The Palliser Novels (187 page)

He at once wrote a note to Lord Chiltern, which he addressed to Portman Square. “As you are in town, can we not meet? Come and dine with me at the –––– Club on Saturday.” That was the note. After a few days he received the following answer, dated from the Bull at Willingford. Why on earth should Chiltern be staying at the Bull at Willingford in May?
 

The old Shop at W––––, Friday
.

Dear Phineas
,

I can’t dine with you, because I am down here, looking after the cripples, and writing a sporting novel. They tell me I ought to do something, so I am going to do that. I hope you don’t think I turned informer against you in telling the Earl of our pleasant little meeting on the sands. It had become necessary, and you are too much of a man to care much for any truth being told. He was terribly angry both with me and with you; but the fact is, he is so blindly unreasonable that one cannot regard his anger. I endeavoured to tell the story truly, and, so told, it certainly should not have injured you in his estimation. But it did. Very sorry, old fellow, and I hope you’ll get over it. It is a good deal more important to me than to you.

Yours,

C.
 

There was not a word about Violet. But then it was hardly to be expected that there should be words about Violet. It was not likely that a man should write to his rival of his own failure. But yet there was a flavour of Violet in the letter which would not have been there, so Phineas thought, if the writer had been despondent. The pleasant little meeting on the sands had been convened altogether in respect of Violet. And the telling of the story to the Earl must have arisen from discussions about Violet. Lord Chiltern must have told his father that Phineas was his rival. Could the rejected suitor have written on such a subject in such a strain to such a correspondent if he had believed his own rejection to be certain? But then Lord Chiltern was not like anybody else in the world, and it was impossible to judge of him by one’s experience of the motives of others.

Shortly afterwards Phineas did call in Berkeley Square, and was shown up at once into Lady Baldock’s drawing-room. The whole aspect of the porter’s countenance was changed towards him, and from this, too, he gathered good auguries This had surprised him; but his surprise was far greater, when, on entering the room, he found Violet Effingham there alone. A little fresh colour came to her face as she greeted him, though it cannot be said that she blushed. She behaved herself admirably, not endeavouring to conceal some little emotion at thus meeting him, but betraying none that was injurious to her composure. “I am so glad to see you, Mr. Finn,” she said. “My aunt has just left me, and will be back directly.”

He was by no means her equal in his management of himself on the occasion; but perhaps it may be acknowledged that his position was the more difficult of the two. He had not seen her since her engagement had been proclaimed to the world, and now he had heard from a source which was not to be doubted, that it had been broken off. Of course there was nothing to be said on that matter. He could not have congratulated her in the one case, nor could he either congratulate her or condole with her on the other. And yet he did not know how to speak to her as though no such events had occurred. “I did not know that you were in town,” he said.

“I only came yesterday. I have been, you know, at Rome with the Effinghams; and since that I have been — ; but, indeed, I have been such a vagrant that I cannot tell you of all my comings and goings. And you, — you are hard at work!”

“Oh yes; — always.”

“That is right. I wish I could be something, if it were only a stick in waiting, or a door-keeper. It is so good to be something.” Was it some such teaching as this that had jarred against Lord Chiltern’s susceptibilities, and had seemed to him to be a repetition of his father’s sermons?

“A man should try to be something,” said Phineas.

“And a woman must be content to be nothing, — unless Mr. Mill can pull us through! And now, tell me, — have you seen Lady Laura?”

“Not lately.”

“Nor Mr. Kennedy?”

“I sometimes see him in the House.” The visit to the Colonial Office of which the reader has been made aware had not at that time as yet been made.

“I am sorry for all that,” she said. Upon which Phineas smiled and shook his head. “I am very sorry that there should be a quarrel between you two.”

“There is no quarrel.”

“I used to think that you and he might do so much for each other, — that is, of course, if you could make a friend of him.”

“He is a man of whom it is very hard to make a friend,” said Phineas, feeling that he was dishonest to Mr. Kennedy in saying so, but thinking that such dishonesty was justified by what he owed to Lady Laura.

“Yes; — he is hard, and what I call ungenial. We won’t say anything about him, — will we? Have you seen much of the Earl?” This she asked as though such a question had no reference whatever to Lord Chiltern.

“Oh dear, — alas, alas!”

“You have not quarrelled with him too?”

“He has quarrelled with me. He has heard, Miss Effingham, of what happened last year, and he thinks that I was wrong.”

