The Palliser Novels (108 page)

“I know you have been disappointed, Mr Fitzgerald.”

“Disappointed! By G––––! yes. Did you ever know any man who had so much right to be disappointed as I have? I did love her, Mr Palliser. Nay, by heavens! I do love her. Out here I will dare to say as much even to you. I shall never try to see her again. All that is over, of course. I’ve been a fool about her as I have been about everything. But I did love her.”

“I believe it, Mr Fitzgerald.”

“It was not altogether her money. But think what it would have been to me, Mr Palliser. Think what a chance I had, and what a chance I lost. I should have been at the top of everything, — as now I am at the bottom. I should not have spent that. There would have been enough of it to have saved me. And then I might have done something good instead of crawling about almost in fear of that beast who is watching us.”

“It has been ordered otherwise,” said Mr Palliser, not knowing what to say.

“Yes; it has been ordered, with a vengeance! It seems to have been ordered that I’m to go to the devil; but I don’t know who gave the orders, and I don’t know why.”

Mr Palliser had not time to explain to his friend that the orders had been given, in a very peremptory way, by himself, as he was anxious to bring back the conversation to his own point. He wished to give some serviceable, and, if possible, permanent aid to the poor ne’er-do-well; but he did not wish to talk more than could be helped about his own wife.

“There is an old saying, which you will remember well,” said he, “that the way to good manners is never too late.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Burgo. “It’s too late when the man feels the knot round his neck at the Old Bailey.”

“Perhaps not, even then. Indeed, we may say, certainly not, if the man be still able to take the right way. But I don’t want to preach to you.”

“It wouldn’t do any good, you know.”

“But I do want to be of service to you. There is something of truth in what you say. You have been disappointed; and I, perhaps, of all men am the most bound to come to your assistance now that you are in need.”

“How can I take it from you?” said Burgo, almost crying.

“You shall take it from her!”

“No; — that would be worse; twenty times worse. What! take her money, when she would not give me herself!”

“I do not see why you should not borrow her money, — or mine. You shall call it which you will.”

“No; I won’t have it.”

“And what will you do then?”

“What will I do? Ah! That’s the question. I don’t know what I will do. I have the key of my bedroom in my pocket, and I will go to bed to-night. It’s not very often that I look forward much beyond that.”

“Will you let me call on you, to-morrow?”

“I don’t see what good it will do? I shan’t get up till late, for fear they should shut the room against me. I might as well have as much out of them as I can. I think I shall say I’m ill, and keep my bed.”

“Will you take a few napoleons?”

“No; not a rap. Not from you. You are the first man from whom I ever refused to borrow money, and I should say that you’ll be about the last to offer to lend it me.”

“I don’t know what else I can offer?” said Mr Palliser.

“You can offer nothing. If you will say to your wife from me that I bade her adieu; — that is all you can do for me. Good night, Mr Palliser; good night.”

Mr Palliser left him and went his way, feeling that he had no further eloquence at his command. He shook Burgo’s hand, and then walked quickly down the hill. As he did so he passed, or would have passed the man who had been dodging them.

“Misther, Misther!” said the man in a whisper.

“What do you want of me?” asked Mr Palliser, in French.

Then the man spoke in French, also. “Has he got any money? Have you given him any money?”

“I have not given him any money,” said Mr Palliser, not quite knowing what he had better do or say under such circumstances.

“Then he will have a bad time with it,” said the man. “And he might have carried away two thousand francs just now! Dear, dear, dear! Has he got any friends, sir?”

“Yes, he has friends. I do not know that I can assist him, or you.”

“Fitzgerald; — his name is Fitzgerald?”

“Yes,” said Mr Palliser; “his name is Fitzgerald.”

“Ah! There are so many Fitzgeralds in England. Mr Fitzgerald, London; — he has no other address?”

“If he had, and I knew it, I should not give it you without his sanction.”

“But what shall we do? How shall we act? Perhaps with his own hand he will himself kill. For five weeks his pension he owes; yes, for five weeks. And for wine, oh so much! There came through Baden a my lord, and then, I think he got money. But he went and played. That was of course. But; oh my G––––! he might have carried away this night two thousand francs; yes, two thousand francs!”

