Lady Monk's Plan.
On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and
when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired
for him in vain. The old butler and factotum of the house, who was
employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and to see that he was
not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife's
triumphs, was interrogated by his mistress, and said that he thought
Mr. Burgo had left the house. Lady Monk herself knocked at her
nephew's door, when she went up-stairs, ascending an additional
flight of stairs with her weary old limbs in order that she might
do so; she even opened the door and saw the careless debris of his
toilet about the room. But he was gone. "Perhaps, after all, he has
arranged it," she said to herself, as she went down to her own room.
But Burgo, as we know, had not "arranged it." It may be remembered
that when Mr. Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room at
Lady Monk's, bringing with him the scarf which Lady Glencora had left
up-stairs, Burgo was no longer with her. He had become well aware
that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night. The poor
fool, acting upon his aunt's implied advice rather than his own
hopes, had secured a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street,
some five minutes' walk from his aunt's house. And he had purchased
feminine wrappings, cloaks, &c.--things that he thought might be
necessary for his companion. He had, too, ordered rooms at the new
hotel near the Dover Station,--the London Bridge Station,--from
whence was to start on the following morning a train to catch the
tidal boat for Boulogne. There was a dressing-bag there for which he
had paid twenty-five guineas out of his aunt's money, not having been
able to induce the tradesman to grant it to him on credit; and there
were other things,--slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, and
what else might, as he thought, under such circumstances be most
necessary. Poor thoughtful, thoughtless fool!
The butler was right. He did leave the house. He saw Lady Glencora
taken to her carriage from some back hiding-place in the hall, and
then slipped out, unmindful of his shining boots, and dress coat and
jewelled studs. He took a Gibus hat,--his own, or that of some other
unfortunate,--and slowly made his way down to the place in Bruton
Street. There was the carriage and pair of horses, all in readiness;
and the driver, when he had placed himself by the door of the
vehicle, was not long in emerging from the neighbouring public-house.
"All ready, your honour," said the man. "I shan't want you to-night,"
said Burgo, hoarsely;--"go away." "And about the things, your
honour?" "Take them to the devil. No; stop. Take them back with you,
and ask somebody to keep them till I send for them. I shall want them
and another carriage in a day or two." Then he gave the man half a
sovereign, and went away, not looking at the little treasures which
he had spent so much of his money in selecting for his love. When he
was gone, the waterman and the driver turned them over with careful
hands and gloating eyes. "It's a 'eiress, I'll go bail," said the
waterman. "Pretty dear! I suppose her parints was too many for her,"
said the driver. But neither of them imagined the enormity which the
hirer of the chaise had in truth contemplated.
Burgo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor Square, and from
thence down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews
which there are in those parts, into Park Lane. He had now passed
the position of Mr. Palliser's house, having come out on Park Lane
at a spot nearer to Piccadilly; but he retraced his steps, walking
along by the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite to
the house. Then he stood there, leaning back upon the railings, and
looking up at Lady Glencora's windows. What did he expect to see?
Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind which can take joy
in watching the slightest shadow that is made by the one loved
object,--that may be made by her, or, by some violent conjecture of
the mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such love as that is,
I think, always innocent. Burgo Fitzgerald did not love like that. I
almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all. There was
in his breast a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to
analyse. He wanted money. He wanted the thing of which this Palliser
had robbed him. He wanted revenge,--though his desire for that was
not a burning desire. And among other things, he wanted the woman's
beauty of the woman whom he coveted. He wanted to kiss her again as
he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft, and lovely,
and loving for him. But as for seeing her shadow, unless its movement
indicated some purpose in his favour,--I do not think that he cared
much about that.
And why then was he there? Because in his unreasoning folly he did
not know what step to take, or what step not to take. There are men
whose energies hardly ever carry them beyond looking for the thing
they want. She might see him from the window, and come to him. I do
not say that he thought that it would be so. I fancy that he never
thought at all about that or about anything. If you lie under a tree,
and open your mouth, a plum may fall into it. It was probably an
undefined idea of some such chance as this which brought him against
the railings in the front of Mr. Palliser's house; that, and a feeling
made up partly of despair and partly of lingering romance that he
was better there, out in the night air, under the gas-lamps, than
he could be elsewhere. There he stood and looked, and cursed his
ill-luck. But his curses had none of the bitterness of those which
George Vavasor was always uttering. Through it all there remained
about Burgo one honest feeling,--one conviction that was true,--a
feeling that it all served him right, and that he had better,
perhaps, go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble.
If he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate any one; and
whenever he made any self-inquiry into his own circumstances, he
always told himself that it was all his own fault. When he cursed
his fate, he only did so because cursing is so easy. George Vavasor
would have ground his victims up to powder if he knew how; but Burgo
Fitzgerald desired to hurt no one.
