The Pallisers at Breakfast.
Gentle reader, do you remember Lady Monk's party, and how it
ended,--how it ended, at least as regards those special guests with
whom we are concerned? Mr. Palliser went away early, Mrs. Marsham
followed him to his house in Park Lane, caught him at home, and told
her tale. He returned to his wife, found her sitting with Burgo in
the dining-room, under the Argus eyes of the constant Bott, and bore
her away home. Burgo disappeared utterly from the scene, and Mr. Bott,
complaining inwardly that virtue was too frequently allowed to be its
own reward, comforted himself with champagne, and then walked off
to his lodgings. Lady Monk, when Mr. Palliser made his way into her
room up-stairs, seeking his wife's scarf,--which little incident,
also, the reader may perhaps remember,--saw that the game was up, and
thought with regret of the loss of her two hundred pounds. Such was
the 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 tell
of her doings with Burgo, and had declared her resolution never again
to see either that lady or Mr. Bott in her own house. This she said
with more of defiance in her tone than Mr. Palliser had ever hitherto
heard. He was by nature less ready than her, and knowing his own
deficiency in that respect, abstained from all answer on the subject.
Indeed, during that drive home very few further words were spoken
between 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 occurred
to-night before I leave you to-morrow."
"I don't know what you can have got to say about to-night, but I'll
be down by half-past eleven, if that will do?" Mr. Palliser said that
he would make it do, and then they parted.
Lady Glencora had played her part very well before her husband. She
had declined to be frightened by him; had been the first to mention
Burgo's name, and had done so with no tremor in her voice, and had
boldly declared her irreconcilable enmity to the male and female
duennas who had dared to take her in charge. While she was in the
carriage with her husband she felt some triumph in her own strength;
and as she wished him good night on the staircase, and slowly walked
up to her room, without having once lowered her eyes before his,
something of this consciousness of triumph still supported her. And
even while her maid remained with her she held herself up, as it
were, inwardly, telling herself that she would not yield,--that she
would not be cowed either by her husband or by his spies. But when
she was left alone all her triumph departed from her.
She bade her maid go while she was still sitting in her
dressing-gown; and when the girl was gone she got close over the
fire, sitting with her slippers on the fender, with her elbows on
her knees, and her face resting on her hands. In this position she
remained for an hour, with her eyes fixed on the altering shapes of
the hot coals. During this hour her spirit was by no means defiant,
and her thoughts of herself anything but triumphant. Mr. Bott and
Mrs. Marsham she had forgotten altogether. After all, they were but
buzzing flies, who annoyed her by their presence. Should she choose
to leave her husband, they could not prevent her leaving him. It was
of her husband and of Burgo that she was thinking,--weighing them one
against the other, and connecting her own existence with theirs, not
as expecting joy or the comfort of love from either of them, but with
an assured conviction that on either side there must be misery for
her. But of that shame before all the world which must be hers for
ever, should she break her vows and consent to live with a man who
was not her husband, she thought hardly at all. That which in the
estimation of Alice was everything, to her, at this moment, was
almost nothing. For herself, she had been sacrificed; and,--as she
told herself with bitter denunciations against herself,--had been
sacrificed through her own weakness. But that was done. Whatever way
she might go, she was lost. They had married her to a man who cared
nothing for a wife, nothing for any woman,--so at least she declared
to 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 might
have been happy,--sufficiently happy in sharing her husband's joy in
that respect. But everything had gone against her. There was nothing
in her home to give her comfort. "He looks at me every time he
sees me as the cause of his misfortune," she said to herself. Of
her husband's rank, of the future possession of his title and his
estates, 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 respect
to make his marriage with her a comfort to him. She took it for
granted that that marriage was now one distasteful to him, as it was
to herself, and that he would eventually be the gainer if she should
so conduct herself that her marriage might be dissolved.
[Illustration: Lady Glencora.]
As to Burgo, I doubt whether she deceived herself much as to his
character. She knew well enough that he was a man infinitely less
worthy than her husband. She knew that he was a spendthrift, idle,
given to bad courses,--that he drank, that he gambled, that he lived
the life of the loosest man about the town. She knew also that
whatever chance she might have had to redeem him, had she married
him honestly before all the world, there could be no such chance
if she went to him as his mistress, abandoning her husband and all
her duties, and making herself vile in the eyes of all women. Burgo
Fitzgerald would not be influenced for good by such a woman as she
would then be. She knew much of the world and its ways, and told
herself no lies about this. But, as I have said before, she did not
count herself for much. What though she were ruined? What though
Burgo were false, mean, and untrustworthy? She loved him, and he was
the only man she ever had loved! Lower and lower she crouched before
the fire; and then, when the coals were no longer red, and the shapes
altered themselves no more, she crept into bed. As to what she should
say to her husband on the following morning,--she had not yet begun
to think of that.
