taken to avoid this inconvenience as far as possible, and one man in livery was employed to go backwards and forwards between his mistress and the outer world, so as to keep the thread of a passage open.
But though Lady Monk was in this way enabled to rest herself during her labours, there was much in her night’s work which was not altogether exhilarating. Ladies would come into her small room and sit there by the hour, with whom she had not the slightest wish to hold conversation. The Duchess of St Bungay would always be there,—so that there was a special seat in one corner of the room which was called the Duchess’ stool. “I shouldn’t care a straw about her,” Lady Monk had been heard to complain, “if she would talk to anybody. But nobody will talk to her, and then she listens to everything.”
There had been another word or two between Burgo Fitzgerald and his aunt before the evening came, a word or two in the speaking of which she had found some difficulty. She was prepared with the money,—with that two hundred pounds for which he had asked,—obtained with what wiles, and lies, and baseness of subterfuge I need not stop here to describe. But she was by no means willing to give this over into her nephew’s hands without security. She was willing to advance him this money; she had been willing even to go through unusual dirt to get it for him; but she was desirous that he should have it only for a certain purpose. How could she bind him down to spend it as she would have it spent? Could she undertake to hand it to him as soon as Lady Glencora should be in his power? Even though she could have brought herself to say as much,—and I think she might also have done so after what she had said,—she could not have carried out such a plan. In that case the want would be instant, and the action must be rapid. She therefore had no alternative but to entrust him with the banknotes at once. “Burgo,” she said, “if I find that you deceive me now, I will never trust you again.” “All right,” said Burgo, as he barely counted the money before he thrust it into his breast-pocket. “It is lent to you for a certain purpose, should you happen to want it,” she said, solemnly. “I do happen to want it very much,” he answered. She did not dare to say more; but as her nephew turned away from her with a step that was quite light in its gaiety, she almost felt that she was already cozened. Let Burgo’s troubles be as heavy as they might be, there was something to him ecstatic in the touch of ready money which always cured them for the moment.
On the morning of Lady Monk’s party a few very uncomfortable words passed between Mr Palliser and his wife.
“Your cousin is not going, then?” said he.
“Alice is not going.”
“Then you can give Mrs Marsham a seat in your carriage?”
“Impossible, Plantagenet. I thought I had told you that I had promised my cousin Jane.”
“But you can take three.”
“Indeed I can’t,—unless you would like me to sit out with the coachman.”
There was something in this,—a tone of loudness, a touch of what he called to himself vulgarity,—which made him very angry. So he turned away from her, and looked as black as a thundercloud.
“You must know, Plantagenet,” she went on, “that it is impossible for three women dressed to go out in one carriage. I am sure you wouldn’t like to see me afterwards if I had been one of them.”
“You need not have said anything to Lady Jane when Miss Vavasor refused. I had asked you before that.”
“And I had told you that I liked going with young women, and not with old ones. That’s the long and the short of it.”
“Glencora, I wish you would not use such expressions.”
“What! not the long and the short? It’s good English. Quite as good as Mr Bott’s, when he said in the House the other night that the Government kept their accounts in a higgledy-piggledy way. You see, I have been studying the debates, and you shouldn’t be angry with me.”
“I am not angry with you. You speak like a child to say so. Then, I suppose, the carriage must go for Mrs Marsham after it has taken you?”
“It shall go before. Jane will not be in a hurry, and I am sure I shall not.”
“She will think you very uncivil; that is all. I told her that she could go with you when I heard that Miss Vavasor was not to be there.”
“Then, Plantagenet, you shouldn’t have told her so, and that’s the long—; but I mustn’t say that. The truth is this, if you give me any orders I’ll obey them,—as far as I can. If I can’t I’ll say so. But if I’m left to go by my own judgement, it’s not fair that I should be scolded afterwards.”
“I have never scolded you.”
“Yes, you have. You have told me that I was uncivil.”
“I said that she would think you so.”
“Then, if it’s only what she thinks, I don’t care two straws about it. She may have the carriage to herself if she likes, but she shan’t have me in it,—not unless I’m ordered to go. I don’t like her, and I won’t pretend to like her. My belief is that she follows me about to tell you if she thinks that I do wrong.”
“Glencora!”
“And that odious baboon with the red bristles does the same thing,—only he goes to her because he doesn’t dare to go to you.”
Plantagenet Palliser was struck wild with dismay. He understood well who it was whom his wife intended to describe; but that she should have spoken of any man as a baboon with red bristles, was terrible to his mind! He was beginning to think that he hardly knew how to manage his wife. And the picture she had drawn was very distressing to him. She had no mother; neither had he; and he had wished that Mrs Marsham should give to her some of that matronly assistance and guidance which a mother does give to her young married daughter. It was true, too, as he knew, that a word or two as to some socially domestic matters had filtered through to him from Mr Bott, down at Matching Priory, but only in such a way as to enable him to see what counsel it was needful that he should give. As for espionage over his wife,—no man could despise it more than he did! No man would be less willing to resort to it! And now his wife was accusing him of keeping spies, both male and female.
“Glencora!” he said again; and then he stopped, not knowing what to say to her.
“Well, my dear, it’s better you should know at once what I feel about it. I don’t suppose I’m very good; indeed I dare say I’m bad enough, but these people about me won’t make me any better. The duennas don’t make the Spanish ladies worth much.”
“Duennas!” After that, Lady Glencora sat herself down, and Mr Palliser stood for some moments looking at her.
It ended in his making her a long speech, in which he said a good deal of his own justice and forbearance, and something also of her frivolity and childishness. He told her that his only complaint of her was that she was too young, and, as he did so, she made a little grimace,—not to him, but to herself, as though saying to herself that that was all he knew about it. He did not notice it, or, if he did, his notice did not stop his eloquence. He assured her that he was far from keeping any watch over her, and declared that she had altogether mistaken Mrs Marsham’s character. Then there was another little grimace. “There’s somebody has mistaken it worse than I have,” the grimace said. Of the bristly baboon he condescended to say nothing, and he wound up by giving her a cold kiss, and saying that he would meet her at Lady Monk’s.
When the evening came,—or rather the night,—the carriage went first for Mrs Marsham, and having deposited her at Lady Monk’s, went back to Park Lane for Lady Glencora. Then she had herself driven to St James’s Square, to pick up Lady Jane, so that altogether the coachman and horses did not have a good time of it. “I wish he’d keep a separate carriage for her,” Lady Glencora said to her cousin Jane,—having perceived that her servants were not in a good humour. “That would be expensive,” said Lady Jane. “Yes, it would be expensive,” said Lady Glencora. She would not condescend to