There he stood till he was cold, and then, as the plum did not drop
into his mouth, he moved on. He went up into Oxford Street, and
walked along it the whole distance to the corner of Bond Street,
passing by Grosvenor Square, to which he intended to return. At the
corner of Bond Street, a girl took hold of him, and looked up into
his face. "Ah!" she said, "I saw you once before."--"Then you saw the
most miserable devil alive," said Burgo. "You can't be miserable,"
said the girl. "What makes you miserable? You've plenty of
money."--"I wish I had," said Burgo. "And plenty to eat and drink,"
exclaimed the girl; "and you are so handsome! I remember you. You
gave me supper one night when I was starving. I ain't hungry now.
Will you give me a kiss?"--"I'll give you a shilling, and that's
better," said Burgo. "But give me a kiss too," said the girl. He gave
her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and after that he left her
and passed on. "I'm d----d if I wouldn't change with her!" he said
to himself. "I wonder whether anything really ails him?" thought the
girl. "He said he was wretched before. Shouldn't I like to be good to
such a one as him!"
Burgo went on, and made his way into the house in Grosvenor Square,
by some means probably unknown to his aunt, and certainly unknown to
his uncle. He emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted a
roll of notes which he had kept in one of them. There were still a
hundred and thirty pounds left. Lady Glencora had promised that she
would see him again. She had said as much as that quite distinctly.
But what use would there be in that if all his money should then be
gone? He knew that the keeping of money in his pocket was to him
quite an impossibility. Then he thought of his aunt. What should he
say to his aunt if he saw her in the course of the coming day? Might
it not be as well for him to avoid his aunt altogether?
He breakfasted up-stairs in his bedroom,--in the bed, indeed, eating
a small paté de foie gras from the supper-table, as he read a French
novel. There he was still reading his French novel in bed when his
aunt's maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see him
before she went out. "Tell me, Lucy," said he, "how is the old girl?"
"She's as cross as cross, Mr. Burgo. Indeed, I shan't;--not a minute
longer. Don't, now; will you? I tell you she's waiting for me." From
which it may be seen that Lucy shared the general feminine feeling in
favour of poor Burgo.
Thus summoned Burgo applied himself to his toilet; but as he did so,
he recruited his energies from time to time by a few pages of the
French novel, and also by small doses from a bottle of curaçoa which
he had in his bedroom. He was utterly a pauper. There was no pauper
poorer than he in London that day. But, nevertheless, he breakfasted
on paté de foie gras and curaçoa, and regarded those dainties very
much as other men regard bread and cheese and beer.
But though he was dressing at the summons of his aunt, he had by no
means made up his mind that he would go to her. Why should he go to
her? What good would it do him? She would not give him more money.
She would only scold him for his misconduct. She might, perhaps, turn
him out of the house if he did not obey her,--or attempt to do so;
but she would be much more likely to do this when he had made her
angry by contradicting her. In neither case would he leave the house,
even though its further use were positively forbidden him, because
his remaining there was convenient; but as he could gain nothing by
seeing "the old girl," as he had called her, he resolved to escape to
his club without attending to her summons.
But his aunt, who was a better general than he, out-manoeuvred
him. He crept down the back stairs; but as he could not quite
condescend to escape through the area, he was forced to emerge upon
the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him, coming out of the
breakfast-parlour. "Did not Lucy tell you that I wanted to see you?"
Lady Monk asked, with severity in her voice.
Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to
have his hair washed and brushed. He would have been back in twenty
minutes. There was no energy about the poor fellow, unless, perhaps,
when he was hunting; but he possessed a readiness which enabled him
to lie at a moment's notice with the most perfect ease. Lady Monk did
not believe him; but she could not confute him, and therefore she let
the lie pass.
"Never mind your hair now," she said. "I want to speak to you. Come
in here for a few minutes."
As there was no way of escape left to him, he followed his aunt into
the breakfast-parlour.
"Burgo," she said, when she had seated herself, and had made him
sit in a chair opposite to her, "I don't think you will ever do any
good."
"I don't much think I shall, aunt."
"What do you mean, then, to do with yourself?"
"Oh,--I don't know. I haven't thought much about it."
"You can't stay here in this house. Sir Cosmo was speaking to me
about you only yesterday morning."
"I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes
it better;--that is, when the season is a little more through."
"He won't have you at Monkshade. He won't let you go there again. And
he won't have you here. You know that you are turning what I say into
joke."
"No, indeed, aunt,"
"Yes, you are;--you know you are. You are the most ungrateful,
heartless creature I ever met. You must make up your mind to leave
this house at once."
"Where does Sir Cosmo mean that I should go, then?"
"To the workhouse, if you like. He doesn't care."
"I don't suppose he does;--the least in the world," said Burgo,
opening his eyes, and stretching his nostrils, and looking into his
aunt's face as though he had great ground for indignation.
But the turning of Burgo out of the house was not Lady Monk's
immediate purpose. She knew that he would hang on there till the
season was over. After that he must not be allowed to return again,
unless he should have succeeded in a certain enterprise. She had
now caught him in order that she might learn whether there was any
possible remaining chance of success as to that enterprise. So she
received his indignation in silence, and began upon another subject.
"What a fool you made of yourself last night, Burgo!"
"Did I;--more of a fool than usual?"
"I believe that you will never be serious about anything. Why did you
go on waltzing in that way when every pair of eyes in the room was
watching you?"
