The Palliser Novels (387 page)

“She has some idea of going back to Italy.”

“And leaving her lover behind her! Oh, dear, that will be very bad. She’d much better come to Matching, and then I’d ask the man to come too. Mr. Maud, isn’t he?”

“Gerard Maule.”

“Ah, yes; Maule. If it’s the kind of thing that ought to be, I’d manage it in a week. If you get a young man down into a country house, and there has been anything at all between them, I don’t see how he is to escape. Isn’t there some trouble about money?”

“They wouldn’t be very rich, Duchess.”

“What a blessing for them! But then, perhaps, they’d be very poor.”

“They would be rather poor.”

“Which is not a blessing. Isn’t there some proverb about going safely in the middle? I’m sure it’s true about money, — only perhaps you ought to be put a little beyond the middle. I don’t know why Plantagenet shouldn’t do something for her.”

As to this conversation Lady Chiltern said very little to Adelaide, but she did mention the proposed visit to Matching.

“The Duchess said nothing to me,” replied Adelaide, proudly.

“No; I don’t suppose she had time. And then she is so very odd; sometimes taking no notice of one, and at others so very loving.”

“I hate that.”

“But with her it is neither impudence nor affectation. She says exactly what she thinks at the time, and she is always as good as her word. There are worse women than the Duchess.”

“I am sure I wouldn’t like going to Matching,” said Adelaide.

Lady Chiltern was right in saying that the Duchess of Omnium was always as good as her word. On the next day, after that interview with Lord Chiltern about Mr. Fothergill and the foxes, — as to which no present further allusion need be made here, — she went to work and did learn a good deal about Gerard Maule and Miss Palliser. Something she learned from Lord Chiltern, — without any consciousness on his lordship’s part, something from Madame Goesler, and something from the Baldock people. Before she went to bed on the second night she knew all about the quarrel, and all about the money. “Plantagenet,” she said the next morning, “what are you going to do about the Duke’s legacy to Marie Goesler?”

“I can do nothing. She must take the things, of course.”

“She won’t.”

“Then the jewels must remain packed up. I suppose they’ll be sold at last for the legacy duty, and, when that’s paid, the balance will belong to her.”

“But what about the money?”

“Of course it belongs to her.”

“Couldn’t you give it to that girl who was here last night?”

“Give it to a girl!”

“Yes; — to your cousin. She’s as poor as Job, and can’t get married because she hasn’t got any money. It’s quite true; and I must say that if the Duke had looked after his own relations instead of leaving money to people who don’t want it and won’t have it, it would have been much better. Why shouldn’t Adelaide Palliser have it?”

“How on earth should I give Adelaide Palliser what doesn’t belong to me? If you choose to make her a present, you can, but such a sum as that would, I should say, be out of the question.”

The Duchess had achieved quite as much as she had anticipated. She knew her husband well, and was aware that she couldn’t carry her point at once. To her mind it was “all nonsense” his saying that the money was not his. If Madame Goesler wouldn’t take it, it must be his; and nobody could make a woman take money if she did not choose. Adelaide Palliser was the Duke’s first cousin, and it was intolerable that the Duke’s first cousin should be unable to marry because she would have nothing to live upon. It became, at least, intolerable as soon as the Duchess had taken it into her head to like the first cousin. No doubt there were other first cousins as badly off, or perhaps worse, as to whom the Duchess would care nothing whether they were rich or poor, — married or single; but then they were first cousins who had not had the advantage of interesting the Duchess.

“My dear,” said the Duchess to her friend, Madame Goesler, “you know all about those Maules?”

“What makes you ask?”

“But you do?”