Exactly at half-past eleven she entered the little breakfast parlour
which looked out over the park. It was the prettiest room in the
house, and now, at this springtide, when the town trees were putting
out their earliest greens, and were fresh and bright almost as
country trees, it might be hard to find a prettier chamber. Mr.
Palliser was there already, sitting with the morning paper in his
hand. He rose when she entered, and, coming up to her, just touched
her with his lips. She put her cheek up to him, and then took her
place 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 some
word to her about the fineness of the weather, told her some scraps
of news, and soon returned to the absorbing interest of a speech made
by the leader of the Opposition in the House of Lords. The speech was
very interesting to Mr. Palliser, because in it the noble lord alluded
to 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 that
feeling of security in the existing Government which the country so
much valued and desired. Mr. Palliser had as yet heard no official
tidings 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 full
of politics,--to be near the object of his ambition, to have affairs
upon his hands which required all his attention. Was it absolutely
incumbent on him to refer again to the incidents of last night? The
doing so would be odious to him. The remembrance of the task now
immediately before him destroyed all his political satisfaction. He
did not believe that his wife was in any serious danger. Might it not
yet be possible for him to escape from the annoyance, and to wash
his mind clean of all suspicion? He was not jealous; he was indeed
incapable of jealousy. He knew what it would be to be dishonoured,
and he knew that under certain circumstances the world would expect
him to exert himself in a certain way. But the thing that he had now
to do was a great trouble to him. He would rather have to address
the House of Commons with ten columns of figures than utter a word
of remonstrance to his wife. But she had defied him,--defied him
by saying that she would see his friends no more; and it was the
remembrance of this, as he sat behind his newspaper, that made him
ultimately feel that he could not pass in silence over what had been
done.
Nevertheless, he went on reading, or pretending to read, as long as
the continuance of the breakfast made it certain that his wife would
remain with him. Every now and then he said some word to her of
what he was reading, endeavouring to use the tone of voice that was
customary to him in his domestic teachings of politics. But through
it all there was a certain hesitation,--there were the sure signs of
an attempt being made, of which he was himself conscious, and which
she understood with the most perfect accuracy. He was deferring the
evil moment, and vainly endeavouring to make himself believe that he
was comfortably employed the while. She had no newspaper, and made no
endeavour to deceive herself. She, therefore, was the first to begin
the conversation.
"Plantagenet," she said, "you told me last night, as I was going to
bed, that you had something to say about Lady Monk's party."
He put down the newspaper slowly, and turned towards her. "Yes, my
dear. 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 he
says," he replied. "My fear is that you should suppose me to think
more than I do. And it was for that reason that I determined to sleep
on it before I spoke to you."
"If anybody is angry with me I'd much rather they should have it out
with 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 to
hot."
"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 be
so 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 of
marital fault-finding is one of them. Mr. Palliser was already
beginning to find out the truth of this. "Glencora," he said, "I wish
you to be serious with me."
"I am very serious," she replied, as she settled herself in her chair
with an air of mockery, while her eyes and mouth were bright and
eloquent with a spirit which her husband did not love to see. Poor
girl! There was seriousness enough in store for her before she would
be able to leave the room.
"You ought to be serious. Do you know why Mrs. Marsham came here from
Lady Monk's last night?"
"Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was waltzing with Burgo
Fitzgerald. You might as well ask me whether I knew why Mr. Bott was
standing 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 herself
in 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 that
you will not, I shall know what to do."
"I don't think you would, Plantagenet." And she nodded her little
head 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 very
nice when it's over."
"Mrs. Marsham came here, not simply to tell me that you were waltzing
with Mr. Fitzgerald,--and I wish that when you mention his name you
would call him Mr. Fitzgerald."
"So I do."
"You generally prefix his Christian name, which it would be much
better that you should omit."
"I will try," she said, very gently; "but it's hard to drop an old
habit. Before you married me you knew that I had learned to call him
Burgo."
"Let me go on," said Mr. Palliser.
"Oh, certainly."
"It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing that Mrs. Marsham
came here."
"And it was not simply to see me waltzing that Mr. Bott stood in the
doorways, for he followed me about, and came down after me to the
supper-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, stood
upright for half a minute, and then sat down again. "I beg your
pardon, Plantagenet," she said. "I think I know what you want, and
I'll hold my tongue till you bid me speak."
"Mrs. Marsham came here because she saw that every one in the room
was regarding you with wonder." Lady Glencora twisted herself about
in her chair, but she said nothing. "She saw that you were not only
dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald, but that you were dancing with him,--what
shall 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 feel
about 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 come
to me."
