"I WOULD DO IT NOW."
Though it was rumoured all over London that the Duke of Omnium was
dying, his Grace had been dressed and taken out of his bed-chamber
into a sitting-room, when Madame Goesler was brought into his
presence by Lady Glencora Palliser. He was reclining in a great
arm-chair, with his legs propped up on cushions, and a respectable
old lady in a black silk gown and a very smart cap was attending
to his wants. The respectable old lady took her departure when the
younger ladies entered the room, whispering a word of instruction
to Lady Glencora as she went. "His Grace should have his broth at
half-past four, my lady, and a glass and a half of champagne. His
Grace won't drink his wine out of a tumbler, so perhaps your ladyship
won't mind giving it him at twice."
"Marie has come," said Lady Glencora.
"I knew she would come," said the old man, turning his head round
slowly on the back of his chair. "I knew she would be good to me to
the last." And he laid his withered hand on the arm of his chair, so
that the woman whose presence gratified him might take it within hers
and comfort him.
"Of course I have come," said Madame Goesler, standing close by him
and putting her left arm very lightly on his shoulder. It was all
that she could do for him, but it was in order that she might do this
that she had been summoned from London to his side. He was wan and
worn and pale,--a man evidently dying, the oil of whose lamp was all
burned out; but still as he turned his eyes up to the woman's face
there was a remnant of that look of graceful fainéant nobility which
had always distinguished him. He had never done any good, but he
had always carried himself like a duke, and like a duke he carried
himself to the end.
"He is decidedly better than he was this morning," said Lady
Glencora.
"It is pretty nearly all over, my dear. Sit down, Marie. Did they
give you anything after your journey?"
"I could not wait, Duke."
"I'll get her some tea," said Lady Glencora. "Yes, I will. I'll do it
myself. I know he wants to say a word to you alone." This she added
in a whisper.
But sick people hear everything, and the Duke did hear the whisper.
"Yes, my dear;--she is quite right. I am glad to have you for a
minute alone. Do you love me, Marie?"
It was a foolish question to be asked by a dying old man of a young
woman who was in no way connected with him, and whom he had never
seen till some three or four years since. But it was asked with
feverish anxiety, and it required an answer. "You know I love you,
Duke. Why else should I be here?"
"It is a pity you did not take the coronet when I offered it you."
"Nay, Duke, it was no pity. Had I done so, you could not have had us
both."
"I should have wanted only you."
"And I should have stood aloof,--in despair to think that I was
separating you from those with whom your Grace is bound up so
closely. We have ever been dear friends since that."
"Yes;--we have been dear friends. But--" Then he closed his eyes, and
put his long thin fingers across his face, and lay back awhile in
silence, still holding her by the other hand. "Kiss me, Marie," he
said at last; and she stooped over him and kissed his forehead. "I
would do it now if I thought it would serve you." She only shook her
head and pressed his hand closely. "I would; I would. Such things
have been done, my dear."
[Illustration: "I would; I would."]
"Such a thing shall never be done by me, Duke."
They remained seated side by side, the one holding the other by the
hand, but without uttering another word, till Lady Glencora returned
bringing a cup of tea and a morsel of toast in her own hand. Madame
Goesler, as she took it, could not help thinking how it might have
been with her had she accepted the coronet which had been offered. In
that case she might have been a duchess herself, but assuredly she
would not have been waited upon by a future duchess. As it was, there
was no one in that family who had not cause to be grateful to her.
When the Duke had sipped a spoonful of his broth, and swallowed his
allowance of wine, they both left him, and the respectable old lady
with the smart cap was summoned back to her position. "I suppose he
whispered something very gracious to you," Lady Glencora said when
they were alone.
"Very gracious."
"And you were gracious to him,--I hope."
"I meant to be."
"I'm sure you did. Poor old man! If you had done what he asked you I
wonder whether his affection would have lasted as it has done."
"Certainly not, Lady Glen. He would have known that I had injured
him."
"I declare I think you are the wisest woman I ever met, Madame Max.
I am sure you are the most discreet. If I had always been as wise as
you are!"
"You always have been wise."
"Well,--never mind. Some people fall on their feet like cats; but you
are one of those who never fall at all. Others tumble about in the
most unfortunate way, without any great fault of their own. Think of
that poor Lady Laura."
"Yes, indeed."
"I suppose it's true about Mr. Kennedy. You've heard of it of course
in London." But as it happened Madame Goesler had not heard the
story. "I got it from Barrington Erle, who always writes to me if
anything happens. Mr. Kennedy has fired a pistol at the head of
Phineas Finn."
"At Phineas Finn!"
"Yes, indeed. Mr. Finn went to him at some hotel in London. No
one knows what it was about; but Mr. Kennedy went off in a fit of
jealousy, and fired a pistol at him."
"He did not hit him?"
"It seems not. Mr. Finn is one of those Irish gentlemen who always
seem to be under some special protection. The ball went through his
whiskers and didn't hurt him."
"And what has become of Mr. Kennedy?"
"Nothing, it seems. Nobody sent for the police, and he has been
allowed to go back to Scotland,--as though a man were permitted by
special Act of Parliament to try to murder his wife's lover. It would
be a bad law, because it would cause such a deal of bloodshed."
