought that the same influence must be at work to keep her again away from his aunt’s house. He had settled in his mind no accurate plan of a campaign; he had in his thoughts no fixed arrangement by which he might do the thing which he meditated. He had attempted to make some such plan; but, as is the case with all men to whom thinking is an unusual operation, concluded at last that he had better leave it to the course of events. It was, however, obviously necessary that he should see Lady Glencora before the course of events could be made to do anything for him. He had written to her, making his proposition in bold terms, and he felt that if she were utterly decided against him, her anger at his suggestion, or at least her refusal, would have been made known to him in some way. Silence did not absolutely give consent, but it seemed to show that consent was not impossible. From ten o’clock to past eleven he stood about on the staircase of his aunt’s house, waiting for the name which he was desirous of hearing, and which he almost feared to hear. Men spoke to him, and women also, but he hardly answered. His aunt once called him into her room, and with a cautionary frown on her brow, bade him go dance. “Don’t look so dreadfully preoccupied,” she said to him in a whisper. But he shook his head at her, almost savagely, and went away, and did not dance. Dance! How was he to dance with such an enterprise as that upon his mind? Even to Burgo Fitzgerald the task of running away with another man’s wife had in it something which prevented dancing. Lady Monk was older, and was able to regulate her feelings with more exactness. But Burgo, though he could not dance, went down into the dining-room and drank. He took a large beer-glass full of champagne and soon after that another. The drink did not flush his cheeks or make his forehead red, or bring out the sweat-drops on his brow, as it does with some men; but it added a peculiar brightness to his blue eyes. It was by the light of his eyes that men knew when Burgo had been drinking.
At last, while he was still in the supper room, he heard Lady Glencora’s name announced. He had already seen Mr Palliser come in and make his way upstairs some quarter of an hour before; but as to that he was indifferent. He had known that the husband was to be there. When the long-expected name reached his ears, his heart seemed to jump within him. What, on the spur of the moment, should he do? As he had resolved that he would be doing,—that something should be done, let it be what it might,—he hurried to the dining-room door, and was just in time to see and be seen as Lady Glencora was passing up the stairs. She was just above him as he got himself out into the hall, so that he could not absolutely greet her with his hand; but he looked up at her, and caught her eye. He looked up, and moved his hand to her in token of salutation. She looked down at him, and the expression of her face altered visibly as her glance met his. She barely bowed to him,—with her eyes rather than with her head, but he flattered himself that there was, at any rate, no anger in her countenance. How beautiful he was as he gazed up at her, leaning against the wall as he stood, and watching her as she made her slow way up the stairs! She felt that his eyes were on her, and where the stairs turned she could not restrain herself from one other glance. As her eyes fell on his again, his mouth opened, and she fancied that she could hear the faint sigh that he uttered. It was a glorious mouth, such as the old sculptors gave to their marble gods! And Burgo, if it was so that he had not heart enough to love truly, could look as though he loved. It was not in him deceit,—or what men call acting. The expression came to him naturally, though it expressed so much more than there was within; as strong words come to some men who have no knowledge that they are speaking strongly. At this moment Burgo Fitzgerald looked as though it were possible that he might die of love.
