REGRETS.
Madame Goesler remained at Matching till after the return of Mr.
Palliser--or, as we must now call him, the Duke of Omnium--from
Gatherum Castle, and was therefore able to fight her own battle
with him respecting the gems and the money which had been left her.
He brought to her with his own hands the single ring which she had
requested, and placed it on her finger. "The goldsmith will soon make
that all right," she said, when it was found to be much too large for
the largest finger on which she could wear a ring. "A bit shall be
taken out, but I will not have it reset."
"You got the lawyer's letter and the inventory, Madame Goesler?"
"Yes, indeed. What surprises me is that the dear old man should never
have spoken of so magnificent a collection of gems."
"Orders have been given that they shall be packed."
"They may be packed or unpacked, of course, as your Grace pleases,
but pray do not connect me with the packing."
"You must be connected with it."
"But I wish not to be connected with it, Duke. I have written to the
lawyer to renounce the legacy, and, if your Grace persists, I must
employ a lawyer of my own to renounce them after some legal form.
Pray do not let the case be sent to me, or there will be so much
trouble, and we shall have another great jewel robbery. I won't take
it in, and I won't have the money, and I will have my own way. Lady
Glen will tell you that I can be very obstinate when I please."
[Illustration: "Lady Glen will tell you that I can be very
obstinate when I please."]
Lady Glencora had told him so already. She had been quite sure that
her friend would persist in her determination as to the legacy, and
had thought that her husband should simply accept Madame Goesler's
assurances to that effect. But a man who had been Chancellor of the
Exchequer could not deal with money, or even with jewels, so lightly.
He assured his wife that such an arrangement was quite out of the
question. He remarked that property was property, by which he meant
to intimate that the real owner of substantial wealth could not be
allowed to disembarrass himself of his responsibilities or strip
himself of his privileges by a few generous but idle words. The late
Duke's will was a very serious thing, and it seemed to the heir that
this abandoning of a legacy bequeathed by the Duke was a making
light of the Duke's last act and deed. To refuse money in such
circumstances was almost like refusing rain from heaven, or warmth
from the sun. It could not be done. The things were her property, and
though she might, of course, chuck them into the street, they would
no less be hers. "But I won't have them, Duke," said Madame Goesler;
and the late Chancellor of the Exchequer found that no proposition
made by him in the House had ever been received with a firmer
opposition. His wife told him that nothing he could say would be of
any avail, and rather ridiculed his idea of the solemnity of wills.
"You can't make a person take a thing because you write it down on a
thick bit of paper, any more than if you gave it her across a table.
I understand it all, of course. She means to show that she didn't
want anything from the Duke. As she refused the name and title, she
won't have the money and jewels. You can't make her take them, and
I'm quite sure you can't talk her over." The young Duke was not
persuaded, but had to give the battle up,--at any rate, for the
present.
On the 19th of March Madame Goesler returned to London, having been
at Matching Priory for more than three weeks. On her journey back to
Park Lane many thoughts crowded on her mind. Had she, upon the whole,
done well in reference to the Duke of Omnium? The last three years of
her life had been sacrificed to an old man with whom she had not in
truth possessed aught in common. She had persuaded herself that there
had existed a warm friendship between them;--but of what nature could
have been a friendship with one whom she had not known till he had
been in his dotage? What words of the Duke's speaking had she ever
heard with pleasure, except certain terms of affection which had been
half mawkish and half senile? She had told Phineas Finn, while riding
home with him from Broughton Spinnies, that she had clung to the Duke
because she loved him, but what had there been to produce such love?
The Duke had begun his acquaintance with her by insulting her,--and
had then offered to make her his wife. This,--which would have
conferred upon her some tangible advantages, such as rank, and
wealth, and a great name,--she had refused, thinking that the price
to be paid for them was too high, and that life might even yet have
something better in store for her. After that she had permitted
herself to become, after a fashion, head nurse to the old man, and
in that pursuit had wasted three years of what remained to her of
her youth. People, at any rate, should not say of her that she had
accepted payment for the three years' service by taking a casket of
jewels. She would take nothing that should justify any man in saying
that she had been enriched by her acquaintance with the Duke of
Omnium. It might be that she had been foolish, but she would be more
foolish still were she to accept a reward for her folly. As it was
there had been something of romance in it,--though the romance of
friendship at the bedside of a sick and selfish old man had hardly
been satisfactory.
Even in her close connection with the present Duchess there was
something which was almost hollow. Had there not been a compact
between them, never expressed, but not the less understood? Had
not her dear friend, Lady Glen, agreed to bestow upon her support,
fashion, and all kinds of worldly good things,--on condition that she
never married the old Duke? She had liked Lady Glencora,--had enjoyed
her friend's society, and been happy in her friend's company,--but
she had always felt that Lady Glencora's attraction to herself had
been simply on the score of the Duke. It was necessary that the Duke
should be pampered and kept in good humour. An old man, let him be
ever so old, can do what he likes with himself and his belongings. To
keep the Duke out of harm's way Lady Glencora had opened her arms to
Madame Goesler. Such, at least, was the interpretation which Madame
Goesler chose to give to the history of the last three years. They
had not, she thought, quite understood her. When once she had made up
her mind not to marry the Duke, the Duke had been safe from her;--as
his jewels and money should be safe now that he was dead.