"I couldn't help going on, if she liked it."
"Oh, yes,--say it was her fault. That's so like a man!"
"Look here, aunt, I'm not going to sit here and be abused. I couldn't
take her in my arms, and fly away with her out of a crowd."
"Who wants you to fly away with her?"
"For the matter of that, I suppose that you do."
"No, I don't."
"Well, then, I do."
"You! you haven't spirit to do that, or anything else. You are like a
child that is just able to amuse itself for the moment, and never can
think of anything further. You simply disgraced yourself last night,
and me too,--and her; but, of course, you care nothing about that."
"I had a plan all ready;--only he came back."
"Of course he came back. Of course he came back, when they sent him
word how you and she were going on. And now he will have forgiven
her, and after that, of course, the thing will be all over."
"I tell you what, aunt; she would go if she knew how. When I was
forced to leave her last night, she promised to see me again. And as
for being idle, and not doing anything;--why, I was out in Park Lane
last night, after you were in bed."
"What good did that do?"
"It didn't do any good, as it happened. But a fellow can only
try. I believe, after all, it would be easier down in the
country,--especially now that he has taken it into his head to look
after her."
Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low
voice, "What did she say to you when you were parting? What were her
exact words?" She, at any rate, was not deficient in energy. She
was anxious enough to see her purpose accomplished. She would have
conducted the matter with discretion, if the running away with Mr.
Palliser's wife could, in very fact, have been done by herself.
"She said she would see me again. She promised it twice."
"And was that all?"
"What could she say more, when she was forced to go away?"
"Had she said that she would go with you?"
"I had asked her,--half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse.
I know she means it, if she knew how to get away. She hates him;--I'm
sure of it. A woman, you know, wouldn't absolutely say that she would
go, till she was gone."
"If she really meant it, she would tell you."
"I don't think she could have told me plainer. She said she would see
me again. She said that twice over."
Again Lady Monk sat silent. She had a plan in her head,--a plan that
might, as she thought, give to her nephew one more chance. But she
hesitated before she could bring herself to explain it in detail.
At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr.
Palliser's wife, but in lending it had said no word upon the subject.
During the last season she had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora
to her house in London, and had taken care that Burgo should meet
her there. Then a hint or two had been spoken, and Lady Glencora
had been asked to Monkshade. Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go
to Monkshade, and Lady Monk had then been baffled. But she did not
therefore give up the game. Having now thought of it so much, she
began to speak of it more boldly, and had procured money for her
nephew that he might thereby be enabled to carry off the woman. But
though this had been well understood between them, though words had
been spoken which were sufficiently explicit, the plan had not been
openly discussed. Lady Monk had known nothing of the mode in which
Lady Glencora was to have been carried off after her party, nor
whither she was to have been taken. But now,--now she must arrange it
herself, and have a scheme of her own, or else the thing must fail
absolutely. Even she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to her
nephew on such a subject. What if he should be false to her, and tell
of her? But when a woman has made such schemes, nothing distresses
her so sadly as their failure. She would risk all rather than that Mr.
Palliser should keep his wife.
"I will try and help you," she said at last, speaking hoarsely,
almost in a whisper, "if you have courage to make an attempt
yourself."
"Courage!" said he "What is it you think I am afraid of? Mr. Palliser?
I'd fight him,--or all the Pallisers, one after another, if it would
do any good."
"Fighting! There's no fighting wanted, as you know well enough. Men
don't fight nowadays. Look here! If you can get her to call here some
day,--say on Thursday, at three o'clock,--I will be here to receive
her; and instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab
for her somewhere near. She can come, as it were, to make a morning
call."
"A cab!"
"Yes; a cab won't kill her, and it is less easily followed than a
carriage."
"And where shall we go?"
"There is a train to Southampton at four, and the boat sails for
Jersey at half-past six; you will be in Jersey the next morning,
and there is a boat goes on to St. Malo, almost at once. You can go
direct from one boat to the other,--that is, if she has strength and
courage." After that, who will say that Lady Monk was not a devoted
aunt?
"That would do excellently well," said the enraptured Burgo.
"She will have difficulty in getting away from me, out of the house.
Of course I shall say nothing about it, and shall know nothing about
it. She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere to pick
some one up, and to return;--out somewhere to Tyburnia, or down to
Pimlico. Then she can leave me, and go out on foot, to where you
have the cab. She can tell the hall-porter that she will walk to her
carriage. Do you understand?" Burgo declared that he did understand.
"You must call on her, and make your way in, and see her, and arrange
all this. It must be a Thursday, because of the boats." Then she
made inquiry about his money, and took from him the notes which he
had, promising to return them, with something added, on the Thursday
morning; but he asked, with a little whine, for a five-pound note,
and got it. Burgo then told her about the travelling-bags and the
stockings, and they were quite pleasant and confidential. "Bid her
come in a stout travelling-dress," said Lady Monk. "She can wear some
lace or something over it, so that the servants won't observe it. I
will take no notice of it." Was there ever such an aunt?
After this, Burgo left his aunt, and went away to his club, in a
state of most happy excitement.