"That's of course. What's the good of having spies, if they
don't run and tell as soon as they see anything, especially
anything--reckless."
"Glencora, you are determined to make me angry. I am angry now,--very
angry. I have employed no spies. When rumours have reached me, not
from spies, as you choose to call them, but through your dearest
friends 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 Alice
Vavasor?"
"It does not signify. But when I was warned that you had better not
go to any house in which you could meet that man, I would not listen
to it. I said that you were my wife, and that as such I could trust
you anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might distrust
you, 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 Lady
Monk's, do you believe in your heart that I trusted to Mrs. Marsham's
eyes rather than to your own truth? Do you think that I have lived in
fear of Mr. Fitzgerald?"
"No, Plantagenet; I do not think so."
"Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr. Bott to watch your
conduct? Answer me, Glencora."
She paused a moment, thinking what actually was her true belief on
that subject. "He does watch me, certainly," she said.
"That does not answer my question. Do you believe that I have
commissioned him to do so?"
"No; I do not."
"Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I have employed
no spies. If it were ever to come to that, that I thought spies
necessary, it would be all over with me."
There was something of feeling in his voice as he said
this,--something that almost approached to passion which touched his
wife's heart. Whether or not spies would be of any avail, she knew
that she had in truth done that of which he had declared that he
had never suspected her. She had listened to words of love from her
former lover. She had received, and now carried about with her a
letter from this man, in which he asked her to elope with him. She
had by no means resolved that she would not do this thing. She had
been false to her husband; and as her husband spoke of his confidence
in her, her own spirit rebelled against the deceit which she herself
was practising.
"I know that I have never made you happy," she said. "I know that I
never can make you happy."
He looked at her, struck by her altered tone, and saw that her whole
manner and demeanour were changed. "I do not understand what you
mean," he said. "I have never complained. You have not made me
unhappy." He was one of those men to whom this was enough. If his
wife 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 given
him an heir. But he was a just man, and knew that the blank he had
drawn 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 have
been wrong to talk to you about spies; I was wrong to go to Lady
Monk's; I have been wrong in everything that I have done; but never
so 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 you
everything; and I will. I will tell you everything;--everything! I do
love 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 you
not know that it was so? I do love Burgo Fitzgerald, and when I went
to Lady Monk's last night, I had almost made up my mind that I must
tell him so, and that I must go away with him and hide myself. But
when he came to speak to me--"
"He has asked you to go with him, then?" said the husband, in whose
bosom the poison was beginning to take effect, thereby showing that
he was neither above nor below humanity.
Glencora was immediately reminded that though she might, if she
pleased, tell her own secrets, she ought not, in accordance with her
ideas of honour, tell those of her lover. "What need is there of
asking, do you think, when people have loved each other as we have
done?"
"You wanted to go with him, then?"
"Would it not have been the best for you? Plantagenet, I do not love
you;--not as women love their husbands when they do love them. But,
before God, my first wish is to free you from the misfortune that
I have brought on you." As she made this attestation she started up
from her chair, and coming close to him, took him by the coat. He was
startled, and stepped back a pace, but did not speak; and then stood
looking at her as she went on.
[Illustration: "Before God, my first wish is to free you
from the misfortune that I have brought on you."]
"What matters it whether I drown myself, or throw myself away by
going with such a one as him, so that you might marry again, and
have 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 over
her and looked upon her, and now she was looking up into his face
with all her eyes. "I would," she said. "I would--I would! What is
there left for me that I should wish to live?"
Softly, slowly, very gradually, as though he were afraid of what he
was doing, he put his arm round her waist. "You are wrong in one
thing," 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 at
telling you so, it is true, I know. My mind is running on other
things."
"Yes," she said; "your mind is running on other things."
"But I do love you. If you cannot love me, it is a great misfortune
to us both. But we need not therefore be disgraced. As for that other
thing of which you spoke,--of our having, as yet, no child"--and in
saying this he pressed her somewhat closer with his arm--"you allow
yourself to think too much of it;--much more of it than I do. I have
made 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 been
anxious, and have, perhaps, shown my anxiety by the struggle I have
made 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 to
love 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 had
made, she could not bring herself to say that she would even try. Had
she said so, she would have seemed to have accepted his forgiveness
too easily.
"I think, dear," he said, still holding her by her waist, "that we
had better leave England for a while. I will give up politics for
this season. Should you like to go to Switzerland for the summer, or
perhaps to some of the German baths, and then on to Italy when the
weather 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 and
rested it on the back of his.
At that moment there came a knock at the door;--a sharp knock, which
was quickly repeated.
"Come in," said Mr. Palliser, dropping his arm from his wife's waist,
and standing away from her a few yards.