Can You Forgive Her?

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  Burgo Fitzgerald.

  On the night before Christmas Eve two men were sitting together inGeorge Vavasor's rooms in Cecil Street. It was past twelve o'clock,and they were both smoking; there were square bottles on the tablecontaining spirits, with hot water and cold water in jugs, and oneof the two men was using, and had been using, these materials forenjoyment. Vavasor had not been drinking, nor did it appear as thoughhe intended to begin. There was a little weak brandy and water ina glass by his side, but there it had remained untouched for thelast twenty minutes. His companion, however, had twice in that timereplenished his beaker, and was now puffing out the smoke of his pipewith the fury of a steamer's funnel when she has not yet burned theblack off her last instalment of fresh coals. This man was BurgoFitzgerald. He was as handsome as ever;--a man whom neither man norwoman could help regarding as a thing beautiful to behold;--butnot the less was there in his eyes and cheeks a look of haggarddissipation,--of riotous living, which had become wearisome, by itscontinuance, even to himself,--that told to all who saw him muchof the history of his life. Most men who drink at nights, and areout till cockcrow doing deeds of darkness, become red in theirfaces, have pimpled cheeks and watery eyes, and are bloated and notcomfortable to be seen. It is a kind dispensation of Providence whothus affords to such sinners a visible sign, to be seen day by day,of the injury which is being done. The first approach of a carbuncleon the nose, about the age of thirty, has stopped many a man fromdrinking. No one likes to have carbuncles on his nose, or to appearbefore his female friends with eyes which look as though they wereswimming in grog. But to Burgo Fitzgerald Providence in her anger hadnot afforded this protection. He became at times pale, sallow, worn,and haggard. He grew thin, and still thinner. At times he had beenill to death's door. Among his intimate friends there were those whoheard him declare frequently that his liver had become useless tohim; and that, as for gastric juices, he had none left to him. Butstill his beauty remained. The perfect form of his almost god-likeface was the same as ever, and the brightness of his bright blue eyewas never quenched.

  On the present occasion he had come to Vavasor's room with the objectof asking from him certain assistance, and perhaps also some amountof advice. But as regarded the latter article he was, I think, in thestate of most men when they seek for counsellors who shall counselthem to do evil. Advice administered in accordance with his own viewswould give him comfortable encouragement, but advice on the otherside he was prepared to disregard altogether. These two men had knowneach other long, and a close intimacy had existed between them in thedays past, previous to Lady Glencora's engagement with Mr. Palliser.When Lady Glencora endeavoured, vainly as we know, to obtain aid fromAlice Vavasor, Burgo had been instigated to believe that Alice'scousin might assist him. Any such assistance George Vavasor wouldhave been quite ready to give. Some pecuniary assistance he hadgiven, he at that time having been in good funds. Perhaps he had fora moment induced Burgo to think that he could obtain for the pair theuse of the house in Queen Anne Street as a point at which they mightmeet, and from whence they might start on their journey of love. Allthat was over. Those hopes had been frustrated, and Lady GlencoraM'Cluskie had become Lady Glencora Palliser and not Lady GlencoraFitzgerald. But now other hopes had sprung up, and Burgo was againlooking to his friend for assistance.

  "I believe she would," Burgo said, as he lifted the glass tohis mouth. "It's a thing of that sort that a man can onlybelieve,--perhaps only hope,--till he has tried. I know that she isnot happy with him, and I have made up my mind that I will at leastask her."

  "But he would have her fortune all the same?"

  "I don't know how that would be. I haven't inquired, and I don't meanto inquire. Of course I don't expect you or any one else to believeme, but her money has no bearing on the question now. Heaven knows Iwant money bad enough, but I wouldn't take away another man's wifefor money."

  "You don't mean to say you think it would be wicked. I supposed youto be above those prejudices."

  "It's all very well for you to chaff."

  "It's no chaff at all. I tell you fairly I wouldn't run away with anyman's wife. I have an old-fashioned idea that when a man has got awife he ought to be allowed to keep her. Public opinion, I know, isagainst me."