“Of course you were wrong, Mr. Finn.”

“Very likely. To him I chose to defend myself, but I certainly shall not do so to you. At any rate, you did not think it necessary to quarrel with me.”

“I ought to have done so. I wonder why my aunt does not come.” Then she rang the bell.

“Now I have told you all about myself,” said he; “you should tell me something of yourself.”

“About me? I am like the knife-grinder, who had no story to tell, — none at least to be told. We have all, no doubt, got our little stories, interesting enough to ourselves.”

“But your story, Miss Effingham,” he said, “is of such intense interest to me.” At that moment, luckily, Lady Baldock came into the room, and Phineas was saved from the necessity of making a declaration at a moment which would have been most inopportune.

Lady Baldock was exceedingly gracious to him, bidding Violet use her influence to persuade him to come to the gathering. “Persuade him to desert his work to come and hear some fiddlers!” said Miss Effingham. “Indeed I shall not, aunt. Who can tell but what the colonies might suffer from it through centuries, and that such a lapse of duty might drive a province or two into the arms of our mortal enemies?”

“Herr Moll is coming,” said Lady Baldock, “and so is Signor Scrubi, and Pjinskt, who, they say, is the greatest man living on the flageolet. Have you ever heard Pjinskt, Mr. Finn?” Phineas never had heard Pjinskt. “And as for Herr Moll, there is nothing equal to him, this year, at least.” Lady Baldock had taken up music this season, but all her enthusiasm was unable to shake the conscientious zeal of the young Under-Secretary of State. At such a gathering he would have been unable to say a word in private to Violet Effingham.

It may be remembered that when Lady Glencora Palliser was shown into Madame Goesler’s room, Madame Goesler had just explained somewhat forcibly to the Duke of Omnium her reasons for refusing the loan of his Grace’s villa at Como. She had told the Duke in so many words that she did not mean to give the world an opportunity of maligning her, and it would then have been left to the Duke to decide whether any other arrangements might have been made for taking Madame Goesler to Como, had he not been interrupted. That he was very anxious to take her was certain. The green brougham had already been often enough at the door in Park Lane to make his Grace feel that Madame Goesler’s company was very desirable, — was, perhaps, of all things left for his enjoyment, the one thing the most desirable. Lady Glencora had spoken to her husband of children crying for the top brick of the chimney. Now it had come to this, that in the eyes of the Duke of Omnium Marie Max Goesler was the top brick of the chimney. She had more wit for him than other women, — more of that sort of wit which he was capable of enjoying. She had a beauty which he had learned to think more alluring than other beauty. He was sick of fair faces, and fat arms, and free necks. Madame Goesler’s eyes sparkled as other eyes did not sparkle, and there was something of the vagueness of mystery in the very blackness and gloss and abundance of her hair, — as though her beauty was the beauty of some world which he had not yet known. And there was a quickness and yet a grace of motion about her which was quite new to him. The ladies upon whom the Duke had of late most often smiled had been somewhat slow, — perhaps almost heavy, — though, no doubt, graceful withal. In his early youth he remembered to have seen, somewhere in Greece, such a houri as was this Madame Goesler. The houri in that case had run off with the captain of a Russian vessel engaged in the tallow trade; but not the less was there left on his Grace’s mind some dreamy memory of charms which had impressed him very strongly when he was simply a young Mr. Palliser, and had had at his command not so convenient a mode of sudden abduction as the Russian captain’s tallow ship. Pressed hard by such circumstances as these, there is no knowing how the Duke might have got out of his difficulties had not Lady Glencora appeared upon the scene.

Since the future little Lord Silverbridge had been born, the Duke had been very constant in his worship of Lady Glencora, and as, from year to year, a little brother was added, thus making the family very strong and stable, his acts of worship had increased; but with his worship there had come of late something almost of dread, — something almost of obedience, which had made those who were immediately about the Duke declare that his Grace was a good deal changed. For, hitherto, whatever may have been the Duke’s weaknesses, he certainly had known no master. His heir, Plantagenet Palliser, had been always subject to him. His other relations had been kept at such a distance as hardly to be more than recognised; and though his Grace no doubt had had his intimacies, they who had been intimate with him had either never tried to obtain ascendancy, or had failed. Lady Glencora, whether with or without a struggle, had succeeded, and people about the Duke said that the Duke was much changed. Mr. Fothergill, — who was his Grace’s man of business, and who was not a favourite with Lady Glencora, — said that he was very much changed indeed. Finding his Grace so much changed, Mr. Fothergill had made a little attempt at dictation himself, but had receded with fingers very much scorched in the attempt. It was indeed possible that the Duke was becoming in the slightest degree weary of Lady Glencora’s thraldom, and that he thought that Madame Max Goesler might be more tender with him. Madame Max Goesler, however, intended to be tender only on one condition.

