Can You Forgive Her?

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  Preparations for Lady Monk's Party.

  Early in April, the Easter recess being all over, Lady Monk gavea grand party in London. Lady Monk's town house was in GloucesterSquare. It was a large mansion, and Lady Monk's parties in Londonwere known to be very great affairs. She usually gave two or three inthe season, and spent a large portion of her time and energy in soarranging matters that her parties should be successful. As this washer special line in life, a failure would have been very distressingto her;--and we may also say very disgraceful, taking intoconsideration, as we should do in forming our judgement on thesubject, the very large sums of Sir Cosmo's money which she spent inthis way. But she seldom did fail. She knew how to select her days,so as not to fall foul of other events. It seldom happened thatpeople could not come to her because of a division which occupiedall the Members of Parliament, or that they were drawn away by thesuperior magnitude of some other attraction in the world of fashion.This giving of parties was her business, and she had learned itthoroughly. She worked at it harder than most men work at theirtrades, and let us hope that the profits were consolatory.

  It was generally acknowledged to be the proper thing to go to LadyMonk's parties. There were certain people who were asked, and whowent as a matter of course,--people who were by no means on intimateterms with Lady Monk, or with Sir Cosmo; but they were people to havewhom was the proper thing, and they were people who understood thatto go to Lady Monk's was the proper thing for them. The Duchess ofSt. Bungay was always there, though she hated Lady Monk, and Lady Monkalways abused her; but a card was sent to the Duchess in the same wayas the Lord Mayor invites a Cabinet Minister to dinner, even thoughthe one man might believe the other to be a thief. And Mrs. ConwaySparkes was generally there; she went everywhere. Lady Monk did notat all know why Mrs. Conway Sparkes was so favoured by the world;but there was the fact, and she bowed to it. Then there were anotherset, the members of which were or were not invited, according tocircumstances, at the time; and these were the people who wereprobably the most legitimate recipients of Lady Monk's hospitality.Old family friends of her husband were among the number. Let theTuftons come in April, and perhaps again in May; then they will notfeel their exclusion from that seventh heaven of glory,--the greatculminating crush in July. Scores of young ladies who really lovedparties belonged to this set. The mothers and aunts knew Lady Monk'ssisters and cousins. They accepted so much of Lady Monk's goodthings as she vouchsafed them, and were thankful. Then there wasanother lot, which generally became, especially on that great Julyoccasion, the most numerous of the three. It comprised all thosewho made strong interest to obtain admittance within her ladyship'shouse,--who struggled and fought almost with tooth and nail to getinvitations. Against these people Lady Monk carried on an internecinewar. Had she not done so she would have been swamped by them, andher success would have been at an end; but yet she never dreamed ofshutting her doors against them altogether, or of saying boldly thatnone such should hamper her staircases. She knew that she must yield,but her effort was made to yield to as few as might be possible. Whenshe was first told by her factotum in these operations that Mr. Bottwanted to come, she positively declined to have him. When it wasafterwards intimated to her that the Duchess of St. Bungay had made apoint of it, she sneered at the Duchess, and did not even then yield.But when at last it was brought home to her understanding that Mr.Palliser wished it, and that Mr. Palliser probably would not comehimself unless his wishes were gratified, she gave way. She wasespecially anxious that Lady Glencora should come to her gathering,and she knew that Lady Glencora could not be had without Mr. Palliser.

  It was very much desired by her that Lady Glencora should be there."Burgo," said she to her nephew, one morning, "look here." Burgo wasat the time staying with his aunt, in Gloucester Square, much to theannoyance of Sir Cosmo, who had become heartily tired of his nephew.The aunt and the nephew had been closeted together more than oncelately, and perhaps they understood each other better now than theyhad done down at Monkshade. The aunt had handed a little note toBurgo, which he read and then threw back to her. "You see that she isnot afraid of coming," said Lady Monk.

  "I suppose she doesn't think much about it," said Burgo.

  "If that's what you really believe, you'd better give it up. Nothingon earth would justify such a step on your part except a thoroughconviction that she is attached to you."

  Burgo looked at the fireplace, almost savagely, and his aunt lookedat him very keenly. "Well," she said, "if there's to be an end of it,let there be an end of it."

  "I think I'd better hang myself," he said.

  "Burgo, I will not have you here if you talk to me in that way. I amtrying to help you once again; but if you look like that, and talklike that, I will give it up."

  "I think you'd better give it up."

  "Are you becoming cowardly at last? With all your faults I neverexpected that of you."