“Are you the hotelkeeper?”

“His friend, sir; only his friend. That is, I am the head Commissionaire. I look after the gentlemen who sometimes are not all — not all — ” exactly what they should be, the commissioner intended to explain; and Mr Palliser understood him although the words were not quite spoken. The interview was ended by Mr Palliser taking the name of the hotel, and promising to call before Mr Fitzgerald should be up in the morning — a purposed visit, which we need not regard as requiring any very early energy on Mr Palliser’s part, when we remember Burgo’s own programme for the following day.

Lady Glencora received her husband that night with infinite anxiety, and was by no means satisfied with what had been done. He described to her as accurately as he could the nature of his interview with Burgo, and he described to her also his other interview with the head commissioner.

“He will; he will,” said Lady Glencora; when she heard from her husband the man’s surmise that perhaps he might destroy himself. “He will; he will; and if he does, how can you expect that I shall bear it?” Mr Palliser tried to soothe her by telling her of his promised visit to the landlord; and Lady Glencora, accepting this as something, strove to instigate her husband to some lavish expenditure on Burgo’s behalf. “There can be no reason why he should not take it,” said Glencora. “None the least. Had it not been promised to him? Had he not a right to it?” The subject was one which Mr Palliser found it very hard to discuss. He could not tell his wife that Fitzgerald ought to accept his bounty; but he assured her that his money should be forthcoming, almost to any extent, if it could be made available.

On the following morning he went down to the hotel, and saw the real landlord. He found him to be a reasonable, tranquil, and very good-natured man, — who was possessed by a not irrational desire that his customers’ bills should be paid; but who seemed to be much less eager on the subject than are English landlords in general. His chief anxiety seemed to arise from the great difficulty of doing anything with the gentleman who was now lying in his bed up-stairs. “Has he had any breakfast?” Mr Palliser asked.

“Breakfast! Oh yes;” and the landlord laughed. He had been very particular in the orders he had given. He had desired his cutlets to be dressed in a particular way, — with a great deal of cayenne pepper, and they had been so dressed. He had ordered a bottle of Sauterne; but the landlord had thought, or the head-waiter acting for him had thought, that a bottle of ordinary wine of the country would do as well. The bottle of ordinary wine of the country had just that moment been sent up-stairs.

Then Mr Palliser sat down in the landlord’s little room, and had Burgo Fitzgerald’s bill brought to him. “I think I might venture to pay it,” said Mr Palliser.

“That was as monsieur pleased,” said the landlord, with something like a sparkle in his eye.

What was Mr Palliser to do? He did not know whether, in accordance with the rules of the world in which he lived, he ought to pay it, or ought to leave it; and certainly the landlord could not tell him. Then he thought of his wife. He could not go back to his wife without having done something; so, as a first measure, he paid the bill. The landlord’s eyes glittered, and he receipted it in the most becoming manner.

“Should he now send up the bottle of Sauterne?” — but to this Mr Palliser demurred.

“And to whom should the receipted bill be given?” Mr Palliser thought that the landlord had better keep it himself for a while.

“Perhaps there is some little difficulty?” suggested the landlord.

Mr Palliser acknowledged that there was a little difficulty. He knew that he must do something more. He could not simply pay the bill and go away. That would not satisfy his wife. He knew that he must do something more; but how was he to do it? So at last he let the landlord into his confidence. He did not tell the whole of Burgo’s past history. He did not tell that little episode in Burgo’s life which referred to Lady Glencora. But he did make the landlord understand that he was willing to administer money to Mr Fitzgerald, if only it could only be administered judiciously.

“You can’t keep him out of the gambling salon, you know, sir; that is, not if he has a franc in his pocket.” As to that the landlord was very confident.

It was at last arranged, that the landlord was to tell Burgo that his bill did not signify at present, and that the use of the hotel was to be at Burgo’s command for the next three months. At the end of that time he was to have notice to quit. No money was to be advanced to him; — but the landlord, even in this respect, had a discretion.

“When I get home, I will see what can be done with his relations there,” said Mr Palliser. Then he went home and told his wife.

