Can You Forgive Her? (64 page)

Then Treasury Jove got up smiling, and thanked his enemy for the cordiality of his support. ‘He had always,’ he said, ‘done the gentleman’s party justice for their clemency, and had feared no opposition from them; and he was glad to find that he was correct in
his anticipations as to the course they would pursue on the present occasion.’ He went on saying a good deal about home matters, and foreign matters, proving that everything was right, just as easily as his enemy had proved that everything was wrong.
On all these points he was very full, and very courteous; but when he came to the subject of taxation, he simply repeated the passage from the Queen’s
Speech, expressing a hope that his right honourable friend, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, would be able to satisfy the judgement of the House, and the wishes of the people. That specially personal question which had been asked he did not answer at all.

But the House was still all agog, as was the crowded gallery. The energetic and still existing Chancellor of the Exchequer was then present,
divided only by one little thin Secretary of State from Jove himself. Would he get up and declare his purposes? He was a man who almost always did get up when an opportunity offered itself, – or when it did not. Some second little gun was fired off from the Opposition benches, and then there was a pause. Would the purse-bearer of Olympus rise upon his wings and speak his mind, or would he sit in
silence upon his cloud? There was a general call for the purse-bearer, but he floated in silence, and was inexplicable. The purse-bearer was not to be bullied into any sudden reading of the riddle. Then there came on a general debate about money matters, in which the purse-bearer did say a few words, but he said nothing as to the great question at issue. At last up got Mr Palliser, towards the close
of the evening, and occupied a full hour in explaining what taxes the Government might remit with safety, and what they might not, – Mr Bott, meanwhile, prompting him with figures from behind with an assiduity that was almost too persistent. According to Mr Palliser, the words used in the Queen’s Speech were not at all too cautious. The Members went out gradually, and the House became very thin
during this oration; but the newspapers declared, next morning, that his speech had been the speech of the night, and that the perspicuity of Mr Palliser pointed him out as the coming man.

He returned home to his house in Park Lane quite triumphant after his success, and found Lady Glencora, at about twelve o’ clock, sitting alone. She had arrived in town on that day, having come up at her own
request, instead of remaining at Matching Priory till after Easter, as he had proposed. He had wished her to stay, in order, as he had said, that there might be a home for his
cousins. But she had expressed herself unwilling to remain without him, explaining that the cousins might have the home in her absence, as well as they could in her presence; and he had given way. But, in truth, she had
learned to hate her cousin Iphy Palliser with a hatred that was unreasonable, – seeing that she did not also hate Alice Vavasor, who had done as much to merit her hatred as had her cousin. Lady Glencora knew by what means her absence from Monkshade had been brought about Miss Falliser had told her all that had passed in Alice’s bedroom on the last night of Alice’s stay at Matching, and had, by so
doing, contrived to prevent the visit. Lady Glencora understood well all that Alice had said: and yet, though she hated Miss Palliser for what had been done, she entertained no anger against Alice. Of course Alice would have prevented that visit to Monkshade if it were in her power to do so. Of course she would save her friend. It is hardly too much to say that Lady Glencora looked to Alice to save
her. Nevertheless she hated Iphy Palliser for engaging herself in the same business. Lady Glencora looked to Alice to save her, and yet it may be doubted whether she did, in truth, wish to be saved.

While she was at Matching, and before Mr Palliser had returned from Monkshade, a letter reached her, by what means she had never learned. ‘A letter has been placed within my writing-case,’ she said
to her maid, quite openly. ‘Who put it there?’ The maid had declared her ignorance in a manner that had satisfied Lady Glencora of her truth. ‘If such a thing happens again,’ said Lady Glencora, ‘I shall be obliged to have the matter investigated. I cannot allow that anything should be put into my room surreptitiously.’ There, then, had been an end of that, as regarded any steps taken by Lady Glencora.
The letter had been from Burgo Fitzgerald, and had contained a direct proposal that she should go off with him. ‘I am at Matching,’ the letter said, ‘at the Inn; but I do not dare to show myself, lest I should do you an injury. I walked round the house yesterday, at night, and I know that I saw your room. If I am wrong in thinking that you love me, I would not for worlds insult you by my presence;
but if you love me still, I ask you to throw aside from you that fictitious marriage, and give yourself to the man whom, if you love him, you should
regard as your husband.’ There had been more of it, but it had been to the same effect. To Lady Glencora it had seemed to convey an assurance of devoted love, – of that love which, in former days, her friends had told her was not within the compass
of Burgo’s nature. He had not asked her to meet him then, but saying that he would return to Matching after Parliament was met, begged her to let him have some means of knowing whether her heart was true to him.