  "No; I am not a coward. I'd go out and fight him at two paces'distance with the greatest pleasure in the world."

  "You know that's nonsense, Burgo. It's downright braggadocio. Men donot fight now; nor at any time would a man be called upon to fight,because you simply wanted to take his wife from him. If you had doneit, indeed!"

  "How am I to do it? I'd do it to-morrow if it depended on me. No onecan say that I'm afraid of anybody or of anything."

  "I suppose something in the matter depends on her?"

  "I believe she loves me,--if you mean that?"

  "Look here, Burgo," and the considerate aunt gave to the impoverishedand ruined nephew such counsel as she, in accordance with her lights,was enabled to bestow. "I think you were much wronged in that matter.After what had passed I thought that you had a right to claim LadyGlencora as your wife. Mr. Palliser, in my mind, behaved very wronglyin stepping in between you and--you and such a fortune as hers, inthat way. He cannot expect that his wife should have any affectionfor him. There is nobody alive who has a greater horror of anythingimproper in married women than I have. I have always shown it. WhenLady Madeline Madtop left her husband, I would never allow her tocome inside my doors again,--though I have no doubt he ill-used herdreadfully, and there was nothing ever proved between her and ColonelGraham. One can't be too particular in such matters. But here,if you,--if you can succeed, you know, I shall always regard thePalliser episode in Lady Glencora's life as a tragical accident. Ishall indeed. Poor dear! It was done exactly as they make nuns ofgirls in Roman Catholic countries; and as I should think no harmof helping a nun out of her convent, so I should think no harm ofhelping her now. If you are to say anything to her, I think you mighthave an opportunity at the party."

  Burgo was still looking at the fireplace; and he sat on, looking andstill looking, but he said nothing.

  "You can think of what I have said, Burgo," continued his aunt,meaning that he should get up and go. But he did not go. "Have youanything more that you wish to say to me?" she asked.

  "I've got no money," said Burgo, still looking at the fireplace.

  Lady Glencora's property was worth not less than fifty thousanda year. He was a young man ambitious of obtaining that almostincredible amount of wealth, and who once had nearly reached it, bymeans of her love. His present obstacle consisted in his want of atwenty-pound note! "I've got no money." The words were growled outrather than spoken, and his eyes were never turned even for a momenttowards his aunt's face.

  "You've never got any money," said she, speaking almost with passion.

  "How can I help it? I can't make money. If I had a couple of hundredpounds, so that I could take her, I believe that she would go withme. It should not be my fault if she did not. It would have been allright if she had come to Monkshade."

  "I've got no money for you, Burgo. I have not five pounds belongingto me."

  "But you've got--?"

  "What?" said Lady Monk, interrupting him sharply.

  "Would Cosmo lend it me?" said he, hesitating to go on with thatsuggestion which he ha
d been about to make. The Cosmo of whom hespoke was not his uncle, but his cousin. No eloquence could haveinduced his uncle, Sir Cosmo, to lend him another shilling. But theson of the house was a man rich with his own wealth, and Burgo hadnot taxed him for some years.

  "I do not know," said Lady Monk. "I never see him. Probably not."

  "It is hard," said Burgo. "Fancy that a man should be ruined for twohundred pounds, just at such a moment of his life as this!" He wasa man bold by nature, and he did make his proposition. "You havejewels, aunt;--could you not raise it for me? I would redeem themwith the very first money that I got."

  Lady Monk rose in a passion when the suggestion was first made,but before the interview was over she had promised that she wouldendeavour to do something in the way of raising money for him yet,once again. He was her favourite nephew, and the same almost toher as a child of her own. With one of her own children indeed shehad quarrelled, and of the other, a married daughter, she rarelysaw much. Such love as she had to give she gave to Burgo, and shepromised him the money though she knew that she must raise it by somevillanous falsehood to her husband.

  On the same morning Lady Glencora went to Queen Anne Street with thepurpose of inducing Alice to go to Lady Monk's party; but Alice wouldnot accede to the proposition, though Lady Glencora pressed it withall her eloquence. "I don't know her," said Alice.

  "My dear," said Lady Glencora, "that's absurd. Half the people therewon't know her."

  "But they know her set, or know her friends,--or, at any rate, willmeet their own friends at her house. I should only bother you, andshould not in the least gratify myself."

  "The fact is, everybody will go who can, and I should have no sortof trouble in getting a card for you. Indeed I should simply write anote and say I meant to bring you."

  "Pray don't do any such thing, for I certainly shall not go. I can'tconceive why you should wish it."

