CHAPTER LVIII.
The Pallisers at Breakfast.
Gentle reader, do you remember Lady Monk's party, and how itended,--how it ended, at least as regards those special guests withwhom we are concerned? Mr. Palliser went away early, Mrs. Marshamfollowed him to his house in Park Lane, caught him at home, and toldher tale. He returned to his wife, found her sitting with Burgo inthe dining-room, under the Argus eyes of the constant Bott, and boreher away home. Burgo disappeared utterly from the scene, and Mr. Bott,complaining inwardly that virtue was too frequently allowed to be itsown reward, comforted himself with champagne, and then walked offto his lodgings. Lady Monk, when Mr. Palliser made his way into herroom up-stairs, seeking his wife's scarf,--which little incident,also, the reader may perhaps remember,--saw that the game was up, andthought with regret of the loss of her two hundred pounds. Such wasthe ending of Lady Monk's party.
Lady Glencora, on her journey home in the carriage with her husband,had openly suggested that Mrs. Marsham had gone to Park Lane to tellof her doings with Burgo, and had declared her resolution never againto see either that lady or Mr. Bott in her own house. This she saidwith more of defiance in her tone than Mr. Palliser had ever hithertoheard. He was by nature less ready than her, and knowing his owndeficiency in that respect, abstained from all answer on the subject.Indeed, during that drive home very few further words were spokenbetween them. "I will breakfast with you to-morrow," he said to her,as she prepared to go up-stairs. "I have work still to do to-night,and I will not disturb you by coming to your room."
"You won't want me to be very early?" said his wife.
"No," said he, with more of anger in his voice than he had yet shown."What hour will suit you? I must say something of what has occurredto-night before I leave you to-morrow."
"I don't know what you can have got to say about to-night, but I'llbe down by half-past eleven, if that will do?" Mr. Palliser said thathe would make it do, and then they parted.
Lady Glencora had played her part very well before her husband. Shehad declined to be frightened by him; had been the first to mentionBurgo's name, and had done so with no tremor in her voice, and hadboldly declared her irreconcilable enmity to the male and femaleduennas who had dared to take her in charge. While she was in thecarriage with her husband she felt some triumph in her own strength;and as she wished him good night on the staircase, and slowly walkedup to her room, without having once lowered her eyes before his,something of this consciousness of triumph still supported her. Andeven while her maid remained with her she held herself up, as itwere, inwardly, telling herself that she would not yield,--that shewould not be cowed either by her husband or by his spies. But whenshe was left alone all her triumph departed from her.
She bade her maid go while she was still sitting in herdressing-gown; and when the girl was gone she got close over thefire, sitting with her slippers on the fender, with her elbows onher knees, and her face resting on her hands. In this position sheremained for an hour, with her eyes fixed on the altering shapes ofthe hot coals. During this hour her spirit was by no means defiant,and her thoughts of herself anything but triumphant. Mr. Bott andMrs. Marsham she had forgotten altogether. After all, they were butbuzzing flies, who annoyed her by their presence. Should she chooseto leave her husband, they could not prevent her leaving him. It wasof her husband and of Burgo that she was thinking,--weighing them oneagainst the other, and connecting her own existence with theirs, notas expecting joy or the comfort of love from either of them, but withan assured conviction that on either side there must be misery forher. But of that shame before all the world which must be hers forever, should she break her vows and consent to live with a man whowas not her husband, she thought hardly at all. That which in theestimation of Alice was everything, to her, at this moment, wasalmost nothing. For herself, she had been sacrificed; and,--as shetold herself with bitter denunciations against herself,--had beensacrificed through her own weakness. But that was done. Whatever wayshe might go, she was lost. They had married her to a man who carednothing for a wife, nothing for any woman,--so at least she declaredto herself,--but who had wanted a wife that he might have an heir.Had it been given to her to have a child, she thought that she mighthave been happy,--sufficiently happy in sharing her husband's joy inthat respect. But everything had gone against her. There was nothingin her home to give her comfort. "He looks at me every time hesees me as the cause of his misfortune," she said to herself. Ofher husband's rank, of the future possession of his title and hisestates, she thought much. But of her own wealth she thought nothing.It did not occur to her that she had given him enough in that respectto make his marriage with her a comfort to him. She took it forgranted that that marriage was now one distasteful to him, as it wasto herself, and that he would eventually be the gainer if she shouldso conduct herself that her marriage might be dissolved.
Lady Glencora.]