She told no one of the letter, but she kept it, and read it over and over again in the silence and solitude of her room. She felt that she was guilty in thus reading it, – even in keeping
it from her husband’s knowledge; but though conscious of this guilt, though resolute almost in its commission, still she determined not to remain at Matching after her husband’s departure, – not to undergo the danger of remaining there while Burgo Fitzgerald should be in the vicinity. She could not analyse her own wishes. She often told herself, as she had told Alice, that it would be better
for them all that she should go away; that in throwing herself even to the dogs, if such must be the result, she would do more of good than of harm. She declared to herself, in the most passionate words she could use, that she loved this man with all her heart. She protested that the fault would not be hers, but theirs, who had forced her to marry the man she did not love. She assured herself that
her husband had no affection for her, and that their marriage was in every respect prejudicial to him. She recurred over and over again, in her thoughts, to her own childlessness, and to his extreme desire for an heir. ‘Though I do sacrifice myself,’ she would say, ‘I shall do more of good than harm, and I cannot be more wretched than I am now.’ But yet she fled to London because she feared to leave
herself at Matching when Burgo Fitzgerald should be there. She sent no answer to his letter. She made no preparation for going with him. She longed to see Alice, to whom alone, since her marriage, had she ever spoken of her love, and intended to tell her the whole tale of that letter. She was as one who, in madness, was resolute to throw herself from a precipice, but to whom some remnant of sanity
remained which forced her to seek those who would save her from herself.

Mr Palliser had not seen her since her arrival in London, and, of course, he took her by the hand and kissed her. But it was the embrace of a brother rather than of a lover or a husband. Lady Glencora, with her full woman’s nature, understood this thoroughly, and appreciated by instinct the true bearing of every touch from
his hand. ‘I hope you are well?’ she said.

‘Oh, yes; quite well. And you? A little fatigued with your journey, I suppose?’

‘No; not much.’

‘Well, we have had a debate on the Address. Don’ t you want to know how it has gone?’

‘If it has concerned you particularly, I do, of course.’

‘Concerned me! It has concerned me certainly.’

‘They haven’ t appointed you yet; have they?’

‘No; they don’
t appoint people during debates, in the House of Commons. But I fear I shall never make you a politician.’

‘I’m almost afraid you never will. But I’m not the less anxious for your success, since you wish it yourself. I don’t understand why you should work so very hard; but, as you like it, I’m as anxious as anybody can be that you should triumph.’

‘Yes; I do like it,’ he said. ‘A man must like
something, and I don’t know what there is to like better. Some people can eat and drink all day; and some people can care about a horse. I can do neither.’

And there were others, Lady Glencora thought, who could love to lie in the sun, and could look up into the eyes of women, and seek their happiness there. She was sure, at any rate, that she knew one such. But she said nothing of this.

‘I
spoke for a moment to Lord Brock,’ said Mr Palliser. Lord Brock was the name by which the present Jove of the Treasury was known among men.

‘And what did Lord Brock say?’

‘He didn’ t say much, but he was very cordial.’

‘But I thought, Plantagenet, that he could appoint you if he pleased? Doesn’ t he do it all?’

‘Well, in one sense, he does. But I don’t suppose I shall ever make yon understand.’
He endeavoured, however, to do so on the
present occasion, and gave her a somewhat longer lecture on the working of the British Constitution, and the manner in which British politics evolved themselves, than would have been expected from most young husbands to their young wives under similar circumstances. Lady Glencora yawned, and strove lustily, but ineffectually, to hide her yawn in her handkerchief.

‘But I see you don’ t care a bit about it,’ said he, peevishly.

‘Don’ t be angry, Plantagenet. Indeed I do care about it, but I am so ignorant that I can’ t understand it all at once. I am rather tired, and I think I’ll go to bed now. Shall you be late?’

‘No, not very; that is, I shall be rather late. I’ve a lot of letters I want to write tonight, as I must be at work all tomorrow. By-the-by,
Mr Bott is coming to dine here. There will be no one else.’ The next day was a Wednesday, and the House would not sit in the evening.

‘Mr Bott!’ said Lady Glencora, showing by her voice that she anticipated no pleasure from that gentleman’s company.

‘Yes, Mr Bott. Have you any objection?’

‘Oh, no. Would you like to dine alone with him?’