  "Mr. Fitzgerald will be there," said Lady Glencora, altering her voicealtogether, and speaking in that low tone with which she used to winAlice's heart down at Matching. She was sitting close over the fire,leaning low, holding up her little hands as a screen to her face, andlooking at her companion earnestly. "I'm sure that he will be there,though nobody has told me."

  "That may be a reason for your staying away," said Alice, slowly,"but hardly a reason for my going with you."

  Lady Glencora would not condescend to tell her friend in so manywords that she wanted her protection. She could not bring herself tosay that, though she wished it to be understood. "Ah! I thought youwould have gone," said she.

  "It would be contrary to all my habits," said Alice: "I never go topeople's houses when I don't know them. It's a kind of society whichI don't like. Pray do not ask me."

  "Oh! very well. If it must be so, I won't press it." Lady Glencorahad moved the position of one of her hands so as to get it to herpocket, and there had grasped a letter, which she still carried; butwhen Alice said those last cold words, "Pray do not ask me," shereleased the grasp, and left the letter where it was. "I suppose hewon't bite me, at any rate," she said, and she assumed that look ofchildish drollery which she would sometimes put on, almost with agrimace, but still with so much prettiness that no one who saw herwould regret it.

  "He certainly can't bite you, if you will not let him."

  "Do you know, Alice, though they all say that Plantagenet is one ofthe wisest men in London, I sometimes think that he is one of thegreatest fools. Soon after we came to town I told him that we hadbetter not go to that woman's house. Of course he understood me. Hesimply said that he wished that I should do so. 'I hate anything outof the way,' he said. 'There can be no reason why my wife should notgo to Lady Monk's house as well as to any other.' There was an end ofit, you know, as far as anything I could do was concerned. But therewasn't an end of it with him. He insists that I shall go, but hesends my duenna with me. Dear Mrs. Marsham is to be there!"

  "She'll do you no harm, I suppose?"

  "I'm not so sure of that, Alice. In the first place, one doesn't liketo be followed everywhere by a policeman, even though one isn't goingto pick a pocket. And then, the devil is so strong within me, that Ishould like to dodge the policeman. I can fancy a woman being drivento do wrong simply by a desire to show her policeman that she can betoo many for him."

  "Glencora, you make me so wretched when you talk like that."

  "Will you go with me, then, so that I may have a policeman of my ownchoosing? He asked me if I would mind taking Mrs. Marsham with me inmy carriage. So I up and spoke, very boldly, like the proud youngporter, and told him I would not; and when he asked why not, I saidthat I preferred taking a friend of my own,--a young friend, I said,and I then named you or my cousin, Lady Jane. I told him I shouldbring one or the other."

  "And was he angry?"

  "No; he took it very quietly,--saying something, in his calm way,about hoping that I should get over a prejudice against one ofhis earliest and dearest friends. He twits at me because I don'tunderstand Parliament and the British Constitution, but I know moreof them than he does about a woman. You are quite sure you won't go,then?" Alice hesitated a moment. "Do," said Lady Glencora; and therewas an amount of persuasion in her accent which should, I think, haveovercome her cousin's scruples.

  "It is against the whole tenor of my life's way," she said, "And,Glencora, I am not happy myself. I am not fit for parties. Isometimes think that I shall never go into society again."

  "That's nonsense, you know."

  "I suppose it is, but I cannot go now. I would if I really thought--"

  "Oh, very well," said Lady Glencora, interrupting her. "I suppose Ishall get through it. If he asks me to dance, I shall stand up withhim, just as though I had never seen him before." Then she rememberedthe letter in her pocket,--remembered that at this moment she boreabout with her a written proposition from this man to go off with himand leave her husband's house. She had intended to show it to Aliceon this occasion but as Alice had refused her request, she was gladthat she had not done so. "You'll come to me the morning after," saidLady Glencora, as she went. This Alice promised to do; and then shewas left alone.

  Alice regretted,--regretted deeply that she had not consented to gowith her cousin. After all, of what importance had been her objectionwhen compared with the cause for which her presence had been desired?Doubtless she would have been uncomfortable at Lady Monk's house;but could she not have borne some hour or two of discomfort on herfriend's behalf? But, in truth, it was only after Lady Glencora hadleft her that she began to understand the subject fully, and to feelthat she might possibly have been of service in a great danger. Butit was too late now. Then she strove to comfort herself with thereflection that a casual meeting at an evening party in London couldnot be perilous in the same degree as a prolonged sojourn together ina country house.