“I know something about one of them,” said Madame Goesler. Now, as it happened, Mr. Maule, senior, had on that very day asked Madame Goesler to share her lot with his, and the request had been — almost indignantly, refused. The general theory that the wooing of widows should be quick had, perhaps, misled Mr. Maule. Perhaps he did not think that the wooing had been quick. He had visited Park Lane with the object of making his little proposition once before, and had then been stopped in his course by the consternation occasioned by the arrest of Phineas Finn. He had waited till Phineas had been acquitted, and had then resolved to try his luck. He had heard of the lady’s journey to Prague, and was acquainted of course with those rumours which too freely connected the name of our hero with that of the lady. But rumours are often false, and a lady may go to Prague on a gentleman’s behalf without intending to marry him. All the women in London were at present more or less in love with the man who had been accused of murder, and the fantasy of Madame Goesler might be only as the fantasy of others. And then, rumour also said that Phineas Finn intended to marry Lady Laura Kennedy. At any rate a man cannot have his head broken for asking a lady to marry him, — unless he is very awkward in the doing of it. So Mr. Maule made his little proposition.

“Mr. Maule,” said Madame, smiling, “is not this rather sudden?” Mr. Maule admitted that it was sudden, but still persisted. “I think, if you please, Mr. Maule, we will say no more about it,” said the lady, with that wicked smile still on her face. Mr. Maule declared that silence on the subject had become impossible to him. “Then, Mr. Maule, I shall have to leave you to speak to the chairs and tables,” said Madame Goesler. No doubt she was used to the thing, and knew how to conduct herself well. He also had been refused before by ladies of wealth, but had never been treated with so little consideration. She had risen from her chair as though about to leave the room, but was slow in her movement, showing him that she thought it was well for him to leave it instead of her. Muttering some words, half of apology and half of self-assertion, he did leave the room; and now she told the Duchess that she knew something of one of the Maules.

“That is, the father?”

“Yes, — the father.”

“He is one of your tribe, I know. We met him at your house just before the murder. I don’t much admire your taste, my dear, because he’s a hundred and fifty years old; — and what there is of him comes chiefly from the tailor.”

“He’s as good as any other old man.”

“I dare say, — and I hope Mr. Finn will like his society. But he has got a son.”

“So he tells me.”

“Who is a charming young man.”

“He never told me that, Duchess.”

“I dare say not. Men of that sort are always jealous of their sons. But he has. Now I am going to tell you something and ask you to do something.”

“What was it the French Minister said. If it is simply difficult it is done. If it is impossible, it shall be done.”

“The easiest thing in the world. You saw Plantagenet’s first cousin the other night, — Adelaide Palliser. She is engaged to marry young Mr. Maule, and they neither of them have a shilling in the world. I want you to give them five-and-twenty thousand pounds.”

“Wouldn’t that be peculiar?”

“Not in the least.”

“At any rate it would be inconvenient.”

“No it wouldn’t, my dear. It would be the most convenient thing in the world. Of course I don’t mean out of your pocket. There’s the Duke’s legacy.”

“It isn’t mine, and never will be.”

“But Plantagenet says it never can be anybody else’s. If I can get him to agree, will you? Of course there will be ever so many papers to be signed; and the biggest of all robbers, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, will put his fingers into the pudding and pull out a plum, and the lawyers will take more plums. But that will be nothing to us. The pudding will be very nice for them let ever so many plums be taken. The lawyers and people will do it all, and then it will be her fortune, — just as though her uncle had left it to her. As it is now, the money will never be of any use to anybody.” Madame Goesler said that if the Duke consented she also would consent. It was immaterial to her who had the money. If by signing any receipt she could facilitate the return of the money to any one of the Duke’s family, she would willingly sign it. But Miss Palliser must be made to understand that the money did not come to her as a present from Madame Goesler.

“But it will be a present from Madame Goesler,” said the Duke.

“Plantagenet, if you go and upset everything by saying that, I shall think it most ill-natured. Bother about true! Somebody must have the money. There’s nothing illegal about it.” And the Duchess had her own way. Lawyers were consulted, and documents were prepared, and the whole thing was arranged. Only Adelaide Palliser knew nothing about it, nor did Gerard Maule; and the quarrels of lovers had not yet become the renewal of love. Then the Duchess wrote the two following notes: —
 

My dear Adelaide
,

We shall hope to see you at Matching on the 15th of August. The Duke, as head of the family, expects implicit obedience. You’ll meet fifteen young gentlemen from the Treasury and the Board of Trade, but they won’t incommode you, as they are kept at work all day. We hope Mr. Finn will be with us, and there isn’t a lady in England who wouldn’t give her eyes to meet him. We shall stay ever so many weeks at Matching, so that you can do as you please as to the time of leaving us.

