Can You Forgive Her? (75 page)

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 lade seldom committed herself by more words than she
had uttered now. – unless it was to her tire woman.

‘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’ve 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 today 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 bake 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. Good-bye.’ 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.

B
URGO
F
ITZGERALD
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 re-crossed 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 bete 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.