The Palliser Novels (355 page)

At the kennels he found Lord Chiltern surrounded by the denizens of the hunt. His huntsman, with the kennelman and feeder, and two whips, and old Doggett were all there, and the Master of the Hounds was in the middle of his business. The dogs were divided by ages, as well as by sex, and were being brought out and examined. Old Doggett was giving advice, — differing almost always from Cox, the huntsman, as to the propriety of keeping this hound or of cashiering that. Nose, pace, strength, and docility were all questioned with an eagerness hardly known in any other business; and on each question Lord Chiltern listened to everybody, and then decided with a single word. When he had once resolved, nothing further urged by any man then could avail anything. Jove never was so autocratic, and certainly never so much in earnest. From the look of Lord Chiltern’s brow it almost seemed as though this weight of empire must be too much for any mere man. Very little notice was taken of Gerard Maule when he joined the conclave, though it was felt in reference to him that he was sufficiently staunch a friend to the hunt to be trusted with the secrets of the kennel. Lord Chiltern merely muttered some words of greeting, and Cox lifted the old hunting-cap which he wore. For another hour the conference was held. Those who have attended such meetings know well that a morning on the flags is apt to be a long affair. Old Doggett, who had privileges, smoked a pipe, and Gerard Maule lit one cigar after another. But Lord Chiltern had become too thorough a man of business to smoke when so employed. At last the last order was given, — Doggett snarled his last snarl, — and Cox uttered his last “My lord.” Then Gerard Maule and the Master left the hounds and walked home together.

The affair had been so long that Gerard had almost forgotten his grievance. But now as they got out together upon the park, he remembered the tone of Adelaide’s voice as she left him, and remembered also that, as matters stood at present, it was essentially necessary that something should be said. “I suppose I shall have to go and see that woman,” said Lord Chiltern.

“Do you mean Adelaide?” asked Maule, in a tone of infinite surprise.

“I mean this new Duchess, who I’m told is to manage everything herself. That man Fothergill is going on with just the old game at Trumpeton.”

“Is he, indeed? I was thinking of something else just at that moment. You remember what you were saying about Miss Palliser last night.”

“Yes.”

“Well; — I don’t think, you know, you had a right to speak as you did.”

Lord Chiltern almost flew at his companion, as he replied, “I said nothing. I do say that when a man becomes engaged to a girl, he should let her hear from him, so that they may know what each other is about.”

“You hinted something about being her brother.”

“Of course I did. If you mean well by her, as I hope you do, it can’t fret you to think that she has got somebody to look after her till you come in and take possession. It is the commonest thing in the world when a girl is left all alone as she is.”

“You seemed to make out that I wasn’t treating her well.”

“I said nothing of the kind, Maule; but if you ask me — “

“I don’t ask you anything.”

“Yes, you do. You come and find fault with me for speaking last night in the most good-natured way in the world. And, therefore, I tell you now that you will be behaving very badly indeed, unless you make some arrangement at once as to what you mean to do.”

“That’s your opinion,” said Gerard Maule.

“Yes, it is; and you’ll find it to be the opinion of any man or woman that you may ask who knows anything about such things. And I’ll tell you what, Master Maule, if you think you’re going to face me down you’ll find yourself mistaken. Stop a moment, and just listen to me. You haven’t a much better friend than I am, and I’m sure she hasn’t a better friend than my wife. All this has taken place under our roof, and I mean to speak my mind plainly. What do you propose to do about your marriage?”

“I don’t propose to tell you what I mean to do.”

“Will you tell Miss Palliser, — or my wife?”

“That is just as I may think fit.”

“Then I must tell you that you cannot meet her at my house.”

“I’ll leave it to-day.”

“You needn’t do that either. You sleep on it, and then make up your mind. You can’t suppose that I have any curiosity about it. The girl is fond of you, and I suppose that you are fond of her. Don’t quarrel for nothing. If I have offended you, speak to Lady Chiltern about it.”

“Very well; — I will speak to Lady Chiltern.”