As to Burgo, I doubt whether she deceived herself much as to hischaracter. She knew well enough that he was a man infinitely lessworthy than her husband. She knew that he was a spendthrift, idle,given to bad courses,--that he drank, that he gambled, that he livedthe life of the loosest man about the town. She knew also thatwhatever chance she might have had to redeem him, had she marriedhim honestly before all the world, there could be no such chanceif she went to him as his mistress, abandoning her husband and allher duties, and making herself vile in the eyes of all women. BurgoFitzgerald would not be influenced for good by such a woman as shewould then be. She knew much of the world and its ways, and toldherself no lies about this. But, as I have said before, she did notcount herself for much. What though she were ruined? What thoughBurgo were false, mean, and untrustworthy? She loved him, and he wasthe only man she ever had loved! Lower and lower she crouched beforethe fire; and then, when the coals were no longer red, and the shapesaltered themselves no more, she crept into bed. As to what she shouldsay to her husband on the following morning,--she had not yet begunto think of that.
Exactly at half-past eleven she entered the little breakfast parlourwhich looked out over the park. It was the prettiest room in thehouse, and now, at this springtide, when the town trees were puttingout their earliest greens, and were fresh and bright almost ascountry trees, it might be hard to find a prettier chamber. Mr.Palliser was there already, sitting with the morning paper in hishand. He rose when she entered, and, coming up to her, just touchedher with his lips. She put her cheek up to him, and then took herplace at the breakfast table.
"Have you any headache this morning?" he asked.
"Oh, no," she said. Then he took his tea and his toast, spoke someword to her about the fineness of the weather, told her some scrapsof news, and soon returned to the absorbing interest of a speech madeby the leader of the Opposition in the House of Lords. The speech wasvery interesting to Mr. Palliser, because in it the noble lord alludedto a break-up in the present Cabinet, as to which the rumours were,he said, so rife through the country as to have destroyed all thatfeeling of security in the existing Government which the country somuch valued and desired. Mr. Palliser had as yet heard no officialtidings of such a rupture; but if such rupture were to take place,it must be in his favour. He felt himself at this moment to be fullof politics,--to be near the object of his ambition, to have affairsupon his hands which required all his attention. Was it absolutelyincumbent on him to refer again to the incidents of last night? Thedoing so would be odious to him. The remembrance of the task nowimmediately before him destroyed all his political satisfaction. Hedid not believe that his wife was in any serious danger. Might it notyet be possible for him to escape from the annoyance, and to washhis mind clean of all suspicion? He was not jealous; he was indeedincapable of jealousy. He knew what it would be to be dishonoured,and he knew that under certain circumstances the world would expecthim to exert himself in a certain way. But the thing that he had nowto do was a great trouble to him. He would rather have to addressthe House of Commons with ten columns of figures than utter a wordof remonst
rance to his wife. But she had defied him,--defied himby saying that she would see his friends no more; and it was theremembrance of this, as he sat behind his newspaper, that made himultimately feel that he could not pass in silence over what had beendone.
Nevertheless, he went on reading, or pretending to read, as long asthe continuance of the breakfast made it certain that his wife wouldremain with him. Every now and then he said some word to her ofwhat he was reading, endeavouring to use the tone of voice that wascustomary to him in his domestic teachings of politics. But throughit all there was a certain hesitation,--there were the sure signs ofan attempt being made, of which he was himself conscious, and whichshe understood with the most perfect accuracy. He was deferring theevil moment, and vainly endeavouring to make himself believe that hewas comfortably employed the while. She had no newspaper, and made noendeavour to deceive herself. She, therefore, was the first to beginthe conversation.
"Plantagenet," she said, "you told me last night, as I was going tobed, that you had something to say about Lady Monk's party."
He put down the newspaper slowly, and turned towards her. "Yes, mydear. After what happened, I believe that I must say something."
"If you think anything, pray say it," said Glencora.
"It is not always easy for a man to show what he thinks by what hesays," he replied. "My fear is that you should suppose me to thinkmore than I do. And it was for that reason that I determined to sleepon it before I spoke to you."
"If anybody is angry with me I'd much rather they should have it outwith me while their anger is hot. I hate cold anger."
"But I am not angry."
"That's what husbands always say when they're going to scold."
"But I am not going to scold. I am only going to advise you."
"I'd sooner be scolded. Advice is to anger just what cold anger is tohot."
"But, my dear Glencora, surely if I find it necessary to speak--"
"I don't want to stop you, Plantagenet. Pray, go on. Only it will beso nice to have it over."