When Lady Glencora entered the room, Madame Goesler received her beautifully. “How lucky that you should have come just when his Grace is here!” she said.

“I saw my uncle’s carriage, and of course I knew it,” said Lady Glencora.

“Then the favour is to him,” said Madame Goesler, smiling.

“No, indeed; I was coming. If my word is to be doubted in that point, I must insist on having the servant up; I must, certainly. I told him to drive to this door, as far back as Grosvenor Street. Did I not, Planty?” Planty was the little Lord Silverbridge as was to be, if nothing unfortunate intervened, who was now sitting on his granduncle’s knee.

“Dou said to the little house in Park Lane,” said the boy.

“Yes, — because I forgot the number.”

“And it is the smallest house in Park Lane, so the evidence is complete,” said Madame Goesler. Lady Glencora had not cared much for evidence to convince Madame Goesler, but she had not wished her uncle to think that he was watched and hunted down. It might be necessary that he should know that he was watched, but things had not come to that as yet.

“How is Plantagenet?” asked the Duke.

“Answer for papa,” said Lady Glencora to her child.

“Papa is very well, but he almost never comes home.”

“He is working for his country,” said the Duke. “Your papa is a busy, useful man, and can’t afford time to play with a little boy as I can.”

“But papa is not a duke.”

“He will be some day, and that probably before long, my boy. He will be a duke quite as soon as he wants to be a duke. He likes the House of Commons better than the strawberry leaves, I fancy. There is not a man in England less in a hurry than he is.”

“No, indeed,” said Lady Glencora.

“How nice that is,” said Madame Goesler.

“And I ain’t in a hurry either, — am I, mamma?” said the little future Lord Silverbridge.

“You are a wicked little monkey,” said his grand-uncle, kissing him. At this moment Lady Glencora was, no doubt, thinking how necessary it was that she should be careful to see that things did turn out in the manner proposed, — so that people who had waited should not be disappointed; and the Duke was perhaps thinking that he was not absolutely bound to his nephew by any law of God or man; and Madame Max Goesler, — I wonder whether her thoughts were injurious to the prospects of that handsome bold-faced little boy.

Lady Glencora rose to take her leave first. It was not for her to show any anxiety to force the Duke out of the lady’s presence. If the Duke were resolved to make a fool of himself, nothing that she could do would prevent it. But she thought that this little inspection might possibly be of service, and that her uncle’s ardour would be cooled by the interruption to which he had been subjected. So she went, and immediately afterwards the Duke followed her. The interruption had, at any rate, saved him on that occasion from making the highest bid for the pleasure of Madame Goesler’s company at Como. The Duke went down with the little boy in his hand, so that there was not an opportunity for a single word of interest between the gentleman and the lady.

Madame Goesler, when she was alone, seated herself on her sofa, tucking her feet up under her as though she were seated somewhere in the East, pushed her ringlets back roughly from her face, and then placed her two hands to her sides so that her thumbs rested lightly on her girdle. When alone with something weighty on her mind she would sit in this form for the hour together, resolving, or trying to resolve, what should be her conduct. She did few things without much thinking, and though she walked very boldly, she walked warily. She often told herself that such success as she had achieved could not have been achieved without much caution. And yet she was ever discontented with herself, telling herself that all that she had done was nothing, or worse than nothing. What was it all, to have a duke and to have lords dining with her, to dine with lords or with a duke itself, if life were dull with her, and the hours hung heavy! Life with her was dull, and the hours did hang heavy. And what if she caught this old man, and became herself a duchess, — caught him by means of his weakness, to the inexpressible dismay of all those who were bound to him by ties of blood, — would that make her life happier, or her hours less tedious? That prospect of a life on the Italian lakes with an old man tied to her side was not so charming in her eyes as it was in those of the Duke. Were she to succeed, and to be blazoned forth to the world as Duchess of Omnium, what would she have gained?