"But he is not Lady Laura's lover," said Madame Goesler, gravely.
"That would make the law difficult, because who is to say whether a
man is or is not a woman's lover?"
"I don't think there was ever anything of that kind."
"They were always together, but I dare say it was Platonic. I
believe these kind of things generally are Platonic. And as for Lady
Laura;--heavens and earth!--I suppose it must have been Platonic.
What did the Duke say to you?"
"He bade me kiss him."
"Poor dear old man. He never ceases to speak of you when you are
away, and I do believe he could not have gone in peace without seeing
you. I doubt whether in all his life he ever loved any one as he
loves you. We dine at half-past seven, dear: and you had better just
go into his room for a moment as you come down. There isn't a soul
here except Sir Omicron Pie, and Plantagenet, and two of the other
nephews,--whom, by the bye, he has refused to see. Old Lady Hartletop
wanted to come."
"And you wouldn't have her?"
"I couldn't have refused. I shouldn't have dared. But the Duke would
not hear of it. He made me write to say that he was too weak to see
any but his nearest relatives. Then he made me send for you, my
dear;--and now he won't see the relatives. What shall we do if Lady
Hartletop turns up? I'm living in fear of it. You'll have to be shut
up out of sight somewhere if that should happen."
During the next two or three days the Duke was neither much better
nor much worse. Bulletins appeared in the newspapers, though no one
at Matching knew from whence they came. Sir Omicron Pie, who, having
retired from general practice, was enabled to devote his time to the
"dear Duke," protested that he had no hand in sending them out. He
declared to Lady Glencora every morning that it was only a question
of time. "The vital spark is on the spring," said Sir Omicron, waving
a gesture heavenward with his hand. For three days Mr. Palliser was
at Matching, and he duly visited his uncle twice a day. But not a
syllable was ever said between them beyond the ordinary words of
compliments. Mr. Palliser spent his time with his private secretary,
working out endless sums and toiling for unapproachable results in
reference to decimal coinage. To him his uncle's death would be a
great blow, as in his eyes to be Chancellor of the Exchequer was much
more than to be Duke of Omnium. For herself Lady Glencora was nearly
equally indifferent, though she did in her heart of hearts wish that
her son should go to Eton with the title of Lord Silverbridge.
On the third morning the Duke suddenly asked a question of Madame
Goesler. The two were again sitting near to each other, and the Duke
was again holding her hand; but Lady Glencora was also in the room.
"Have you not been staying with Lord Chiltern?"
"Yes, Duke."
"He is a friend of yours."
"I used to know his wife before they were married."
"Why does he go on writing me letters about a wood?" This he asked in
a wailing voice, as though he were almost weeping. "I know nothing
of Lord Chiltern. Why does he write to me about the wood? I wish he
wouldn't write to me."
"He does not know that you are ill, Duke. By-the-bye, I promised to
speak to Lady Glencora about it. He says that foxes are poisoned at
Trumpeton Wood."
"I don't believe a word of it," said the Duke. "No one would poison
foxes in my wood. I wish you'd see about it, Glencora. Plantagenet
will never attend to anything. But he shouldn't write to me. He ought
to know better than to write letters to me. I will not have people
writing letters to me. Why don't they write to Fothergill?" and then
the Duke began in truth to whimper.
"I'll put it all right," said Lady Glencora.
"I wish you would. I don't like them to say there are no foxes; and
Plantagenet never will attend to anything." The wife had long since
ceased to take the husband's part when accusations such as this were
brought against him. Nothing could make Mr. Palliser think it worth
his while to give up any shred of his time to such a matter as the
preservation of foxes.
On the fourth day the catastrophe happened which Lady Glencora had
feared. A fly with a pair of horses from the Matching Road station
was driven up to the door of the Priory, and Lady Hartletop was
announced. "I knew it," said Lady Glencora, slapping her hand down on
the table in the room in which she was sitting with Madame Goesler.
Unfortunately the old lady was shown into the room before Madame
Goesler could escape, and they passed each other on the threshold.
The Dowager Marchioness of Hartletop was a very stout old lady, now
perhaps nearer to seventy than sixty-five years of age, who for many
years had been the intimate friend of the Duke of Omnium. In latter
days, during which she had seen but little of the Duke himself, she
had heard of Madame Max Goesler, but she had never met that lady.
Nevertheless, she knew the rival friend at a glance. Some instinct
told her that that woman with the black brow and the dark curls was
Madame Goesler. In these days the Marchioness was given to waddling
rather than to walking, but she waddled past the foreign female,--as
she had often called Madame Max,--with a dignified though duck-like
step. Lady Hartletop was a bold woman; and it must be supposed that
she had some heart within her or she would hardly have made such
a journey with such a purpose. "Dear Lady Hartletop," said Lady
Glencora, "I am so sorry that you should have had this trouble."
"I must see him," said Lady Hartletop. Lady Glencora put both her
hands together piteously, as though deprecating her visitor's wrath.
"I must insist on seeing him."