  "I think he ran away with my wife," said Burgo, with emphasis;"that's the way I look at it. She was engaged to me first; and shereally loved me, while she never cared for him."

  "Nevertheless, marriage is marriage, and the law is against you. Butif I did go in for such a troublesome job at all, I certainly shouldkeep an eye upon the money."

  "It can make no difference."

  "It did make a difference, I suppose, when you first thought ofmarrying her?"

  "Of course it did. My people brought us together because she had alarge fortune and I had none. There's no doubt in the world aboutthat. And I'll tell you what; I believe that old harridan of an auntof mine is willing to do the same thing now again. Of course shedoesn't say as much. She wouldn't dare do that, but I do believe shemeans it. I wonder where she expects to go to!"

  "That's grateful on your part."

  "Upon my soul I hate her. I do indeed. It isn't love for me now somuch as downright malice against Palliser, because he baulked herproject before. She is a wicked old woman. Some of us fellows arewicked enough--you and I for instance--"

  "Thank you. I don't know, however, that I am qualified to run in acurricle with you."

  "But we are angels to such an old she-devil as that. You may believeme or not, as you like.--I dare say you won't believe me."

  "I'll say I do, at any rate."

  "The truth is, I want to get her, partly because I love her; butchiefly because I do believe in my heart that she loves me."

  "It's for her sake then! You are ready to sacrifice yourself to doher a good turn."

  "As for sacrificing myself, that's done. I'm a man utterly ruinedand would cut my throat to-morrow for the sake of my relations, if Icared enough about them. I know my own condition pretty well. I havemade a shipwreck of everything, and have now only got to go downamong the breakers."

  "Only you would like to take Lady Glencora with you."

  "No, by heavens! But sometimes, when I do think about it atall,--which I do as seldom as I can,--it seems to me that I mightstill become a different fellow if it were possible for me to marryher."

  "Had you married her when she was free to marry any one and when hermoney was her own, it might have been so."

  "I think it would be quite as much so now. I do, indeed. If I couldget her once, say to Italy, or perhaps to Greece, I think I couldtreat her well, and live with her quietly. I know that I would try."

  "Without the assistance of brandy and cigars."

  "Yes."

  "And without any money."

  "With only a little. I know you'll laugh at me; but I make picturesto myself of a sort of life which I think would suit us, and be verydifferent from this hideous way of living, with which I have becomeso sick that I loathe it."

  "Something like Juan and Haidee, with Planty Pall coming after you,like old Lambro." By the nickname of Planty Pall George Vavasorintended to designate Lady Glencora's present husband.

  "He'd get a divorce, of course, and then we should be married. Ireally don't think he'd dislike it, when it was all done. They tellme he doesn't care for her."

  "You have seen her since her marriage?"

  "Yes; twice."

  "And have spoken to her?"

  "Once only,--so as to be able to do more than ask her if she werewell. Once, for about two minutes, I did speak to her."

  "And what did she say?"

  "She said it would be better that we should not meet. When she saidthat, I knew that she was still fond of me. I could have fallen ather feet that moment, only the room was full of people. I do thinkthat she is fond of me."

  Vavasor paused a few minutes. "I dare say she is fond of you," hethen said; "but whether she has pluck for such a thin
g as this, ismore than I can say. Probably she has not. And if she has, probablyyou would fail in carrying out your plan."

  "I must get a little money first," said Burgo.

  "And that's an operation which no doubt you find more difficult everyday, as you grow older."

  "It seems to be much the same sort of thing. I went to Magruin thismorning."

  "He's the fellow that lives out near Gray's Inn Lane?"

  "Just beyond the Foundling Hospital. I went to him, and he was quitecivil about it. He says I owe him over three thousand pounds, butthat doesn't seem to make any difference."

  "How much did you ever have from him?"

  "I don't recollect that I ever absolutely had any money. He got abill of mine from a tailor who went to smash, and he kept on renewingthat till it grew to be ever so many bills. I think he did once letme have twenty-four pounds,--but certainly never more than that."