Lady Glencora was met at the top of the stairs by Lady Monk, who came out to her, almost into the gallery, with her sweetest smile,—so that the newly-arrived guest, of course, entered into the small room. There sat the Duchess of St Bungay on her stool in the corner, and there, next to the Duchess, but at the moment engaged in no conversation, stood Mr Bott. There was another lady there, who stood very high in the world, and whom Lady Monk was very glad to welcome—the young Marchioness of Hartletop. She was in slight mourning; for her father-in-law, the late Marquis, had died not yet quite six months since. Very beautiful she was, and one whose presence at their houses ladies and gentlemen prized alike. She never said silly things, like the Duchess, never was troublesome as to people’s conduct to her, was always gracious, yet was never led away into intimacies, was without peer the best-dressed woman in London, and yet gave herself no airs;—and then she was so exquisitely beautiful. Her smile was loveliness itself. There were, indeed, people who said that it meant nothing; but then, what should the smile of a young married woman mean? She had not been born in the purple, like Lady Glencora, her father being a country clergyman who had never reached a higher grade than that of an archdeacon; but she knew the ways of high life, and what an exigeant husband would demand of her, much better than poor Glencora. She would have spoken of no man as a baboon with a bristly beard. She never talked of the long and the short of it. She did not wander out o’ nights in winter among the ruins. She made no fast friendship with ladies whom her lord did not like. She had once, indeed, been approached by a lover since she had been married,—Mr Palliser himself having been the offender,—but she had turned the affair to infinite credit and profit, had gained her husband’s closest confidence by telling him of it all, had yet not brought on any hostile collision, and had even dismissed her lover without annoying him. But then Lady Hartletop was a miracle of a woman!
Lady Glencora was no miracle. Though born in the purple, she was made of ordinary flesh and blood, and as she entered Lady Monk’s little room, hardly knew how to recover herself sufficiently for the purposes of ordinary conversation. “Dear Lady Glencora, do come in for a moment to my den. We were so sorry not to have you at Monkshade. We heard such terrible things about your health.” Lady Glencora said that it was only a cold,—a bad cold. “Oh, yes; we heard,—something about moonlight and ruins. So like you, you know. I love that sort of thing, above all people; but it doesn’t do; does it? Circumstances are so exacting. I think you know Lady Hartletop;—and there’s the Duchess of St Bungay. Mr Palliser was here five minutes since.” Then Lady Monk was obliged to get to her door again and Lady Glencora found herself standing close to Lady Hartletop.
“We saw Mr Palliser just pass through,” said Lady Hartletop, who was able to meet and speak of the man who had dared to approach her with his love, without the slightest nervousness.
“Yes; he said he should be here,” said Lady Glencora.
“There’s a great crowd,” said Lady Hartletop. “I didn’t think London was so full.”
“Very great.” said Lady Glencora, and then they had said to each other all that society required. Lady Glencora, as we know, could talk with imprudent vehemence by the hour together if she liked her companion; but the other lady seldom committed herself by more words than she had uttered now,—unless it was to her tirewoman.
“How very well you are looking,” said the Duchess. “And I heard you had been so ill.” Of that midnight escapade among the ruins it was fated that Lady Glencora should never hear the last.
“How d’ye do, Lady Glencowrer?” sounded in her ear, and there was a great red paw stuck out for her to take. But after what had passed between Lady Glencora and her husband to-day about Mr Bott, she was determined that she would not take Mr Bott’s hand.
“How are you, Mr Bott?” she said. “I think I’ll look for Mr Palliser in the back room.”
“Dear Lady Glencora,” whispered the Duchess, in an ecstasy of agony. Lady Glencora turned and bowed her head to her stout friend. “Do let me go away with you. There’s that woman, Mrs Conway Sparkes, coming, and you know how I hate her.” She had nothing to do but to take the Duchess under her wing, and they passed into the large room together. It is, I think, more than probable that Mrs Conway Sparkes had been brought in by Lady Monk as the only way of removing the Duchess from her stool.
Just within the dancing-room Lady Glencora found her husband, standing in a corner, looking as though he were making calculations.
“I’m going away,” said he, coming up to her. “I only just came because I said I would. Shall you be late?”
“Oh, no; I suppose not.”
“Shall you dance?”
“Perhaps once,—just to show that I’m not an old woman.”
“Don’t heat yourself. Goodbye.” Then he went, and in the crush of the doorway he passed Burgo Fitzgerald, whose eye was intently fixed upon his wife. He looked at Burgo, and some thought of that young man’s former hopes flashed across his mind,—some remembrance, too, of a caution that had been whispered to him; but for no moment did a suspicion come to him that he ought to stop and watch by his wife.
Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning where we last saw him,—against the dining-room wall at the bottom of the staircase; and as he did so some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind, This thing that he was about to do, or to attempt,—was it in itself a good thing, and would it be good for her whom he pretended to love? What would be her future if she consented now to go with him, and to divide herself from her husband? Of his own future he thought not at all. He had never done so. Even when he had first found himself attracted by the reputation of her wealth, he cannot be said to have looked forward in any prudential way to coming years. His desire to put himself in possession of so magnificent a fortune had simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table. But now, during these moments, he did think a little of her. Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all women should cease to acknowledge her; when men would regard her as one degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her; when she would be driven to live loudly because the softness and graces of quiet life would be denied to her? Burgo knew well what must be the nature of such a woman’s life in such circumstances. Would Glencora be happy with him while living such a life simply because he loved her? And, under such circumstances, was it likely that he would continue to love her? Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant of men, and the least trustworthy? Leaning thus against the wall at the bottom of the stairs he did ask himself all these questions with something of true feeling about his heart, and almost persuaded himself that he had better take his hat and wander forth anywhere into the streets. It mattered little what might become of himself. If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things that would be not altogether undesirable.
But then the remembrance of his aunt’s two hundred pounds came upon him, which money he even now had about him on his person, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given to him. As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and, therefore, refunding the money—no such thought as that was possible to him! To give back two hundred pounds entire,—two hundred pounds which were already within his clutches, was not within the compass of Burgo’s generosity. Remembering the cash, he told himself that hesitation was no longer possible to him. So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a sigh that was audible to all around him, and took himself upstairs.
He looked in at his aunt’s room, and then he saw her and was seen by her. “Well, Burgo,” she said, with her sweetest smile, “have you been dancing?” He turned away from her without answering her, muttering something between his teeth about a cold-blooded Jezebel,—which, if she had heard it, would have made her think him the most ungrateful of men. But she did not hear him, and smiled still as he went away, saying something to Mrs Conway Sparkes as to the great change for the better which had taken place in her nephew’s conduct.
“There’s no knowing who may not reform,” said Mrs Sparkes, with an emphasis which seemed to Lady Monk to be almost uncourteous.
Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was in progress, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop. Lord Hartletop was a man not much more given to conversation than his wife, and Lady Glencora seemed to go through her work with very little gratification either in the dancing or in the society of her partner. She was simply standing up to dance, because, as she had told Mr Palliser, ladies of her age generally do stand up on such occasions. Burgo watched her as she crossed and recrossed the room, and at last she was aware of his presence. It made no change in her, except that she became even somewhat less animated than she had been before. She would not seem to see him, nor would she allow herself to be driven into a pretence of a conversation with her partner because he was there. “I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz,” Burgo said to himself, as soon as the last figure of the quadrille was in action. “Why should I not ask her as well as any other woman?” Then the music ceased, and after a minute’s interval Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room. Burgo, who had been standing near the door, followed them at once. The crowd was great, so that he could not get near them or even keep them in sight, but he was aware of the way in which they were going.
It was five minutes after this when he again saw her, and then she was seated on a cane bench in the gallery, and an old woman was standing close to her, talking to her. It was Mrs Marsham cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was telling that lady that she needed no such advice, in words almost as curt as those I have used. Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that, as far as that was concerned, he had done his duty for the night. Burgo knew nothing of Mrs Marsham,—had never seen her before, and was quite unaware that she had any special connection with Mr Palliser. It was impossible, he thought, to find Lady Glencora in a better position for his purpose, so he made his way up to her through the crowd, and muttering some slight inaudible word, offered her his hand.
