The Palliser Novels (274 page)

“I’m sure you mean to do a kind thing.”

“Well; — yes, I do. I think we have not met since you were at my house near the end of last season.”

“No, indeed. I have been in London six weeks, but have not been out much. For the last fortnight I have been in bed. I have had things to trouble me so much that they have made me ill.”

“So I have heard, Lady Eustace, and I have just come to offer you my sympathy. When I was told that you did see people, I thought that perhaps you would admit me.”

“So willingly, Lady Glencora!”

“I have heard, of course, of your terrible losses.”

“The loss has been as nothing to the vexation that has accompanied it. I don’t know how to speak of it. Ladies have lost their jewels before now, but I don’t know that any lady before me has ever been accused of stealing them herself.”

“There has been no accusation, surely?”

“I haven’t exactly been put in prison, Lady Glencora, but I have had policemen here wanting to search my things; — and then you know yourself what reports have been spread.”

“Oh, yes; I do. Only for that, to tell you plainly, I should hardly have been here now.” Then Lady Glencora poured out her sympathy, — perhaps with more eloquence and grace than discretion. She was, at any rate, both graceful and eloquent. “As for the loss of the diamonds, I think you bear it wonderfully,” said Lady Glencora.

“If you could imagine how little I care about it!” said Lizzie with enthusiasm. “They had lost the delight which I used to feel in them as a present from my husband. People had talked about them, and I had been threatened because I chose to keep what I knew to be my own. Of course, I would not give them up. Would you have given them up, Lady Glencora?”

“Certainly not.”

“Nor would I. But when once all that had begun, they became an irrepressible burthen to me. I often used to say that I would throw them into the sea.”

“I don’t think I would have done that,” said Lady Glencora.

“Ah, — you have never suffered as I have suffered.”

“We never know where each other’s shoes pinch each other’s toes.”

“You have never been left desolate. You have a husband and friends.”

“A husband that wants to put five farthings into a penny! All is not gold that glistens, Lady Eustace.”

“You can never have known trials such as mine,” continued Lizzie, not understanding in the least her new friend’s allusion to the great currency question. “Perhaps you may have heard that in the course of last summer I became engaged to marry a nobleman, with whom I am aware that you are acquainted.” This she said in her softest whisper.

“Oh, yes; — Lord Fawn. I know him very well. Of course I heard of it. We all heard of it.”

“And you have heard how he has treated me?”

“Yes, — indeed.”

“I will say nothing about him — to you, Lady Glencora. It would not be proper that I should do so. But all that came of this wretched necklace. After that, can you wonder that I should say that I wish these stones had been thrown into the sea?”

“I suppose Lord Fawn will — will come all right again now?” said Lady Glencora.

“All right!” exclaimed Lizzie in astonishment.

“His objection to the marriage will now be over.”

“I’m sure I do not in the least know what are his lordship’s views,” said Lizzie in scorn, “and, to tell the truth, I do not very much care.”

“What I mean is, that he didn’t like you to have the Eustace
diamonds — “

“They were not Eustace diamonds. They were my diamonds.”

“But he did not like you to have them; and as they are now gone — for
ever — “

“Oh, yes; — they are gone for ever.”

“His objection is gone too. Why don’t you write to him, and make him come and see you? That’s what I should do.”

Lizzie, of course, repudiated vehemently any idea of forcing Lord Fawn into a marriage which had become distasteful to him, — let the reason be what it might. “His lordship is perfectly free, as far as I am concerned,” said Lizzie with a little show of anger. But all this Lady Glencora took at its worth. Lizzie Eustace had been a good deal knocked about, and Lady Glencora did not doubt but that she would be very glad to get back her betrothed husband. The little woman had suffered hardships, — so thought Lady Glencora, — and a good thing would be done by bringing her into fashion, and setting the marriage up again. As to Lord Fawn, — the fortune was there, as good now as it had been when he first sought it; and the lady was very pretty, a baronet’s widow too! — and in all respects good enough for Lord Fawn. A very pretty little baronet’s widow she was, with four thousand a year, and a house in Scotland, and a history. Lady Glencora determined that she would remake the match.