When they reached the house it was clear that something was wrong. Miss Palliser was not seen again before dinner, and Lady Chiltern was grave and very cold in her manner to Gerard Maule. He was left alone all the afternoon, which he passed with his horses and groom, smoking more cigars, — but thinking all the time of Adelaide Palliser’s last words, of Lord Chiltern’s frown, and of Lady Chiltern’s manner to him. When he came into the drawing-room before dinner, Lady Chiltern and Adelaide were both there, and Adelaide immediately began to ask questions about the kennel and the huntsmen. But she studiously kept at a distance from him, and he himself felt that it would be impossible to resume at present the footing on which he stood with them both on the previous evening. Presently Lord Chiltern came in, and another man and his wife who had come to stay at Harrington. Nothing could be more dull than the whole evening. At least so Gerard found it. He did take Adelaide in to dinner, but he did not sit next to her at table, for which, however, there was an excuse, as, had he done so, the new-comer must have been placed by his wife. He was cross, and would not make an attempt to speak to his neighbour, and, though he tried once or twice to talk to Lady Chiltern — than whom, as a rule, no woman was ever more easy in conversation — he failed altogether. Now and again he strove to catch Adelaide’s eye, but even in that he could not succeed. When the ladies left the room Chiltern and the new-corner — who was not a sporting man, and therefore did not understand the question — became lost in the mazes of Trumpeton Wood. But Gerard Maule did not put in a word; nor was a word addressed to him by Lord Chiltern. As he sat there sipping his wine, he made up his mind that he would leave Harrington Hall the next morning. When he was again in the drawing-room, things were conducted in just the same way. He spoke to Adelaide, and she answered him; but there was no word of encouragement — not a tone of comfort in her voice. He found himself driven to attempt conversation with the strange lady, and at last was made to play whist with Lady Chiltern and the two new-corners. Later on in the evening, when Adelaide had gone to her own chamber, he was invited by Lady Chiltern into her own sitting-room upstairs, and there the whole thing was explained to him. Miss Palliser had declared that the match should be broken off.

“Do you mean altogether, Lady Chiltern?”

“Certainly I do. Such a resolve cannot be a half-and-half arrangement.”

“But why?”

“I think you must know why, Mr. Maule.”

“I don’t in the least. I won’t have it broken off. I have as much right to have a voice in the matter as she has, and I don’t in the least believe it’s her doing.”

“Mr. Maule!”

“I do not care; I must speak out. Why does she not tell me so herself?”

“She did tell you so.”

“No, she didn’t. She said something, but not that. I don’t suppose a man was ever so used before; and it’s all Lord Chiltern; — just because I told him that he had no right to interfere with me. And he has no right.”

“You and Oswald were away together when she told me that she had made up her mind. Oswald has hardly spoken to her since you have been in the house. He certainly has not spoken to her about you since you came to us.”

“What is the meaning of it, then?”

“You told her that your engagement had overwhelmed you with troubles.”

“Of course; there must be troubles.”

“And that — you would have to be banished to Boulogne when you were married.”

“I didn’t mean her to take that literally.”

“It wasn’t a nice way, Mr. Maule, to speak of your future life to the girl to whom you were engaged. Of course it was her hope to make your life happier, not less happy. And when you made her understand — as you did very plainly — that your married prospects filled you with dismay, of course she had no other alternative but to retreat from her engagement.”

“I wasn’t dismayed.”

“It is not my doing, Mr. Maule.”

“I suppose she’ll see me?”

“If you insist upon it she will; but she would rather not.”

Gerard, however, did insist, and Adelaide was brought to him there into that room before he went to bed. She was very gentle with him, and spoke to him in a tone very different from that which Lady Chiltern had used; but he found himself utterly powerless to change her. That unfortunate allusion to a miserable exile at Boulogne had completed the work which the former plaints had commenced, and had driven her to a resolution to separate herself from him altogether.

“Mr. Maule;” she said, “when I perceived that our proposed marriage was looked upon by you as a misfortune, I could do nothing but put an end to our engagement.”

“But I didn’t think it a misfortune.”

“You made me think that it would be unfortunate for you, and that is quite as strong a reason. I hope we shall part as friends.”

“I won’t part at all,” he said, standing his ground with his back to the fire. “I don’t understand it, by heaven I don’t. Because I said some stupid thing about Boulogne, all in joke — “

“It was not in joke when you said that troubles had come heavy on you since you were engaged.”