Three years had passed by, and nothing had been done of that which
she had intended to do. Three years had passed, which to her, with
her desires, were so important. And yet she hardly knew what were her
desires, and had never quite defined her intentions. She told herself
on this very journey that the time had now gone by, and that in
losing these three years she had lost everything. As yet,--so she
declared to herself now,--the world had done but little for her. Two
old men had loved her; one had become her husband, and the other had
asked to become so;--and to both she had done her duty. To both she
had been grateful, tender, and self-sacrificing. From the former she
had, as his widow, taken wealth which she valued greatly; but the
wealth alone had given her no happiness. From the latter, and from
his family, she had accepted a certain position. Some persons, high
in repute and fashion, had known her before, but everybody knew her
now. And yet what had all this done for her? Dukes and duchesses,
dinner-parties and drawing-rooms,--what did they all amount to? What
was it that she wanted?
She was ashamed to tell herself that it was love. But she knew
this,--that it was necessary for her happiness that she should devote
herself to some one. All the elegancies and outward charms of life
were delightful, if only they could be used as the means to some end.
As an end themselves they were nothing. She had devoted herself to
this old man who was now dead, and there had been moments in which
she had thought that that sufficed. But it had not sufficed, and
instead of being borne down by grief at the loss of her friend, she
found herself almost rejoicing at relief from a vexatious burden.
Had she been a hypocrite then? Was it her nature to be false? After
that she reflected whether it might not be best for her to become
a devotee,--it did not matter much in what branch of the Christian
religion, so that she could assume some form of faith. The sour
strictness of the confident Calvinist or the asceticism of St.
Francis might suit her equally,--if she could only believe in Calvin
or in St. Francis. She had tried to believe in the Duke of Omnium,
but there she had failed. There had been a saint at whose shrine she
thought she could have worshipped with a constant and happy devotion,
but that saint had repulsed her from his altar.
Mr. Maule, Senior, not understanding much of all this, but still
understanding something, thought that he might perhaps be the
saint. He knew well that audacity in asking is a great merit in a
middle-aged wooer. He was a good deal older than the lady, who, in
spite of all her experiences, was hardly yet thirty. But then he
was,--he felt sure,--very young for his age, whereas she was old.
She was a widow; he was a widower. She had a house in town and an
income. He had a place in the country and an estate. She knew all the
dukes and duchesses, and he was a man of family. She could make him
comfortably opulent. He could make her Mrs. Maule of Maule Abbey.
She, no doubt, was good-looking. Mr. Maule, Senior, as he tied on
his cravat, thought that even in that respect there was no great
disparity between them. Considering his own age, Mr. Maule, Senior,
thought there was not perhaps a better-looking man than himself about
Pall Mall. He was a little stiff in the joints and moved rather
slowly, but what was wanting in suppleness was certainly made up in
dignity.
He watched his opportunity, and called in Park Lane on the day after
Madame Goesler's return. There was already between them an amount of
acquaintance which justified his calling, and, perhaps, there had
been on the lady's part something of that cordiality of manner which
is wont to lead to intimate friendship. Mr. Maule had made himself
agreeable, and Madame Goesler had seemed to be grateful. He was
admitted, and on such an occasion it was impossible not to begin the
conversation about the "dear Duke." Mr. Maule could afford to talk
about the Duke, and to lay aside for a short time his own cause,
as he had not suggested to himself the possibility of becoming
pressingly tender on his own behalf on this particular occasion.
Audacity in wooing is a great virtue, but a man must measure even his
virtues. "I heard that you had gone to Matching, as soon as the poor
Duke was taken ill," he said.
She was in mourning, and had never for a moment thought of denying
the peculiarity of the position she had held in reference to the old
man. She could not have been content to wear her ordinary coloured
garments after sitting so long by the side of the dying man. A
hired nurse may do so, but she had not been that. If there had been
hypocrisy in her friendship the hypocrisy must be maintained to the
end.
"Poor old man! I only came back yesterday."
"I never had the pleasure of knowing his Grace," said Mr. Maule. "But
I have always heard him named as a nobleman of whom England might
well be proud."
Madame Goesler was not at the moment inclined to tell lies on the
matter, and did not think that England had much cause to be proud of
the Duke of Omnium. "He was a man who held a very peculiar position,"
she said.
"Most peculiar;--a man of infinite wealth, and of that special
dignity which I am sorry to say so many men of rank among us are
throwing aside as a garment which is too much for them. We can all
wear coats, but it is not every one that can carry a robe. The Duke
carried his to the last." Madame Goesler remembered how he looked
with his nightcap on, when he had lost his temper because they would
not let him have a glass of curaçoa. "I don't know that we have any
one left that can be said to be his equal," continued Mr. Maule.
