The Palliser Novels (188 page)

She perfectly understood the motive of Lady Glencora’s visit, and thought that she would at any rate gain something in the very triumph of baffling the manœuvres of so clever a woman. Let Lady Glencora throw her ægis before the Duke, and it would be something to carry off his Grace from beneath the protection of so thick a shield. The very flavour of the contest was pleasing to Madame Goesler. But, the victory gained, what then would remain to her? Money she had already; position, too, she had of her own. She was free as air, and should it suit her at any time to go off to some lake of Como in society that would personally be more agreeable to her than that of the Duke of Omnium, there was nothing to hinder her for a moment. And then came a smile over her face, — but the saddest smile, — as she thought of one with whom it might be pleasant to look at the colour of Italian skies and feel the softness of Italian breezes. In feigning to like to do this with an old man, in acting the raptures of love on behalf of a worn-out duke who at the best would scarce believe in her acting, there would not be much delight for her. She had never yet known what it was to have anything of the pleasure of love. She had grown, as she often told herself, to be a hard, cautious, selfish, successful woman, without any interference or assistance from such pleasure. Might there not be yet time left for her to try it without selfishness, — with an absolute devotion of self, — if only she could find the right companion? There was one who might be such a companion, but the Duke of Omnium certainly could not be such a one.

But to be Duchess of Omnium! After all, success in this world is everything; — is at any rate the only thing the pleasure of which will endure. There was the name of many a woman written in a black list within Madame Goesler’s breast, — written there because of scorn, because of rejected overtures, because of deep social injury; and Madame Goesler told herself often that it would be a pleasure to her to use the list, and to be revenged on those who had ill-used and scornfully treated her. She did not readily forgive those who had injured her. As Duchess of Omnium she thought that probably she might use that list with efficacy. Lady Glencora had treated her well, and she had no such feeling against Lady Glencora. As Duchess of Omnium she would accept Lady Glencora as her dearest friend, if Lady Glencora would admit it. But if it should be necessary that there should be a little duel between them, as to which of them should take the Duke in hand, the duel must of course be fought. In a matter so important, one woman would of course expect no false sentiment from another. She and Lady Glencora would understand each other; — and no doubt, respect each other.

I have said that she would sit there resolving, or trying to resolve. There is nothing in the world so difficult as that task of making up one’s mind. Who is there that has not longed that the power and privilege of selection among alternatives should be taken away from him in some important crisis of his life, and that his conduct should be arranged for him, either this way or that, by some divine power if it were possible, — by some patriarchal power in the absence of divinity, — or by chance even, if nothing better than chance could be found to do it? But no one dares to cast the die, and to go honestly by the hazard. There must be the actual necessity of obeying the die, before even the die can be of any use. As it was, when Madame Goesler had sat there for an hour, till her legs were tired beneath her, she had not resolved. It must be as her impulse should direct her when the important moment came. There was not a soul on earth to whom she could go for counsel, and when she asked herself for counsel, the counsel would not come.

Two days afterwards the Duke called again. He would come generally on a Thursday, — early, so that he might be there before other visitors; and he had already quite learned that when he was there other visitors would probably be refused admittance. How Lady Glencora had made her way in, telling the servant that her uncle was there, he had not understood. That visit had been made on the Thursday, but now he came on the Saturday, — having, I regret to say, sent down some early fruit from his own hot-houses, — or from Covent Garden, — with a little note on the previous day. The grapes might have been pretty well, but the note was injudicious. There were three lines about the grapes, as to which there was some special history, the vine having been brought from the garden of some villa in which some ill-used queen had lived and died; and then there was a postscript in one line to say that the Duke would call on the following morning. I do not think that he had meant to add this when he began his note; but then children, who want the top brick, want it so badly, and cry for it so perversely!

Of course Madame Goesler was at home. But even then she had not made up her mind. She had made up her mind only to this, — that he should be made to speak plainly, and that she would take time for her reply. Not even with such a gem as the Duke’s coronet before her eyes, would she jump at it. Where there was so much doubt, there need at least be no impatience.