‘Why should I dine alone with him? Why shouldn’t you
eat your dinner with us? I hope you are not going to become fastidious, and to turn up your nose at people. Mrs Marsham is in town, and I dare say she’ll come to you if you ask her.’

But this was too much for Lady Glencora. She was disposed to be mild, but she could not endure to have her two duennas thus brought upon her together on the first day of her arrival in London. And Mrs Marsham would
be worse than Mr Bott. Mr Bott would be engaged with Mr Palliser during the greater part of the evening. ‘I thought,’ said she, ‘of asking my cousin, Alice Vavasor, to spend the evening with me.’

‘Miss Vavasor!’ said the husband. ‘I must say that I thought Miss Vavasor –’ He was going to make some allusion to that unfortunate hour spent among the ruins, but he stopped himself.

‘I hope you have
nothing to say against my cousin?’ said his wife. ‘She is my only near relative that I really care for; – the only woman, I mean.’

‘No; I don’t mean to say anything against her. She’s very well as a young lady, I dare say. I would sooner that you would ask Mrs Marsham tomorrow.’

Lady Glencora was standing, waiting to go away to her own room, but it was absolutely necessary that this matter
should be decided before she went. She felt that he was hard to her, and unreasonable, and that he was treating her like a child who should not be allowed her own way in anything. She had endeavoured to please him, and, having failed, was not now disposed to give way.

‘As there will be no other ladies here tomorrow evening, plantagenet, and as I have not yet seen Alice since I have been in town,
I wish you would let me have my way in this. Of course I cannot have very much to say to Mrs Marsham, who is an old woman.’

‘I especially want Mrs Marsham to be your friend,’ said he.

‘Friendships will not come by ordering, Plantagenet,’ said she.

‘Very well,’ said he. ‘Of course, you will do as you please. I am sorry that you have refused the first favour I have asked you this year.’ Then
he left the room, and she went away to bed.

B
UT
Lady Glencora was not brought to repentance by her husband’s last words. It seemed to her to be so intolerably cruel, this demand of his, that she should be made to pass the whole of her first evening in town with an old woman for whom it was impossible that she should entertain the slightest regard, that she resolved upon rebellion. Had he positively ordered Mrs Marsham,
she would have sent for that lady, and have contented herself with enduring her presence in disdainful silence; but Mr Palliser had not given any order. He had made a request, and a request, from its very nature, admits of no obedience. The compliance with a request must be voluntary, and she would not send for Mrs Marsham, except upon compulsion. Had not she also made a request
to him, and had
not he refused it? It was his prerogative, undoubtedly, to command; but in that matter of requests she had a right to expect that her voice should be as potent as his own. She wrote a line, therefore, to Alice before she went to bed, begging her cousin to come to her early on the following day, so that they might go out together, and then afterwards dine in company with Mr Bott

‘I know that will
be an inducement to you,’ Lady Glencora said, ‘because your generous heart will feel of what service you may be to me. Nobody else will be here, – unless, indeed, Mrs Marsham should be asked, unknown to myself.’

Then she sat herself down to think, – to think especially about the cruelty of husbands. She had been told over and over again, in the days before her marriage, that Burgo would ill-use
her if he became her husband. The Marquis of Auld Reekie had gone so far as to suggest that Burgo might probably beat her. But what hard treatment, even what beating, could be so unendurable as this total want of sympathy, as this deadness in life, which her present lot entailed upon her? As for that matter of beating, she ridiculed the idea in her very soul. She sat smiling at the absurdity of
the thing as she thought of the beauty of Burgo’s eyes, of the softness of his touch, of the loving, almost worshipping, tones of his voice. Would it not even be better to be beaten by him than to have politics explained to her at one o’clock at night by such a husband as Plantagenet Palliser? The British Constitution, indeed! Had she married Burgo they would have been in sunny Italy, and he would
have told her some other tale than that as they sat together under the pale moonlight. She had a little water-coloured drawing called Raphael and Fornarina, and she was infantine enough to tell herself that the so-called Raphael was like her Burgo – no, not her Burgo, but the Burgo that was not hers. At any rate, all the romance of the picture she might have enjoyed had they allowed her to dispose
as she had wished of her own hand. She might have sat in marble balconies, while the vines clustered over her head, and he would have been at her knee, hardly speaking to her, but making his presence felt by the halo of its divinity. He would have called upon her for no hard replies. With him near her she would
have enjoyed the soft air, and would have sat happy, without trouble, lapped in the
delight of loving. It was thus that Fornarina sat And why should not such a lot have been hers? Her Raphael would have loved her, let them say what they would about his cruelty.