  "And he says he'll give you money now? I suppose you told him why youwanted it."

  "I didn't name her,--but I told him what would make him understandthat I hoped to get off with a lady who had a lot of tin. I asked himfor two hundred and fifty. He says he'll let me have one hundred andfifty on a bill at two months for five hundred,--with your name toit."

  "With my name to it! That's kind on his part,--and on yours too."

  "Of course I can't take it up at the end of two months."

  "I dare say not," said Vavasor.

  "But he won't come upon you then,--nor for a year or more afterwards.I did pay you what you lent me before."

  "Yes, you did. I always thought that to be a special compliment onyour part."

  "And you'll find I'll pull you through now in some way. If I don'tsucceed in this I shall go off the hooks altogether soon and if Iwere dead my people would pay my debts then."

  Before the evening was over Vavasor promised the assistance askedof him. He knew that he was lending his name to a man who wasutterly ruined, and putting it into the hands of another man who wasabsolutely without conscience in the use he would make of it. He knewthat he was creating for himself trouble, and in all probabilityloss, which he was ill able to bear. But the thing was one which camewithin the pale of his laws. Such assistance as that he might ask ofothers, and had asked and received before now. It was a reckless deedon his part, but then all his doings were reckless. It was consonantwith his mode of life.

  "I thought you would, old fellow," said Burgo, as he got up to goaway. "Perhaps, you know, I shall pull through in this; and perhaps,after all, some part of her fortune will come with her. If so you'llbe all right."

  "Perhaps I may. But look here, Burgo,--don't you give that fellow upthe bill till you've got the money into your fist."

  "You may be quite easy about that. I know their tricks. He and I willgo to the bank together, and we shall squabble there at the doorabout four or five odd sovereigns,--and at last I shall have to givehim up two or three. Beastly old robber! I declare I think he's worsethan I am myself." Then Burgo Fitzgerald took a little more brandyand water and went away.

  He was living at this time in the house of one of his relatives inCavendish Square, north of Oxford Street. His uncles and his aunts,and all those who were his natural friends, had clung to him with atenacity that was surprising; for he had never been true to any ofthem, and did not even pretend to like them. His father, with whomfor many years he had not been on speaking terms, was now dead; buthe had sisters whose husbands would still open their houses to him,either in London or in the country;--would open their houses to him,and lend him their horses, and provide him with every luxury whichthe rich enjoy,--except ready money. When the uttermost stress ofpecuniary embarrassment would come upon him, they would pay somethingto stave off the immediate evil. And so Burgo went on. Nobody nowthought of saying much to reproach him. It was known to be waste ofwords, and trouble in vain. They were still fond of him because hewas beautiful and never vain of his beauty;--because in the midstof his recklessness there was always about him a certain kindlinesswhich made him pleasant to those around him. He was soft and graciouswith children, and would be very courteous to his lady cousins. Theyknew that as a man he was worthless, but nevertheless they loved him.I think the secret of it was chiefly in this,--that he seemed tothink so little of himself.

  But now as he walked home in the middle of the night from CecilStreet to Cavendish Square he did think much of himself. Indeed suchself-thoughts come naturally to all men, be their outward conductever so reckless. Every man to himself is the centre of the wholeworld;--the axle on which it all turns. All knowledge is but his ownperception of the things around him. All love, and care for others,and solicitude for the world's welfare, are but his own feelings asto the world's wants and the world's merits.

  He had played his part as a centre of all things very badly. Of thathe was very well aware. He had sense enough to know that it should bea man's lot to earn his bread after some fashion, and he often toldhimself that never as yet had he earned so much as a penny roll. Hehad learned to comprehend that the world's progress depends on theway in which men do their duty by each other,--that the progressof one generation depends on the discharge of such duties by thatwhich preceded it;--and he knew that he, in his generation, had donenothing to promote such progress. He thoroughly despised himself,--ifthere might be any good in that! But on such occasions as these, whenthe wine he had drunk was sufficient only to drive away from him thenumbness of despair, when he was all alone with the cold night airupon his face, when the stars were bright above him and the worldaround him was almost quiet, he would still ask himself whetherthere might not yet be, even for him, some hope of a redemption,--some chance of a better life in store for him. He was stillyoung,--wanting some years of thirty. Could there be, even for him,some mode of extrication from his misery?