He was now more than ever averse to the task before him. Husbands,when they give their wives a talking, should do it out of hand,uttering their words hard, sharp, and quick,--and should then go.There are some works that won't bear a preface, and this work ofmarital fault-finding is one of them. Mr. Palliser was alreadybeginning to find out the truth of this. "Glencora," he said, "I wishyou to be serious with me."
"I am very serious," she replied, as she settled herself in her chairwith an air of mockery, while her eyes and mouth were bright andeloquent with a spirit which her husband did not love to see. Poorgirl! There was seriousness enough in store for her before she wouldbe able to leave the room.
"You ought to be serious. Do you know why Mrs. Marsham came here fromLady Monk's last night?"
"Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was waltzing with BurgoFitzgerald. You might as well ask me whether I knew why Mr. Bott wasstanding at all the doors, glaring at me."
"I don't know anything about Mr. Bott."
"I know something about him though," she said, again moving herselfin her chair.
"I am speaking now of Mrs. Marsham."
"You should speak of them both together as they hunt in couples."
"Glencora, will you listen to me, or will you not? If you say thatyou will not, I shall know what to do."
"I don't think you would, Plantagenet." And she nodded her littlehead at him, as she spoke. "I'm sure I don't know what you would do.But I will listen to you. Only, as I said before, it will be verynice when it's over."
"Mrs. Marsham came here, not simply to tell me that you were waltzingwith Mr. Fitzgerald,--and I wish that when you mention his name youwould call him Mr. Fitzgerald."
"So I do."
"You generally prefix his Christian name, which it would be muchbetter that you should omit."
"I will try," she said, very gently; "but it's hard to drop an oldhabit. Before you married me you knew that I had learned to call himBurgo."
"Let me go on," said Mr. Palliser.
"Oh, certainly."
"It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing that Mrs. Marshamcame here."
"And it was not simply to see me waltzing that Mr. Bott stood in thedoorways, for he followed me about, and came down after me to thesupper-room."
"Glencora, will you oblige me by not speaking of Mr. Bott?"
"I wish you would oblige me by not speaking of Mrs. Marsham." Mr.Palliser rose quickly from his chair with a gesture of anger, stoodupright for half a minute, and then sat down again. "I beg yourpardon, Plantagenet," she said. "I think I know what you want, andI'll hold my tongue till you bid me speak."
"Mrs. Marsham came here because she saw that every one in the roomwas regarding you with wonder." Lady Glencora twisted herself aboutin her chair, but she said nothing. "She saw that you were not onlydancing with Mr. Fitzgerald, but that you were dancing with him,--whatshall I say?"
"Upon my word I can't tell you."
"Recklessly."
"Oh! recklessly, was I? What was I reckless of?"
"Reckless of what people might say; reckless of what I might feelabout it; reckless of your own position."
"Am I to speak now?"
"Perhaps you had better let me go on. I think she was right to cometo me."
"That's of course. What's the good of having spies, if theydon't run and tell as soon as they see anything, especiallyanything--reckless."
"Glencora, you are determined to make me angry. I am angry now,--veryangry. I have employed no spies. When rumours have reached me, notfrom spies, as you choose to call them, but through your dearestfriends and mine--"
"What do you mean by rumours from my dearest friends?"
"Never mind. Let me go on."
"No; not when you say my dear friends have spread rumours about me.Tell me who they are. I have no dear friends. Do you mean AliceVavasor?"
"It does not signify. But when I was warned that you had better notgo to any house in which you could meet that man, I would not listento it. I said that you were my wife, and that as such I could trustyou anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might distrustyou, but I would not do so. When I wished you to go to Monkshade,were there to be any spies there? When I left you last night at LadyMonk's, do you believe in your heart that I trusted to Mrs. Marsham'seyes rather than to your own truth? Do you think that I have lived infear of Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"No, Plantagenet; I do not think so."
"Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr. Bott to watch yourconduct? Answer me, Glencora."
She paused a moment, thinking what actually was her true belief onthat subject. "He does watch me, certainly," she said.
"That does not answer my question. Do you believe that I havecommissioned him to do so?"
"No; I do not."
"Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I have employedno spies. If it were ever to come to that, that I thought spiesnecessary, it would be all over with me."
There was something of feeling in his voice as he saidthis,--something that almost approached to passion which touched hiswife's heart. Whether or not spies would be of any avail, she knewthat she had in truth done that of which he had declared that hehad never suspected her. She had listened to words of love from herformer lover. She had received, and now carried about with her aletter from this man, in which he asked her to elope with him. Shehad by no means resolved that she would not do this thing. She hadbeen false to her husband; and as her husband spoke of his confidencein her, her own spirit rebelled against the deceit which she herselfwas practising.