Yours affectionately,

G. O.

Tell Lord Chiltern that I have my hopes of making Trumpeton Wood too hot for Mr. Fothergill, — but I have to act with the greatest caution. In the meantime I am sending down dozens of young foxes, all labelled Trumpeton Wood, so that he shall know them.
 

The other was a card rather than a note. The Duke and Duchess of Omnium presented their compliments to Mr. Gerard Maule, and requested the honour of his company to dinner on, — a certain day named. When Gerard Maule received this card at his club he was rather surprised, as he had never made the acquaintance either of the Duke or the Duchess. But the Duke was the first cousin of Adelaide Palliser, and of course he accepted the invitation.

The end of July came, and it was settled that Lady Laura Kennedy should go to Loughlinter. She had been a widow now for nearly three months, and it was thought right that she should go down and see the house, and the lands, and the dependents whom her husband had left in her charge. It was now three years since she had seen Loughlinter, and when last she had left it, she had made up her mind that she would never place her foot upon the place again. Her wretchedness had all come upon her there. It was there that she had first been subjected to the unendurable tedium of Sabbath Day observances. It was there she had been instructed in the unpalatable duties that had been expected from her. It was there that she had been punished with the doctor from Callender whenever she attempted escape under the plea of a headache. And it was there, standing by the waterfall, the noise of which could be heard from the front-door, that Phineas Finn had told her of his love. When she accepted the hand of Robert Kennedy she had known that she had not loved him; but from the moment in which Phineas had spoken to her, she knew well that her heart had gone one way, whereas her hand was to go another. From that moment her whole life had quickly become a blank. She had had no period of married happiness, — not a month, not an hour. From the moment in which the thing had been done she had found that the man to whom she had bound herself was odious to her, and that the life before her was distasteful to her. Things which before had seemed worthy to her, and full at any rate of interest, became at once dull and vapid. Her husband was in Parliament, as also had been her father, and many of her friends, — and, by weight of his own character and her influence, was himself placed high in office; but in his house politics lost all the flavour which they had possessed for her in Portman Square. She had thought that she could at any rate do her duty as the mistress of a great household, and as the benevolent lady of a great estate; but household duties under the tutelage of Mr. Kennedy had been impossible to her, and that part of a Scotch Lady Bountiful which she had intended to play seemed to be denied to her. The whole structure had fallen to the ground, and nothing had been left to her.

But she would not sin. Though she could not bring herself to love her husband, she would at any rate be strong enough to get rid of that other love. Having so resolved, she became as weak as water. She at one time determined to be the guiding genius of the man she loved, — a sort of devoted elder sister, intending him to be the intimate friend of her husband; then she had told him not to come to her house, and had been weak enough to let him know why it was that she could not bear his presence. She had failed altogether to keep her secret, and her life during the struggle had become so intolerable to her that she had found herself compelled to desert her husband. He had shown her that he, too, had discovered the truth, and then she had become indignant, and had left him. Every place that she had inhabited with him had become disagreeable to her. The house in London had been so odious, that she had asked her intimate friends to come to her in that occupied by her father. But, of all spots upon earth, Loughlinter had been the most distasteful to her. It was there that the sermons had been the longest, the lessons in accounts the most obstinate, the lectures the most persevering, the dullness the most heavy. It was there that her ears had learned the sound of the wheels of Dr. Macnuthrie’s gig. It was there that her spirit had been nearly broken. It was there that, with spirit not broken, she had determined to face all that the world might say of her, and fly from a tyranny which was insupportable. And now the place was her own, and she was told that she must go there as its owner; — go there and be potential, and beneficent, and grandly bland with persons, all of whom knew what had been the relations between her and her husband.