  We know what was the mode which now, at this moment, was suggestingitself to him. He was proposing to himself, as the best thing that hecould do, to take away another man's wife and make himself happy withher! What he had said to Vavasor as to disregarding Lady Glencora'smoney had been perfectly true. That in the event of her going offwith him, some portion of her enormous wealth would still cling toher, he did believe. Seeing that she had no children he could notunderstand where else it should all go. But he thought of thisas it regarded her, not as it regarded him. When he had beforemade his suit to her,--a suit which was then honourable, howeverdisadvantageous it might have seemed to be to her--he had made in hismind certain calculations as to the good things which would resultto him if he were successful He would keep hounds, and have three orfour horses every day for his own riding, and he would have no moreinterviews with Magruin, waiting in that rogue's dingy back parlourfor many a weary wretched half-hour, till the rogue should be pleasedto show himself. So far he had been mercenary; but he had learned tolove the girl, and to care more for her than for her money, and whenthe day of disappointment came upon him,--the day on which she hadtold him that all between them was to be over for ever,--he had, fora few hours, felt the loss of his love more than the loss of hismoney.

  Then he had had no further hope. No such idea as that which nowfilled his mind had then come upon him. The girl had gone from himand married another man, and there was an end of it. But by degreestidings had reached him that she was not happy,--reaching him throughthe mouths of people who were glad to exaggerate all that they hadheard. A whole tribe of his female relatives had been anxious topromote his marriage with Lady Glencora M'Cluskie, declaring that,after all that was come and gone, Burgo would come forth from histroubles as a man of great wealth. So great was the wealth of theheiress that it might withstand even his propensities for spending.That whole tribe had been bitterly disappointed; and when they heardthat Mr. Palliser's marriage had given him no child, and that LadyGlencora was unhappy,--they made their remarks in triumph ratherthan in sorrow. I will not say that they looked forward approvinglyto such a step as that which Burgo now wished to take,--though asregarded his aunt, Lady Monk, he himself h
ad accused her; but theywhispered that such things had been done and must be expected, whenmarriages were made up as had been that marriage between Mr. Palliserand his bride.

  As he walked on, thinking of his project, he strove hard to cheathimself into a belief that he would do a good thing in carrying LadyGlencora away from her husband. Bad as had been his life he hadnever before done aught so bad as that. The more fixed his intentionbecame, the more thoroughly he came to perceive how great andgrievous was the crime which he contemplated. To elope with anotherman's wife no longer appeared to him to be a joke at which such menas he might smile. But he tried to think that in this case therewould be special circumstances which would almost justify him, andalso her. They had loved each other and had sworn to love each otherwith constancy. There had been no change in the feelings or even inthe wishes of either of them. But cold people had come between themwith cold calculations, and had separated them. She had been, he toldhimself, made to marry a man she did not love. If they two lovedeach other truly, would it not still be better that they should cometogether? Would not the sin be forgiven on account of the injusticewhich had been done to them? Had Mr. Palliser a right to expect morefrom a wife who had been made to marry him without loving him? Thenhe reverted to those dreams of a life of love, in some sunny country,of which he had spoken to Vavasor, and he strove to nourish them.Vavasor had laughed at him, talking of Juan and Haidee. But Vavasor,he said to himself, was a hard cold man, who had no touch of romancein his character. He would not be laughed out of his plan by such ashe,--nor would he be frightened by the threat of any Lambro who mightcome after him, whether he might come in the guise of indignant uncleor injured husband.