“I think, you know, friends who have been friends should be brought together. I suppose I may say a word to Lord Fawn?”

Lizzie hesitated for a moment before she answered, and then remembered that revenge, at least, would be sweet to her. She had sworn that she would be revenged upon Lord Fawn. After all, might it not suit her best to carry out her oath by marrying him? But whether so or otherwise, it would not but be well for her that he should be again at her feet. “Yes, — if you think good will come of it.” The acquiescence was given with much hesitation; — but the circumstances required that it should be so, and Lady Glencora fully understood the circumstances. When she took her leave, Lizzie was profuse in her gratitude. “Oh, Lady Glencora, it has been so good of you to come. Pray come again, if you can spare me another moment.” Lady Glencora said that she would come again.

During the visit she had asked some question concerning Lucinda and Sir Griffin, and had been informed that that marriage was to go on. A hint had been thrown out as to Lucinda’s parentage; — but Lizzie had not understood the hint, and the question had not been pressed.

The task which Lady Glencora had taken upon herself was not a very easy one. No doubt Lord Fawn was a man subservient to the leaders of his party, much afraid of the hard judgment of those with whom he was concerned, painfully open to impression from what he would have called public opinion, to a certain extent a coward, most anxious to do right so that he might not be accused of being in the wrong, — and at the same time gifted with but little of that insight into things which teaches men to know what is right and what is wrong. Lady Glencora, having perceived all this, felt that he was a man upon whom a few words from her might have an effect. But even Lady Glencora might hesitate to tell a gentleman that he ought to marry a lady, when the gentleman had already declared his intention of not marrying, and had attempted to justify his decision almost publicly by a reference to the lady’s conduct. Lady Glencora almost felt that she had undertaken too much as she turned over in her mind the means she had of performing her promise to Lady Eustace.

The five-farthing bill had been laid upon the table on a Tuesday, and was to be read the first time on the following Monday week. On the Wednesday Lady Glencora had written to the duke, and had called in Hertford Street. On the following Sunday she was at Matching, looking after the duke; — but she returned to London on the Tuesday, and on the Wednesday there was a little dinner at Mr. Palliser’s house, given avowedly with the object of further friendly discussion respecting the new Palliser penny. The prime minister was to be there, and Mr. Bonteen, and Barrington Erle, and those special members of the Government who would be available for giving special help to the financial Hercules of the day. A question, perhaps of no great practical importance, had occurred to Mr. Palliser, — but one which, if overlooked, might be fatal to the ultimate success of the measure. There is so much in a name, — and then an ounce of ridicule is often more potent than a hundredweight of argument. By what denomination should the fifth part of a penny be hereafter known? Some one had, ill-naturedly, whispered to Mr. Palliser that a farthing meant a fourth, and at once there arose a new trouble, which for a time bore very heavily on him. Should he boldly disregard the original meaning of the useful old word; or should he venture on the dangers of new nomenclature? October, as he said to himself, is still the tenth month of the year, November the eleventh, and so on, though by these names they are so plainly called the eighth and ninth. All France tried to rid itself of this absurdity, and failed. Should he stick by the farthing; or should he call it a fifthing, a quint, or a semitenth? “There’s the ‘Fortnightly Review’ comes out but once a month,” he said to his friend Mr. Bonteen, “and I’m told that it does very well.” Mr. Bonteen, who was a rational man, thought the “Review” would do better if it were called by a more rational name, and was very much in favour of “a quint.” Mr. Gresham had expressed an opinion, somewhat off-hand, that English people would never be got to talk about quints, and so there was a difficulty. A little dinner was therefore arranged, and Mr. Palliser, as was his custom in such matters, put the affair of the dinner into his wife’s hands. When he was told that she had included Lord Fawn among the guests he opened his eyes. Lord Fawn, who might be good enough at the India Office, knew literally nothing about the penny. “He’ll take it as the greatest compliment in the world,” said Lady Glencora. “I don’t want to pay Lord Fawn a compliment,” said Mr. Palliser. “But I do,” said Lady Glencora. And so the matter was arranged.

It was a very nice little dinner. Mrs. Gresham and Mrs. Bonteen were there, and the great question of the day was settled in two minutes, before the guests went out of the drawing-room. “Stick to your farthing,” said Mr. Gresham.