"No one like him, perhaps. He was never married, you know."
"But was once willing to marry," said Mr. Maule, "if all that we
hear be true." Madame Goesler, without a smile and equally without a
frown, looked as though the meaning of Mr. Maule's words had escaped
her. "A grand old gentleman! I don't know that anybody will ever say
as much for his heir."
"The men are very different."
"Very different indeed. I dare say that Mr. Palliser, as Mr.
Palliser, has been a useful man. But so is a coal-heaver a useful
man. The grace and beauty of life will be clean gone when we all
become useful men."
"I don't think we are near that yet."
"Upon my word, Madame Goesler, I am not so sure about it. Here are
sons of noblemen going into trade on every side of us. We have earls
dealing in butter, and marquises sending their peaches to market.
There was nothing of that kind about the Duke. A great fortune had
been entrusted to him, and he knew that it was his duty to spend it.
He did spend it, and all the world looked up to him. It must have
been a great pleasure to you to know him so well."
Madame Goesler was saved the necessity of making any answer to this
by the announcement of another visitor. The door was opened, and
Phineas Finn entered the room. He had not seen Madame Goesler since
they had been together at Harrington Hall, and had never before met
Mr. Maule. When riding home with the lady after their unsuccessful
attempt to jump out of the wood, Phineas had promised to call in
Park Lane whenever he should learn that Madame Goesler was not at
Matching. Since that the Duke had died, and the bond with Matching no
longer existed. It seemed but the other day that they were talking
about the Duke together, and now the Duke was gone. "I see you are in
mourning," said Phineas, as he still held her hand. "I must say one
word to condole with you for your lost friend."
"Mr. Maule and I were now speaking of him," she said, as she
introduced the two gentlemen. "Mr. Finn and I had the pleasure of
meeting your son at Harrington Hall a few weeks since, Mr. Maule."
"I heard that he had been there. Did you know the Duke, Mr. Finn?"
"After the fashion in which such a one as I would know such a one as
the Duke, I knew him. He probably had forgotten my existence."
"He never forgot any one," said Madame Goesler.
"I don't know that I was ever introduced to him," continued Mr.
Maule, "and I shall always regret it. I was telling Madame Goesler
how profound a reverence I had for the Duke's character." Phineas
bowed, and Madame Goesler, who was becoming tired of the Duke as a
subject of conversation, asked some question as to what had been
going on in the House. Mr. Maule, finding it to be improbable that he
should be able to advance his cause on that occasion, took his leave.
The moment he was gone Madame Goesler's manner changed altogether.
She left her former seat and came near to Phineas, sitting on a sofa
close to the chair he occupied; and as she did so she pushed her hair
back from her face in a manner that he remembered well in former
days.
"I am so glad to see you," she said. "Is it not odd that he should
have gone so soon after what we were saying but the other day?"
"You thought then that he would not last long."
"Long is comparative. I did not think he would be dead within six
weeks, or I should not have been riding there. He was a burden to me,
Mr. Finn."
"I can understand that."
"And yet I shall miss him sorely. He had given all the colour to my
life which it possessed. It was not very bright, but still it was
colour."
"The house will be open to you just the same."
"I shall not go there. I shall see Lady Glencora in town, of course;
but I shall not go to Matching; and as to Gatherum Castle, I would
not spend another week there, if they would give it me. You haven't
heard of his will?"
"No;--not a word. I hope he remembered you,--to mention your name.
You hardly wanted more."
"Just so. I wanted no more than that."
"It was made, perhaps, before you knew him."
"He was always making it, and always altering it. He left me money,
and jewels of enormous value."
"I am so glad to hear it."
"But I have refused to take anything. Am I not right?"
"I don't know why you should refuse."
"There are people who will say that--I was his mistress. If a woman
be young, a man's age never prevents such scandal. I don't know that
I can stop it, but I can perhaps make it seem to be less probable.
And after all that has passed, I could not bear that the Pallisers
should think that I clung to him for what I could get. I should be
easier this way."
"Whatever is best to be done, you will do it;--I know that."
"Your praise goes beyond the mark, my friend. I can be both generous
and discreet;--but the difficulty is to be true. I did take one
thing,--a black diamond that he always wore. I would show it you, but
the goldsmith has it to make it fit me. When does the great affair
come off at the House?"
"The bill will be read again on Monday, the first."
"What an unfortunate day!--You remember young Mr. Maule? Is he not
like his father? And yet in manners they are as unlike as possible."
"What is the father?" Phineas asked.
"A battered old beau about London, selfish and civil, pleasant and
penniless, and I should think utterly without a principle. Come again
soon. I am so anxious to hear that you are getting on. And you have
got to tell me all about that shooting with the pistol." Phineas as
he walked away thought that Madame Goesler was handsomer even than
she used to be.