“A man may be allowed to know, himself, whether he was in joke or not. I suppose the truth is you don’t care about me?”

“I hope, Mr. Maule, that in time it may come — not quite to that.”

“I think that you are — using me very badly. I think that you are — behaving — falsely to me. I think that I am — very — shamefully treated — among you. Of course I shall go. Of course I shall not stay in this house. A man can’t make a girl keep her promise. No — I won’t shake hands. I won’t even say good-bye to you. Of course I shall go.” So saying he slammed the door behind him.

“If he cares for you he’ll come back to you,” Lady Chiltern said to Adelaide that night, who at the moment was lying on her bed in a sad condition, frantic with headache.

“I don’t want him to come back; I will never make him go to Boulogne.”

“Don’t think of it, dear.”

“Not think of it! how can I help thinking of it? I shall always think of it. But I never want to see him again — never! How can I want to marry a man who tells me that I shall be a trouble to him? He shall never, — never have to go to Boulogne for me.”

The quarrel between Phineas Finn and Mr. Bonteen had now become the talk of the town, and had taken many various phases. The political phase, though it was perhaps the best understood, was not the most engrossing. There was the personal phase, — which had reference to the direct altercation that had taken place between the two gentlemen, and to the correspondence between them which had followed, as to which phase it may be said that though there were many rumours abroad, very little was known. It was reported in some circles that the two aspirants for office had been within an ace of striking each other; in some, again, that a blow had passed, — and in others, further removed probably from the House of Commons and the Universe Club, that the Irishman had struck the Englishman, and that the Englishman had given the Irishman a thrashing. This was a phase that was very disagreeable to Phineas Finn. And there was a third, — which may perhaps be called the general social phase, and which unfortunately dealt with the name of Lady Laura Kennedy. They all, of course, worked into each other, and were enlivened and made interesting with the names of a great many big persons. Mr. Gresham, the Prime Minister, was supposed to be very much concerned in this matter. He, it was said, had found himself compelled to exclude Phineas Finn from the Government, because of the unfortunate alliance between him and the wife of one of his late colleagues, and had also thought it expedient to dismiss Mr. Bonteen from his Cabinet, — for it had amounted almost to dismissal, — because Mr. Bonteen had made indiscreet official allusion to that alliance. In consequence of this working in of the first and third phase, Mr. Gresham encountered hard usage from some friends and from many enemies. Then, of course, the scene at Macpherson’s Hotel was commented on very generally. An idea prevailed that Mr. Kennedy, driven to madness by his wife’s infidelity, which had become known to him through the quarrel between Phineas and Mr. Bonteen, — had endeavoured to murder his wife’s lover, who had with the utmost effrontery invaded the injured husband’s presence with a view of deterring him by threats from a publication of his wrongs. This murder had been nearly accomplished in the centre of the metropolis, — by daylight, as if that made it worse, — on a Sunday, which added infinitely to the delightful horror of the catastrophe; and yet no public notice had been taken of it! The would-be murderer had been a Cabinet Minister, and the lover who was so nearly murdered had been an Under-Secretary of State, and was even now a member of Parliament. And then it was positively known that the lady’s father, who had always been held in the highest respect as a nobleman, favoured his daughter’s lover, and not his daughter’s husband. All which things together filled the public with dismay, and caused a delightful excitement, giving quite a feature of its own to the season.

No doubt general opinion was adverse to poor Phineas Finn, but he was not without his party in the matter. To oblige a friend by inflicting an injury on his enemy is often more easy than to confer a benefit on the friend himself. We have already seen how the young Duchess failed in her attempt to obtain an appointment for Phineas, and also how she succeeded in destroying the high hopes of Mr. Bonteen. Having done so much, of course she clung heartily to the side which she had adopted; — and, equally of course, Madame Goesler did the same. Between these two ladies there was a slight difference of opinion as to the nature of the alliance between Lady Laura and their hero. The Duchess was of opinion that young men are upon the whole averse to innocent alliances, and that, as Lady Laura and her husband certainly had long been separated, there was probably — something in it. “Lord bless you, my dear,” the Duchess said, “they were known to be lovers when they were at Loughlinter together before she married Mr. Kennedy. It has been the most romantic affair! She made her father give him a seat for his borough.”