"Sir Omicron has refused permission to any one to visit him."
"I shall not go till I've seen him. Who was that lady?"
"A friend of mine," said Lady Glencora, drawing herself up.
"She is--, Madame Goesler."
"That is her name, Lady Hartletop. She is my most intimate friend."
"Does she see the Duke?"
Lady Glencora, when expressing her fear that the woman would come
to Matching, had confessed that she was afraid of Lady Hartletop.
And a feeling of dismay--almost of awe--had fallen upon her on
hearing the Marchioness announced. But when she found herself thus
cross-examined, she resolved that she would be bold. Nothing on
earth should induce her to open the door of the Duke's room to Lady
Hartletop, nor would she scruple to tell the truth about Madame
Goesler. "Yes," she said, "Madame Goesler does see the Duke."
"And I am to be excluded!"
"My dear Lady Hartletop, what can I do? The Duke for some time past
has been accustomed to the presence of my friend, and therefore her
presence now is no disturbance. Surely that can be understood."
"I should not disturb him."
"He would be inexpressibly excited were he to know that you were even
in the house. And I could not take it upon myself to tell him."
Then Lady Hartletop threw herself upon a sofa, and began to weep
piteously. "I have known him for more than forty years," she moaned,
through her choking tears. Lady Glencora's heart was softened, and
she was kind and womanly; but she would not give way about the Duke.
It would, as she knew, have been useless, as the Duke had declared
that he would see no one except his eldest nephew, his nephew's wife,
and Madame Goesler.
That evening was very dreadful to all of them at Matching,--except
to the Duke, who was never told of Lady Hartletop's perseverance.
The poor old woman could not be sent away on that afternoon, and was
therefore forced to dine with Mr. Palliser. He, however, was warned
by his wife to say nothing in the lady's presence about his uncle,
and he received her as he would receive any other chance guest
at his wife's table. But the presence of Madame Goesler made the
chief difficulty. She herself was desirous of disappearing for that
evening, but Lady Glencora would not permit it. "She has seen you,
my dear, and asked about you. If you hide yourself, she'll say all
sorts of things." An introduction was therefore necessary, and Lady
Hartletop's manner was grotesquely grand. She dropped a very low
curtsey, and made a very long face, but she did not say a word. In
the evening the Marchioness sat close to Lady Glencora, whispering
many things about the Duke; and condescending at last to a final
entreaty that she might be permitted to see him on the following
morning. "There is Sir Omicron," said Lady Glencora, turning round
to the little doctor. But Lady Hartletop was too proud to appeal to
Sir Omicron, who, as a matter of course, would support the orders of
Lady Glencora. On the next morning Madame Goesler did not appear at
the breakfast-table, and at eleven Lady Hartletop was taken back to
the train in Lady Glencora's carriage. She had submitted herself to
discomfort, indignity, fatigue, and disappointment; and it had all
been done for love. With her broad face, and her double chin, and her
heavy jowl, and the beard that was growing round her lips, she did
not look like a romantic woman; but, in spite of appearances, romance
and a duck-like waddle may go together. The memory of those forty
years had been strong upon her, and her heart was heavy because she
could not see that old man once again. Men will love to the last,
but they love what is fresh and new. A woman's love can live on the
recollection of the past, and cling to what is old and ugly. "What
an episode!" said Lady Glencora, when the unwelcome visitor was
gone;--"but it's odd how much less dreadful things are than you think
they will be. I was frightened when I heard her name; but you see
we've got through it without much harm."
A week passed by, and still the Duke was living. But now he was too
weak to be moved from one room to another, and Madame Goesler passed
two hours each day sitting by his bedside. He would lie with his hand
out upon the coverlid, and she would put hers upon it; but very few
words passed between them. He grumbled again about the Trumpeton
Woods, and Lord Chiltern's interference, and complained of his
nephew's indifference. As to himself and his own condition, he seemed
to be, at any rate, without discomfort, and was certainly free from
fear. A clergyman attended him, and gave him the sacrament. He took
it,--as the champagne prescribed by Sir Omicron, or the few mouthfuls
of chicken broth which were administered to him by the old lady with
the smart cap; but it may be doubted whether he thought much more of
the one remedy than of the other. He knew that he had lived, and that
the thing was done. His courage never failed him. As to the future,
he neither feared much nor hoped much; but was, unconsciously,
supported by a general trust in the goodness and the greatness of
the God who had made him what he was. "It is nearly done now, Marie,"
he said to Madame Goesler one evening. She only pressed his hand in
answer. His condition was too well understood between them to allow
of her speaking to him of any possible recovery. "It has been a great
comfort to me that I have known you," he said.
"Oh no!"
"A great comfort;--only I wish it had been sooner. I could have
talked to you about things which I never did talk of to any one. I
wonder why I should have been a duke, and another man a servant."
"God Almighty ordained such difference."
"I'm afraid I have not done it well;--but I have tried; indeed I have
tried." Then she told him he had ever lived as a great nobleman ought
to live. And, after a fashion, she herself believed what she was
saying. Nevertheless, her nature was much nobler than his; and she
knew that no man should dare to live idly as the Duke had lived.