“That will do very well thank you, Mrs Marsham,” Lady Glencora said at this moment. “Pray, do not trouble yourself,” and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald. Mrs Marsham, though unknown to him, knew with quite sufficient accuracy who he was, and all his history, as far as it concerned her friend’s wife. She had learned the whole story of the loves of Burgo and Lady Glencora. Though Mr Palliser had never mentioned that man’s name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna would make it expedient that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him should he come near the sheepfold. And there he was, close to them, almost leaning over them, with the hand of his late lady love,—the hand of Mr Palliser’s wife,—within his own! How Lady Glencora might have carried herself at this moment had Mrs Marsham not been there, it is bootless now to surmise; but it may be well understood that under Mrs Marsham’s immediate eye all her resolution would be in Burgo’s favour. She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she uttered no articulate word, her countenance seemed to show that the meeting was not unpleasant to her.
“Will you waltz?” said Burgo,—asking it not at all as though it were a special favour,—asking it exactly as he might have done had they been in the habit of dancing with each other every other night for the last three months.
“I don’t think Lady Glencora will waltz tonight,” said Mrs Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else the enormity of Burgo’s proposition had struck her so forcibly as to take away from her all her presence of mind. Otherwise, she must have been aware that such an answer from her would surely drive her friend’s wife into open hostility.
“And why not, Mrs Marsham?” said Lady Glencora rising from her seat. “Why shouldn’t I waltz tonight? I rather think I shall, the more especially as Mr Fitzgerald waltzes very well.” Thereupon she put her hand upon Burgo’s arm.
Mrs Marsham made still a little effort,—a little effort that was probably involuntary. She put out her hand, and laid it on Lady Glencora’s left shoulder, looking into her face as she did so with all the severity of caution of which she was mistress. Lady Glencora shook her duenna off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into the hands of this man who was now touching her, or whether she would not, she had not as yet decided; but of this she was very sure, that nothing said or done by Mrs Marsham should have any effect in restraining her.
What could Mrs Marsham do? Mr Palliser was gone. Some rumour of that proposed visit to Monkshade, and the way in which it had been prevented, had reached her ear. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love, as married, the woman whom he had loved before she was married. There was a rumour about that he still had some hope. Mrs Marsham had never believed that Mr Palliser’s wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe as a positive elopement that she had taken upon herself the duty of duenna. Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs Marsham thought that she could accomplish. It had not hitherto occurred to her that she might be required to guard Mr Palliser from positive dishonour; but now—now she hardly knew what to think about it. What should she do? To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr Bott looming large before her on the top of the staircase.
In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo’s arm. “Who is that woman?” said Burgo. They were the first words he spoke to her, though since he had last seen her he had written to her that letter which even now she carried about her. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close, and questions such as that he had asked were common between them. And her answer was of the same nature. “Oh, such an odious woman!” she said. “Her name is Mrs Marsham; she is my bête noire.” And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said of that which was Burgo’s settled purpose, and which at some moments was her settled purpose also.
Burgo waltzed excellently, and in old days, before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping to the intermediate door between her den and the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs Marsham and Mr Bott standing together just inside the other door, near to the staircase, looked on also—in horror.
“He shouldn’t have gone away and left her,” said Mr Bott, almost hoarsely.
“But who could have thought it?” said Mrs Marsham. “I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I suppose you’d better tell him?” said Mr Bott.
“But I don’t know where to find him,” said Mrs Marsham.
“I didn’t mean now at once,” said Mr Bott;—and then he added, “Do you think it is as bad as that?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs Marsham.
The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath. “I am so much out of practice,” said Lady Glencora; “I didn’t think—I should have been able—to dance at all.” Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and stretched her nostrils,—as ladies do as well as horses when the running has been severe and they want air.
“You’ll take another turn,” said he.
“Presently,” said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.
“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said he.
It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth. It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views. The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity. There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back. “Does it put you in mind of ‘old days?’“ he said.
The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs Marsham; her own unsettled mind—quite unsettled whether it would be best for her to go or to stay! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke to her.
