Anthony Trollope - The Palliser Novels - Complete Series - All 6 Books in One Edition

“That will do very well thank you, Mrs Marsham,” Lady Glencora said at this moment. “Pray, do not trouble yourself,” and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald. Mrs Marsham, though unknown to him, knew with quite sufficient accuracy who he was, and all his history, as far as it concerned her friend’s wife. She had learned the whole story of the loves of Burgo and Lady Glencora. Though Mr Palliser had never mentioned that man’s name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna would make it expedient that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him should he come near the sheepfold. And there he was, close to them, almost leaning over them, with the hand of his late lady love,—the hand of Mr Palliser’s wife,—within his own! How Lady Glencora might have carried herself at this moment had Mrs Marsham not been there, it is bootless now to surmise; but it may be well understood that under Mrs Marsham’s immediate eye all her resolution would be in Burgo’s favour. She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she uttered no articulate word, her countenance seemed to show that the meeting was not unpleasant to her.

“Will you waltz?” said Burgo,—asking it not at all as though it were a special favour,—asking it exactly as he might have done had they been in the habit of dancing with each other every other night for the last three months.

“I don’t think Lady Glencora will waltz tonight,” said Mrs Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else the enormity of Burgo’s proposition had struck her so forcibly as to take away from her all her presence of mind. Otherwise, she must have been aware that such an answer from her would surely drive her friend’s wife into open hostility.

“And why not, Mrs Marsham?” said Lady Glencora rising from her seat. “Why shouldn’t I waltz tonight? I rather think I shall, the more especially as Mr Fitzgerald waltzes very well.” Thereupon she put her hand upon Burgo’s arm.

Mrs Marsham made still a little effort,—a little effort that was probably involuntary. She put out her hand, and laid it on Lady Glencora’s left shoulder, looking into her face as she did so with all the severity of caution of which she was mistress. Lady Glencora shook her duenna off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into the hands of this man who was now touching her, or whether she would not, she had not as yet decided; but of this she was very sure, that nothing said or done by Mrs Marsham should have any effect in restraining her.

What could Mrs Marsham do? Mr Palliser was gone. Some rumour of that proposed visit to Monkshade, and the way in which it had been prevented, had reached her ear. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love, as married, the woman whom he had loved before she was married. There was a rumour about that he still had some hope. Mrs Marsham had never believed that Mr Palliser’s wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe as a positive elopement that she had taken upon herself the duty of duenna. Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs Marsham thought that she could accomplish. It had not hitherto occurred to her that she might be required to guard Mr Palliser from positive dishonour; but now—now she hardly knew what to think about it. What should she do? To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr Bott looming large before her on the top of the staircase.

In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo’s arm. “Who is that woman?” said Burgo. They were the first words he spoke to her, though since he had last seen her he had written to her that letter which even now she carried about her. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close, and questions such as that he had asked were common between them. And her answer was of the same nature. “Oh, such an odious woman!” she said. “Her name is Mrs Marsham; she is my bête noire.” And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said of that which was Burgo’s settled purpose, and which at some moments was her settled purpose also.

Burgo waltzed excellently, and in old days, before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping to the intermediate door between her den and the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs Marsham and Mr Bott standing together just inside the other door, near to the staircase, looked on also—in horror.

“He shouldn’t have gone away and left her,” said Mr Bott, almost hoarsely.

“But who could have thought it?” said Mrs Marsham. “I’m sure I didn’t.”

“I suppose you’d better tell him?” said Mr Bott.

“But I don’t know where to find him,” said Mrs Marsham.

“I didn’t mean now at once,” said Mr Bott;—and then he added, “Do you think it is as bad as that?”

“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs Marsham.

The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath. “I am so much out of practice,” said Lady Glencora; “I didn’t think—I should have been able—to dance at all.” Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and stretched her nostrils,—as ladies do as well as horses when the running has been severe and they want air.

“You’ll take another turn,” said he.

“Presently,” said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.

“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said he.

It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth. It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views. The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity. There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back. “Does it put you in mind of ‘old days?’“ he said.

The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs Marsham; her own unsettled mind—quite unsettled whether it would be best for her to go or to stay! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke to her.

It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost,—so often that they who say it now, say it simply because others have said it before them, never thinking whether or no there be any truth in the proverb. But they who have said so, thinking of their words as they were uttered, have known but little of women. Women doubt every day, who solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so, some by fear, more by conscience, but most of them by that half-prudential, half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the cirumstances, which rarely deserts either men or women till they have brought themselves to the Burgo Fitzgerald state of recklessness. Men when they have fallen even to that, will still keep up some outward show towards the world; but women in this condition defy the world, and declare themselves to be children of perdition. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.