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.
CHAPTER L
How Lady Glencora Came Back from Lady Monk’s Party
Burgo Fitzgerald 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 up-stairs.
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 to-night,” 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 to-night? 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 l
aid 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 bête 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.
“You’ll take another turn,” said he.
“Presently,” said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.
“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said he.
It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth. It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views. The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity. There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back. “Does it put you in mind of ‘old days?’” he said.
The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs Marsham; her own unsettled mind — quite unsettled whether it would be best for her to go or to stay! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke to her.
It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost, — so often that they who say it now, say it simply because others have said it before them, never thinking whether or no there be any truth in the proverb. But they who have said so, thinking of their words as they were uttered, have known but little of women. Women doubt every day, who solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so, some by fear, more by conscience, but most of them by that half-prudential, half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the cirumstances, which rarely deserts either men or women till they have brought themselves to the Burgo Fitzgerald state of recklessness. Men when they have fallen even to that, will still keep up some outward show towards the world; but women in this condition defy the world, and declare themselves to be children of perdition. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.
“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said Burgo.
She was driven to answer, and she knew that much would be decided by the way in which she might now speak. “You must not talk of that,” she said, very softly.
“May I not?” And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly. “May I not? And why not? They were happy days, — so happy! Were not you happy when you thought — ? Ah, dear! I suppose it is best not even to think of them?”
“Much the best.”
“Only it is impossible. I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish.”
In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came from his lips upon her ears as a thing of custom, causing no surprise. They were standing back, behind the circle, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew well how to speak at such moments so that his words should be audible to none but her whom he addressed.
“You should not have come to me at all,” she said.
“And why not? Who has a better right to come to you? Who has ever loved you as I have done? Cora, did you get my letter?”
“Come and dance,” she said; “I see a pair of eyes looking at us.” The pair of eyes which Lady Glencora saw were in the possession of Mr Bott, who was standing alone, leaning against the side of the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners as from a vantage ground. He was quite alone. Mrs Marsham had left him, and had gotten herself away in Lady Glencora’s own carriage to Park Lane, in order that she might find Mr Palliser there, if by chance he should be at home.
“Won’t it be making mischief?” Mrs Marsham had said when Mr Bott had suggested this line of conduct.
“There’ll be worse mischief if you don’t,” Mr Bott had answered. “He can come back, and then he can do as he likes. I’ll keep my eyes upon them.” And so he did keep his eyes upon them.
Again they went round the room, — or that small portion of the room which the invading crowd had left to the dancers, — as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence. But there were others besides Mr Bott who looked on and wondered. The Duchess of St Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing, — for the Duchess was good at heart. Mrs Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite, — as a thirsty man with a longing for wine will drink champagne, — for Mrs
Conway Sparkes was not good at heart. Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows. It was nothing to her. She liked to know what was going on, as such knowledge was sometimes useful; but, as for heart, — what she had was, in such a matter, neither good nor bad. Her blood circulated with its ordinary precision, and, in that respect, no woman ever had a better heart. Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow. “The fool!” she said to herself. She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing down the eyes of all her guests upon his attempt. In the meantime Mr Bott stood there, mounting still higher on his toes, straightening his back against the wall.
“Did you get my letter?” Burgo said again, as soon as a moment’s pause gave him breath to speak. She did not answer him. Perhaps her breath did not return to her as rapidly as his. But, of course, he knew that she had received it. She would have quickly signified to him that no letter from him had come to her hands had it not reached her. “Let us go out upon the stairs,” he said, “for I must speak to you. Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade! Why did you not come?”
“I wish I had not come here,” she said.
“Because you have seen me? That, at any rate, is not kind of you.”
They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room. All the world was now intent on food and drink, and they were only doing as others did. Lady Glencora was not thinking where she went, but, glancing upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, her eyes met those of Mr Bott. “A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him.” That was the thought that crossed her mind at the moment.
“I’ll get you some champagne with water in it,” said Burgo. “I know that is what you like.”
“Do not get me anything,” she said. They had now got into the room, and had therefore escaped Mr Bott’s eyes for the moment. “Mr Fitzgerald,” — and now her words had become a whisper in his ear, — “do what I ask you. For the sake of the old days of which you spoke, the dear old days which can never come again — “
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