It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost,—so often that they who say it now, say it simply because others have said it before them, never thinking whether or no there be any truth in the proverb. But they who have said so, thinking of their words as they were uttered, have known but little of women. Women doubt every day, who solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so, some by fear, more by conscience, but most of them by that half-prudential, half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the cirumstances, which rarely deserts either men or women till they have brought themselves to the Burgo Fitzgerald state of recklessness. Men when they have fallen even to that, will still keep up some outward show towards the world; but women in this condition defy the world, and declare themselves to be children of perdition. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.
“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said Burgo.
She was driven to answer, and she knew that much would be decided by the way in which she might now speak. “You must not talk of that,” she said, very softly.
“May I not?” And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly. “May I not? And why not? They were happy days,—so happy! Were not you happy when you thought—? Ah, dear! I suppose it is best not even to think of them?”
“Much the best.”
“Only it is impossible. I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish.”
In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came from his lips upon her ears as a thing of custom, causing no surprise. They were standing back, behind the circle, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew well how to speak at such moments so that his words should be audible to none but her whom he addressed.
“You should not have come to me at all,” she said.
“And why not? Who has a better right to come to you? Who has ever loved you as I have done? Cora, did you get my letter?”
“Come and dance,” she said; “I see a pair of eyes looking at us.” The pair of eyes which Lady Glencora saw were in the possession of Mr Bott, who was standing alone, leaning against the side of the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners as from a vantage ground. He was quite alone. Mrs Marsham had left him, and had gotten herself away in Lady Glencora’s own carriage to Park Lane, in order that she might find Mr Palliser there, if by chance he should be at home.
“Won’t it be making mischief?” Mrs Marsham had said when Mr Bott had suggested this line of conduct.
“There’ll be worse mischief if you don’t,” Mr Bott had answered. “He can come back, and then he can do as he likes. I’ll keep my eyes upon them.” And so he did keep his eyes upon them.
Again they went round the room,—or that small portion of the room which the invading crowd had left to the dancers,—as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence. But there were others besides Mr Bott who looked on and wondered. The Duchess of St Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing,—for the Duchess was good at heart. Mrs Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite,—as a thirsty man with a longing for wine will drink champagne,—for Mrs Conway Sparkes was not good at heart. Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows. It was nothing to her. She liked to know what was going on, as such knowledge was sometimes useful; but, as for heart,—what she had was, in such a matter, neither good nor bad. Her blood circulated with its ordinary precision, and, in that respect, no woman ever had a better heart. Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow. “The fool!” she said to herself. She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing down the eyes of all her guests upon his attempt. In the meantime Mr Bott stood there, mounting still higher on his toes, straightening his back against the wall.
“Did you get my letter?” Burgo said again, as soon as a moment’s pause gave him breath to speak. She did not answer him. Perhaps her breath did not return to her as rapidly as his. But, of course, he knew that she had received it. She would have quickly signified to him that no letter from him had come to her hands had it not reached her. “Let us go out upon the stairs,” he said, “for I must speak to you. Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade! Why did you not come?”
“I wish I had not come here,” she said.
“Because you have seen me? That, at any rate, is not kind of you.”
They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room. All the world was now intent on food and drink, and they were only doing as others did. Lady Glencora was not thinking where she went, but, glancing upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, her eyes met those of Mr Bott. “A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him.” That was the thought that crossed her mind at the moment.
“I’ll get you some champagne with water in it,” said Burgo. “I know that is what you like.”
“Do not get me anything,” she said. They had now got into the room, and had therefore escaped Mr Bott’s eyes for the moment. “Mr Fitzgerald,”—and now her words had become a whisper in his ear,—”do what I ask you. For the sake of the old days of which you spoke, the dear old days which can never come again—”
“By G––––! they can,” said he. “They can come back, and they shall.”
“Never. But you can still do me a kindness. Go away, and leave me. Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back. You are doing me an injury while you remain with me.”