"I know that I have never made you happy," she said. "I know that Inever can make you happy."
He looked at her, struck by her altered tone, and saw that her wholemanner and demeanour were changed. "I do not understand what youmean," he said. "I have never complained. You have not made meunhappy." He was one of those men to whom this was enough. If hiswife caused him no uneasiness, what more
was he to expect from her?No doubt she might have done much more for him. She might have givenhim an heir. But he was a just man, and knew that the blank he haddrawn was his misfortune, and not her fault.
But now her heart was loosed and she spoke out, at first slowly,but after a while with all the quietness of strong passion. "No,Plantagenet; I shall never make you happy. You have never loved me,nor I you. We have never loved each other for a single moment. I havebeen wrong to talk to you about spies; I was wrong to go to LadyMonk's; I have been wrong in everything that I have done; but neverso wrong as when I let them persuade me to be your wife!"
"Glencora!"
"Let me speak now, Plantagenet, It is better that I should tell youeverything; and I will. I will tell you everything;--everything! I dolove Burgo Fitzgerald. I do! I do! I do! How can I help loving him?Have I not loved him from the first,--before I had seen you? Did younot know that it was so? I do love Burgo Fitzgerald, and when I wentto Lady Monk's last night, I had almost made up my mind that I musttell him so, and that I must go away with him and hide myself. Butwhen he came to speak to me--"
"He has asked you to go with him, then?" said the husband, in whosebosom the poison was beginning to take effect, thereby showing thathe was neither above nor below humanity.
Glencora was immediately reminded that though she might, if shepleased, tell her own secrets, she ought not, in accordance with herideas of honour, tell those of her lover. "What need is there ofasking, do you think, when people have loved each other as we havedone?"
"You wanted to go with him, then?"
"Would it not have been the best for you? Plantagenet, I do not loveyou;--not as women love their husbands when they do love them. But,before God, my first wish is to free you from the misfortune thatI have brought on you." As she made this attestation she started upfrom her chair, and coming close to him, took him by the coat. He wasstartled, and stepped back a pace, but did not speak; and then stoodlooking at her as she went on.
"Before God, my first wish is to free youfrom the misfortune that I have brought on you."]
"What matters it whether I drown myself, or throw myself away bygoing with such a one as him, so that you might marry again, andhave a child? I'd die;--I'd die willingly. How I wish I could die!Plantagenet, I would kill myself if I dared."
He was a tall man and she was short of stature, so that he stood overher and looked upon her, and now she was looking up into his facewith all her eyes. "I would," she said. "I would--I would! What isthere left for me that I should wish to live?"
Softly, slowly, very gradually, as though he were afraid of what hewas doing, he put his arm round her waist. "You are wrong in onething," he said. "I do love you."
She shook her head, touching his breast with her hair as she did so.
"I do love you," he repeated. "If you mean that I am not apt attelling you so, it is true, I know. My mind is running on otherthings."
"Yes," she said; "your mind is running on other things."
"But I do love you. If you cannot love me, it is a great misfortuneto us both. But we need not therefore be disgraced. As for that otherthing of which you spoke,--of our having, as yet, no child"--and insaying this he pressed her somewhat closer with his arm--"you allowyourself to think too much of it;--much more of it than I do. I havemade no complaints on that head, even within my own breast."
"I know what your thoughts are, Plantagenet."
"Believe me that you wrong my thoughts. Of course I have beenanxious, and have, perhaps, shown my anxiety by the struggle I havemade to hide it. I have never told you what is false, Glencora."
"No; you are not false!"
"I would rather have you for my wife, childless,--if you will try tolove me,--than any other woman, though another might give me an heir.Will you try to love me?"
She was silent. At this moment, after the confession that she hadmade, she could not bring herself to say that she would even try. Hadshe said so, she would have seemed to have accepted his forgivenesstoo easily.
"I think, dear," he said, still holding her by her waist, "that wehad better leave England for a while. I will give up politics forthis season. Should you like to go to Switzerland for the summer, orperhaps to some of the German baths, and then on to Italy when theweather is cold enough?" Still she was silent. "Perhaps your friend,Miss Vavasor, would go with us?"
He was killing her by his goodness. She could not speak to him yet;but now, as he mentioned Alice's name, she gently put up her hand andrested it on the back of his.
At that moment there came a knock at the door;--a sharp knock, whichwas quickly repeated.
"Come in," said Mr. Palliser, dropping his arm from his wife's waist,and standing away from her a few yards.
Can You Forgive Her? Page 60