“You ran away the other day, Duke, because you could not resist the charm of that little boy,” she said, laughing.

“He is a dear little boy, — but it was not that,” he answered.

“Then what was it? Your niece carried you off in a whirl-wind. She was come and gone, taking you with her, in half a minute.”

“She had disturbed me when I was thinking of something,” said the Duke.

“Things shouldn’t be thought of, — not so deeply as that.” Madame Goesler was playing with a bunch of his grapes now, eating one or two from a small china plate which had stood upon the table, and he thought that he had never seen a woman so graceful and yet so natural. “Will you not eat your own grapes with me? They are delicious; — flavoured with the poor queen’s sorrows.” He shook his head, knowing that it did not suit his gastric juices to have to deal with fruit eaten at odd times. “Never think, Duke. I am convinced that it does no good. It simply means doubting, and doubt always leads to error. The safest way in the world is to do nothing.”

“I believe so,” said the Duke.

“Much the safest. But if you have not sufficient command over yourself to enable you to sit in repose, always quiet, never committing yourself to the chance of any danger, — then take a leap in the dark; or rather many leaps. A stumbling horse regains his footing by persevering in his onward course. As for moving cautiously, that I detest.”

“And yet one must think; — for instance, whether one will succeed or not.”

“Take that for granted always. Remember, I do not recommend motion at all. Repose is my idea of life; — repose and grapes.”

The Duke sat for a while silent, taking his repose as far as the outer man was concerned, looking at his top brick of the chimney, as from time to time she ate one of his grapes. Probably she did not eat above half-a-dozen of them altogether, but he thought that the grapes must have been made for the woman, she was so pretty in the eating of them. But it was necessary that he should speak at last. “Have you been thinking of coming to Como?” he said.

“I told you that I never think.”

“But I want an answer to my proposition.”

“I thought I had answered your Grace on that question.” Then she put down the grapes, and moved herself on her chair, so that she sat with her face turned away from him.

“But a request to a lady may be made twice.”

“Oh, yes. And I am grateful, knowing how far it is from your intention to do me any harm. And I am somewhat ashamed of my warmth on the other day. But still there can be but one answer. There are delights which a woman must deny herself, let them be ever so delightful.”

“I had thought, — ” the Duke began, and then he stopped himself.

“Your Grace was saying that you thought, — “

“Marie, a man at my age does not like to be denied.”

“What man likes to be denied anything by a woman at any age? A woman who denies anything is called cruel at once, — even though it be her very soul.” She had turned round upon him now, and was leaning forward towards him from her chair, so that he could touch her if he put out his hand.

He put out his hand and touched her. “Marie,” he said, “will you deny me if I ask?”

“Nay, my lord; how shall I say? There is many a trifle I would deny you. There is many a great gift I would give you willingly.”

“But the greatest gift of all?”

“My lord, if you have anything to say, you must say it plainly. There never was a woman worse than I am at the reading of riddles.”

“Could you endure to live in the quietude of an Italian lake with an old man?” Now he touched her again, and had taken her hand.

“No, my lord; — nor with a young one, — for all my days. But I do not know that age would guide me.”

Then the Duke rose and made his proposition in form. “Marie, you know that I love you. Why it is that I at my age should feel so sore a love, I cannot say.”

“So sore a love!”

“So sore, if it be not gratified. Marie, I ask you to be my wife.”

“Duke of Omnium, this from you!”

“Yes, from me. My coronet is at your feet. If you will allow me to raise it, I will place it on your brow.”

Then she went away from him, and seated herself at a distance. After a moment or two he followed her, and stood with his arm upon her shoulder. “You will give me an answer, Marie?”

“You cannot have thought of this, my lord.”

“Nay; I have thought of it much.”

“And your friends?”

“My dear, I may venture to please myself in this, — as in everything. Will you not answer me?”