“Cora,” he said,
But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream, but words and things bore to her again their proper meaning. “I will not have it, Mr Fitzgerald,” she answered, speaking almost passionately. “I will not have it. Do as I bid you. Go and leave me, and do not return. I tell you that we are watched.” This was still true, for Mr Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door. Whatever was the reward for which he was working, private secretaryship or what else, it must be owned that he worked hard for it. But there are labours which are labours of love.
“Who is watching us?” said Burgo; “and what does it matter? If you are minded to do as I have asked you—”
“But I am not so minded. Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?”
“Yes;—it is an insult, Cora,—unless such an offer be a joy to you. If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult.”
“How can I be that?” Her face was not turned to him, and her words were half-pronounced, and in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.
“Come with me,—abroad, and you shall yet be my wife. You got my letter? Do what I asked you, then. Come with me—tonight.”
The pressing instance of the suggestion, the fixing of a present hour, startled her back to her propriety. “Mr Fitzgerald,” she said, “I asked you to go and leave me. If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you. It will be much more difficult.”
“And is that to be all?”
“All;—at any rate, now.” Oh, Glencora! how could you be so weak? Why did you add that word, “now”? In truth, she added it then, at that moment, simply feeling that she could thus best secure an immediate compliance with her request.
“I will not go,” he said, looking at her sternly, and leaning before her, with earnest face, with utter indifference as to the eyes of any that might see them. “I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again.”
“I will,” she said in that low, all-but-unuttered whisper.
“When,—when,—when?” he asked.
Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr Bott’s eyes, she saw the face of Mr Palliser as he entered the room. Mr Bott had also seen him, and had tried to clutch him by the arm; but Mr Palliser had shaken him off, apparently with indifference,—had got rid of him, as it were, without noticing him. Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage. She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done. For the matter of that, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper such a word to Burgo himself. Mr Bott’s eyes were odious to her as they watched her; but her husband’s glance she could meet without quailing before it. “Here is Mr Palliser,” said she, speaking again in her ordinary clear-toned voice. Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.
Mr Palliser made his way as best he could through the crowd up to his wife. He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret. There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor was there any untoward hurry in his movement. Burgo stood aside as he came up, and Lady Glencora was the first to speak. “I thought you were gone home hours ago,” she said.
“I did go home,” he answered, “but I thought I might as well come back for you.”
“What a model of a husband! Well; I am ready. Only, what shall we do about Jane? Mr Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt’s room,—a little black and yellow scarf,—would you mind getting it for me?”
“I will fetch it,” said Mr Palliser; “and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her.”
“If you will allow me—” said Burgo.
“I will do it,” said Mr Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress up through the crowd, ordering his carriage as he passed through the hall, and leaving Mr Bott still watching at the door.
Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone. There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them again together, which so far conquered her. He might have bade her leave the scarf, and come at once. She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr Bott, and was thankful to him also for that. Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance for that time was over. “I will say goodnight,” he said. “Goodnight, Mr Fitzgerald,” she answered, giving him her hand. He pressed it for a moment, and then turned and went. When Mr Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.
Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door when her husband returned, standing close to Mr Bott. Mr Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply. He spoke again, but her face remained as immovable as though she had been deaf. “And what shall we do about Mrs Marsham?” she said, quite out loud, as soon as she put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I had forgotten her.”
“Mrs Marsham has gone home,” he replied.
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes.”
“When did you see her?”
“She came to Park Lane.”
“What made her do that?”
These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage. She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not find it necessary to answer it. But that would not serve her turn. “What made Mrs Marsham go to you at Park Lane after she left Lady Monk’s?” she asked again. Mr Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject. “I suppose she went,” continued Lady Glencora, “to tell you that I was dancing with Mr Fitzgerald. Was that it?”
“I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now.”
“I don’t mean to discuss it now, or ever. If you did not wish me to see Mr Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk’s. But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs Marsham or Mr Bott.”
Mr Palliser absolutely declined to say anything on the subject on that occasion, and the evening of Lady Monk’s party in this way came to an end.