“But he’ll have no clothes,” said Lady Glencora.

Mr Palliser said that the judicious landlord would manage that also; and in that way Lady Glencora was appeased, — appeased, till something final could be done for the young man, on Mr Palliser’s return home.

Poor Burgo! He must now be made to end his career as far as these pages are concerned. He soon found that something had been done for him at the hotel, and no doubt he must have made some guess near the truth. The discreet landlord told him nothing, — would tell him nothing; but that his bill did not signify as yet. Burgo, thinking about it, resolved to write about it in an indignant strain to Mr Palliser; but the letter did not get itself written. When in England, Mr Palliser saw Sir Cosmo Monk, and with many apologies, told him what he had done.

“I regret it,” said Sir Cosmo, in anger. “I regret it; not for the money’s sake, but I regret it.” The amount expended, was however repaid to Mr Palliser, and an arrangement was made for remitting a weekly sum of fifteen pounds to Burgo, through a member of the diplomatic corps, as long as he should remain at a certain small German town which was indicated, and in which there was no public gambling-table. Lady Glencora expressed herself satisfied for the present; but I must doubt whether poor Burgo lived long in comfort on the allowance made to him.

Here we must say farewell to Burgo Fitzgerald.

Mr Palliser did not remain long in Baden after the payment of Burgo’s bill. Perhaps I shall not throw any undeserved discredit on his courage if I say that he was afraid to do so. What would he have said, — what would he have been able to say, if that young man had come to him demanding an explanation? So he hurried away to Strasbourg the same day, much to his wife’s satisfaction.

The journey home from thence was not marked by any incidents. Gradually Mr Palliser became a little more lenient to his wife and slightly less oppressive in his caution. If he still inquired about the springs of the carriages, he did so in silence, and he ceased to enjoin the necessity of a day’s rest after each day’s journey. By the time that they reached Dover he had become so used to his wife’s condition that he made but little fluttering as she walked out of the boat by that narrow gangway which is so contrived as to make an arrival there a serious inconvenience to a lady, and a nuisance even to a man. He was somewhat staggered when a big man, in the middle of the night, insisted on opening the little basket which his wife carried, and was uncomfortable when obliged to stop her on the plank while he gave up the tickets which he thought had been already surrendered; but he was becoming used to his position, and bore himself like a man.

During their journey home Mr Palliser had by no means kept his seat opposite to Lady Glencora with constancy. He had soon found that it was easier to talk to Mr Grey than to his wife, and, consequently, the two ladies had been much together, as had also the two gentlemen. What the ladies discussed may be imagined. One was about to become a wife and the other a mother, and that was to be their fate after each had made up her mind that no such lot was to be hers. It may, however, be presumed that for every one word that Alice spoke Lady Glencora spoke ten. The two men, throughout these days of close intimacy, were intent upon politics. Mr Palliser, who may be regarded as the fox who had lost his tail, — the tail being, in this instance, the comfort of domestic privacy, — was eager in recommending his new friend to cut off his tail also. “Your argument would be very well,” said he, “if men were to be contented to live for themselves only.”

“Your argument would be very well,” said the other, “if it were used to a man who felt that he could do good to others by going into public life. But it is wholly inefficacious if it recommends public life simply or chiefly because a man may gratify his own ambition by public services.”

“Of course there is personal gratification, and of course there is good done,” said Mr Palliser.

“Is, — or should be,” said Mr Grey.

“Exactly; and the two things must go together. The chief gratification comes from the feeling that you are of use.”

“But if you feel that you would not be of use?”

We need not follow the argument any further. We all know its nature, and what between two such men would be said on both sides. We all know that neither of them would put the matter altogether in a true light. Men never can do so in words, let the light within themselves be ever so clear. I do not think that any man yet ever had such a gift of words as to make them a perfect exponent of all the wisdom within him. But the effect was partly that which the weaker man of the two desired, — the weaker in the gifts of nature, though art had in some respects made him stronger. Mr Grey was shaken in his quiescent philosophy, and startled Alice, — startled her as much as he delighted her, — by a word or two he said as he walked with her in the courts of the Louvre. “It’s all hollow here,” he said, speaking of French politics.