  He had crossed from Regent Street through Hanover Square, and as hecame out by the iron gates into Oxford Street, a poor wretched girl,lightly clad in thin raiment, into whose bones the sharp freezing airwas penetrating, asked him for money. Would he give her something toget drink, so that for a moment she might feel the warmth of her liferenewed? Such midnight petitions were common enough in his ears, andhe was passing on without thinking of her. But she was urgent, andtook hold of him. "For love of God," she said, "if it's only a pennyto get a glass of gin! Feel my hand,--how cold it is." And she stroveto put it up against his face.

  He looked round at her and saw that she was very young,--sixteen,perhaps, at the most, and that she had once,--nay very lately,--beenexquisitely pretty. There still lingered about her eyes some remainsof that look of perfect innocency and pure faith which had been hersnot more than twelve months since. And now, at midnight, in themiddle of the streets, she was praying for a pennyworth of gin, asthe only comfort she knew, or could expect!

  "You are cold!" said he, trying to speak to her cheerily.

  "Cold!" said she, repeating the word, and striving to wrap herselfcloser in her rags, as she shivered--"Oh God! if you knew what itwas to be as cold as I am! I have nothing in the world,--not onepenny,--not a hole to lie in!"

  "We are alike then," said Burgo, with a slight low laugh. "I alsohave nothing. You cannot be poorer than I am."

  "You poor!" she said. And then she looked up into his face."Gracious; how beautiful you are! Such as you are never poor."

  He laughed again,--in a different tone. He always laughed when anyone told him of his beauty. "I am a deal poorer than you, my girl,"he said. "You have nothing. I have thirty thousand pounds worse thannothing. But come along, and I will get you something to eat."

  "Will you?" said she, eagerly. Then looking up at him again, sheexclaimed--"Oh, you are so handsome!"

  He took her to a public-house and gave her bread and meat and beer,and stood by her while she ate it. She was shy with him then, andwould fain have taken it to a corner by herself, had he allowed her.He perceived this, and turned his back to her, but still spoke to hera word or two as she ate. The woman at the bar who served him lookedat him wonderingly, staring into his face; and the pot-boy wokehimself thoroughly that he might look at Burgo; and the waterman fromthe cab-stand stared at him; and women who came in for gin lookedalmost lovingly up into his eyes. He regarded them all not at all,showing no feeling of disgrace at his position, and no desire tocarry himself as a ruffler. He quietly paid what was due when thegirl had finished her meal, and then walked with her out of theshop. "And now," said he, "what must I do with you? If I give you ashilling can you get a bed?" She told him that she could get a bedfor sixpence. "Then keep the other sixpence for your breakfast," saidhe. "But you must promise me that you will buy no gin to-night." Shepromised him, and then he gave her his hand as he wished her goodnight;--his hand, which it had been the dearest wish of Lady Glencorato call her own. She took it and pressed it to her lips. "I wish Imight once see you again," she said, "because you are so good and sobeautiful." He laughed again cheerily, and walked on, crossing thestreet towards Cavendish Square. She stood looking at him till he wasout of sight, and then as she moved away,--let us hope to the bedwhich his bounty had provided, and not to a gin-shop,--she exclaimedto herself again and again--"Gracious, how beautiful he was!" "He'sa good un," the woman at the public-house had said as soon as heleft it; "but, my! did you ever see a man's face handsome as thatfellow's?"

  Burgo Fitzgerald.]

  Poor Burgo! All who had seen him since life had begun with him hadloved him and striven to cherish him. And with it all, to what astate had he come! Poor Burgo! had his eyes been less brightly blue,and his face less godlike in form, it may be that things wouldhave gone better with him. A sweeter-tempered man than he neverlived,--nor one who was of a kinder nature. At this moment he hadbarely money about him to take him down to his aunt's house atMonkshade, and as he had promised to be there before Christmas Day,he was bound to start on the next morning, before help from Mr.Magruin was possible. Nevertheless, out of his very narrow funds hehad given half a crown to comfort the poor creature who had spoken tohim in the street.