“Certainly not on the spur of the moment, my lord. Think how high is the position you offer me, and how immense is the change you propose to me. Allow me two days, and I will answer you by letter. I am so fluttered now that I must leave you.” Then he came to her, took her hand, kissed her brow, and opened the door for her.

It happened that there were at this time certain matters of business to be settled between the Duke of Omnium and his nephew Mr. Palliser, respecting which the latter called upon his uncle on the morning after the Duke had committed himself by his offer. Mr. Palliser had come by appointment made with Mr. Fothergill, the Duke’s man of business, and had expected to meet Mr. Fothergill. Mr. Fothergill, however, was not with the Duke, and the uncle told the nephew that the business had been postponed. Then Mr. Palliser asked some question as to the reason of such postponement, not meaning much by his question, — and the Duke, after a moment’s hesitation, answered him, meaning very much by his answer. “The truth is, Plantagenet, that it is possible that I may marry, and if so this arrangement would not suit me.”

“Are you going to be married?” asked the astonished nephew.

“It is not exactly that, — but it is possible that I may do so. Since I proposed this matter to Fothergill, I have been thinking over it, and I have changed my mind. It will make but little difference to you; and after all you are a far richer man than I am.”

“I am not thinking of money, Duke,” said Plantagenet Palliser.

“Of what then were you thinking?”

“Simply of what you told me. I do not in the least mean to interfere.”

“I hope not, Plantagenet.”

“But I could not hear such a statement from you without some surprise. Whatever you do I hope will tend to make you happy.”

So much passed between the uncle and the nephew, and what the uncle told to the nephew, the nephew of course told to his wife. “He was with her again, yesterday,” said Lady Glencora, “for more than an hour. And he had been half the morning dressing himself before he went to her.”

“He is not engaged to her, or he would have told me,” said Plantagenet Palliser.

“I think he would, but there is no knowing. At the present moment I have only one doubt, — whether to act upon him or upon her.”

“I do not see that you can do good by going to either.”

“Well, we will see. If she be the woman I take her to be, I think I could do something with her. I have never supposed her to be a bad woman, — never. I will think of it.” Then Lady Glencora left her husband, and did not consult him afterwards as to the course she would pursue. He had his budget to manage, and his speeches to make. The little affair of the Duke and Madame Goesler, she thought it best to take into her own hands without any assistance from him. “What a fool I was,” she said to herself, “to have her down there when the Duke was at Matching!”

Madame Goesler, when she was left alone, felt that now indeed she must make up her mind. She had asked for two days. The intervening day was a Sunday, and on the Monday she must send her answer. She might doubt at any rate for this one night, — the Saturday night, — and sit playing, as it were, with the coronet of a duchess in her lap. She had been born the daughter of a small country attorney, and now a duke had asked her to be his wife, — and a duke who was acknowledged to stand above other dukes! Nothing at any rate could rob her of that satisfaction. Whatever resolution she might form at last, she had by her own resources reached a point of success in remembering which there would always be a keen gratification. It would be much to be Duchess of Omnium; but it would be something also to have refused to be a Duchess of Omnium. During that evening, that night, and the next morning, she remained playing with the coronet in her lap. She would not go to church. What good could any sermon do her while that bauble was dangling before her eyes? After church-time, about two o’clock, Phineas Finn came to her. Just at this period Phineas would come to her often; — sometimes full of a new decision to forget Violet Effingham altogether, at others minded to continue his siege let the hope of success be ever so small. He had now heard that Violet and Lord Chiltern had in truth quarrelled, and was of course anxious to be advised to continue the siege. When he first came in and spoke a word or two, in which there was no reference to Violet Effingham, there came upon Madame Goesler a strong wish to decide at once that she would play no longer with the coronet, that the gem was not worth the cost she would be called upon to pay for it. There was something in the world better for her than the coronet, — if only it might be had. But within ten minutes he had told her the whole tale about Lord Chiltern, and how he had seen Violet at Lady Baldock’s, — and how there might yet be hope for him. What would she advise him to do? “Go home, Mr. Finn,” she said, “and write a sonnet to her eyebrow. See if that will have any effect.”