“I think so,” said Mr. Palliser.

“Quint’s a very easy word,” said Mr. Bonteen.

“But squint is an easier,” said Mr. Gresham, with all a prime minister’s jocose authority.

“They’d certainly be called cock-eyes,” said Barrington Erle.

“There’s nothing of the sound of a quarter in farthing,” said Mr. Palliser.

“Stick to the old word,” said Mr. Gresham. And so the matter was decided while Lady Glencora was flattering Lord Fawn as to the manner in which he had finally arranged the affair of the Sawab of Mygawb. Then they went down to dinner, and not a word more was said that evening about the new penny by Mr. Palliser.

Before dinner Lady Glencora had exacted a promise from Lord Fawn that he would return to the drawing-room. Lady Glencora was very clever at such work, and said nothing then of her purpose. She did not want her guests to run away, and therefore Lord Fawn, — Lord Fawn especially, — must stay. If he were to go there would be nothing spoken of all the evening, but that weary new penny. To oblige her he must remain; — and, of course, he did remain. “Whom do you think I saw the other day?” said Lady Glencora, when she got her victim into a corner. Of course, Lord Fawn had no idea whom she might have seen. Up to that moment no suspicion of what was coming upon him had crossed his mind. “I called upon poor Lady Eustace, and found her in bed.” Then did Lord Fawn blush up to the roots of his hair, and for a moment he was stricken dumb. “I do feel for her so much! I think she has been so hardly used!”

He was obliged to say something. “My name has, of course, been much mixed up with hers.”

“Yes, Lord Fawn, I know it has. And it is because I am so sure of your high-minded generosity and — and thorough devotion, that I have ventured to speak to you. I am sure there is nothing you would wish so much as to get at the truth.”

“Certainly, Lady Glencora.”

“All manner of stories have been told about her, and, as I believe, without the slightest foundation. They tell me now that she had an undoubted right to keep the diamonds; — that even if Sir Florian did not give them to her, they were hers under his will. Those lawyers have given up all idea of proceeding against her.”

“Because the necklace has been stolen.”

“Altogether independently of that. Do you see Mr. Eustace, and ask him if what I say is not true. If it had not been her own she would have been responsible for the value, even though it were stolen; and with such a fortune as hers they would never have allowed her to escape. They were as bitter against her as they could be; — weren’t they?”

“Mr. Camperdown thought that the property should be given up.”

“Oh yes; — that’s the man’s name; a horrid man. I am told that he was really most cruel to her. And then, because a lot of thieves had got about her, — after the diamonds, you know, like flies round a honey-pot, — and took first her necklace and then her money, they were impudent enough to say that she had stolen her own things!”

“I don’t think they quite said that, Lady Glencora.”

“Something very much like it, Lord Fawn. I have no doubt in my own mind who did steal all the things.”

“Who was it?”

“Oh, — one mustn’t mention names in such an affair without evidence. At any rate, she has been very badly treated, and I shall take her up. If I were you I would go and call upon her; — I would indeed. I think you owe it to her. Well, duke, what do you think of Plantagenet’s penny now? Will it ever be worth two halfpence?” This question was asked of the Duke of St. Bungay, a great nobleman whom all Liberals loved, and a member of the Cabinet. He had come in since dinner, and had been asking a question or two as to what had been decided.

“Well, yes; if properly invested I think it will. I’m glad that it is not to contain five semitenths. A semitenth would never have been a popular form of money in England. We hate new names so much that we have not yet got beyond talking of fourpenny bits.”

“There’s a great deal in a name; — isn’t there? You don’t think they’ll call them Pallisers, or Palls, or anything of that sort; — do you? I shouldn’t like to hear that under the new régime two lollypops were to cost three Palls. But they say it never can be carried this session, — and we sha’n’t be in, in the next year.”

“Who says so? Don’t be such a prophetess of evil, Lady Glencora. I mean to be in for the next three sessions, and I mean to see Palliser’s measure carried through the House of Lords next session. I shall be paying for my mutton-chops at the club at so many quints a chop yet. Don’t you think so, Fawn?”