The Palliser Novels (502 page)

There had been one lady, a very dear ally, staying in the house with them when the Duchess died. This was Mrs. Finn, the wife of Phineas Finn, who had been one of the Duke’s colleagues when in office. How it had come to pass that Mrs. Finn and the Duchess had become singularly bound together has been told elsewhere. But there had been close bonds, — so close that when the Duchess on their return from the Continent had passed through London on her way to Matching, ill at the time and very comfortless, it had been almost a thing of course, that Mrs. Finn should go with her. And as she had sunk, and then despaired, and then died, it was this woman who had always been at her side, who had ministered to her, and had listened to the fears and the wishes and hopes she had expressed respecting the children.

At Matching, amidst the ruins of the old Priory, there is a parish burying-ground, and there, in accordance with her own wish, almost within sight of her own bedroom-window, she was buried. On the day of the funeral a dozen relatives came, Pallisers and M’Closkies, who on such an occasion were bound to show themselves, as members of the family. With them and his two sons the Duke walked across to the graveyard, and then walked back; but even to those who stayed the night at the house he hardly spoke. By noon on the following day they had all left him, and the only stranger in the house was Mrs. Finn.

On the afternoon of the day after the funeral the Duke and his guest met, almost for the first time since the sad event. There had been just a pressure of the hand, just a glance of compassion, just some murmur of deep sorrow, — but there had been no real speech between them. Now he had sent for her, and she went down to him in the room in which he commonly sat at work. He was seated at his table when she entered, but there was no book open before him, and no pen ready to his hand. He was dressed of course in black. That, indeed, was usual with him, but now the tailor by his funereal art had added some deeper dye of blackness to his appearance. When he rose and turned to her she thought that he had at once become an old man. His hair was grey in parts, and he had never accustomed himself to use that skill in managing his outside person by which many men are able to preserve for themselves a look, if not of youth, at any rate of freshness. He was thin, of an adust complexion, and had acquired a habit of stooping which, when he was not excited, gave him an appearance of age. All that was common to him; but now it was so much exaggerated that he who was not yet fifty might have been taken to be over sixty.

He put out his hand to greet her as she came up to him. “Silverbridge,” he said, “tells me that you go back to London to-morrow.”

“I thought it would be best, Duke. My presence here can be of no comfort to you.”

“I will not say that anything can be of comfort. But of course it is right that you should go. I can have no excuse for asking you to remain. While there was yet a hope for her — ” Then he stopped, unable to say a word further in that direction, and yet there was no sign of a tear and no sound of a sob.

“Of course I would stay, Duke, if I could be of any service.”

“Mr. Finn will expect you to return to him.”

“Perhaps it would be better that I should say that I would stay were it not that I know that I can be of no real service.”

“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Finn?”

“Lady Mary should have with her at such a time some other friend.”

“There was none other whom her mother loved as she loved you — none, none.” This he said almost with energy.

“There was no one lately, Duke, with whom circumstances caused her mother to be so closely intimate. But even that perhaps was unfortunate.”

“I never thought so.”

“That is a great compliment. But as to Lady Mary, will it not be as well that she should have with her, as soon as possible, someone, — perhaps someone of her own kindred if it be possible, or, if not that, at least one of her own kind?”

“Who is there? Whom do you mean?”

“I mean no one. It is hard, Duke, to say what I do mean, but perhaps I had better try. There will be, — probably there have been, — some among your friends who have regretted the great intimacy which chance produced between me and my lost friend. While she was with us no such feeling would have sufficed to drive me from her. She had chosen for herself, and if others disapproved her choice that was nothing to me. But as regards Lady Mary, it will be better, I think, that from the beginning she should be taught to look for friendship and guidance to those — to those who are more naturally connected with her.”

“I was not thinking of any guidance,” said the Duke.

“Of course not. But with one so young, where there is intimacy there will be guidance. There should be somebody with her. It was almost the last thought that occupied her mother’s mind. I could not tell her, Duke, but I can tell you, that I cannot with advantage to your girl be that somebody.”

“Cora wished it.”

“Her wishes, probably, were sudden and hardly fixed.”

“Who should it be, then?” asked the father, after a pause.

“Who am I, Duke, that I should answer such a question?”

After that there was another pause, and then the conference was ended by a request from the Duke that Mrs. Finn would stay at Matching for yet two days longer. At dinner they all met, — the father, the three children, and Mrs. Finn. How far the young people among themselves had been able to throw off something of the gloom of death need not here be asked; but in the presence of their father they were sad and sombre, almost as he was. On the next day, early in the morning, the younger lad returned to his college, and Lord Silverbridge went up to London, where he was supposed to have his home.

“Perhaps you would not mind reading these letters,” the Duke said to Mrs. Finn, when she again went to him, in compliance with a message from him asking for her presence. Then she sat down and read two letters, one from Lady Cantrip, and the other from a Mrs. Jeffrey Palliser, each of which contained an invitation for his daughter, and expressed a hope that Lady Mary would not be unwilling to spend some time with the writer. Lady Cantrip’s letter was long, and went minutely into circumstances. If Lady Mary would come to her, she would abstain from having other company in the house till her young friend’s spirits should have somewhat recovered themselves. Nothing could be more kind, or proposed in a sweeter fashion. There had, however, been present to the Duke’s mind as he read it a feeling that a proposition to a bereaved husband to relieve him of the society of an only daughter, was not one which would usually be made to a father. In such a position a child’s company would probably be his best solace. But he knew, — at this moment he painfully remembered, — that he was not as are other men. He acknowledged the truth of this, but he was not the less grieved and irritated by the reminder. The letter from Mrs. Jeffrey Palliser was to the same effect, but was much shorter. If it would suit Mary to come to them for a month or six weeks at their place in Gloucestershire, they would both be delighted.

“I should not choose her to go there,” said the Duke, as Mrs. Finn refolded the latter letter. “My cousin’s wife is a very good woman, but Mary would not be happy with her.”

“Lady Cantrip is an excellent friend for her.”

“Excellent. I know no one whom I esteem more than Lady Cantrip.”

“Would you wish her to go there, Duke?”

There came a wistful piteous look over the father’s face. Why should he be treated as no other father would be treated? Why should it be supposed that he would desire to send his girl away from him? But yet he felt that it would be better that she should go. It was his present purpose to remain at Matching through a portion of the summer. What could he do to make a girl happy? What comfort would there be in his companionship?

“I suppose she ought to go somewhere,” he said.

“I had not thought of it,” said Mrs. Finn.

“I understood you to say,” replied the Duke, almost angrily, “that she ought to go to someone who would take care of her.”

“I was thinking of some friend coming to her.”

“Who would come? Who is there that I could possibly ask? You will not stay.”

“I certainly would stay, if it were for her good. I was thinking, Duke, that perhaps you might ask the Greys to come to you.”

“They would not come,” he said, after a pause.

“When she was told that it was for her sake, she would come, I think.”

Then there was another pause. “I could not ask them,” he said; “for his sake I could not have it put to her in that way. Perhaps Mary had better go to Lady Cantrip. Perhaps I had better be alone here for a time. I do not think that I am fit to have any human being here with me in my sorrow.”

It may as well be said at once that Mrs. Finn knew something of Lady Mary which was not known to the father, and which she was not yet prepared to make known to him. The last winter abroad had been passed at Rome, and there Lady Mary Palliser had become acquainted with a certain Mr. Tregear, — Francis Oliphant Tregear. The Duchess, who had been in constant correspondence with her friend, had asked questions by letter as to Mr. Tregear, of whom she had only known that he was the younger son of a Cornish gentleman, who had become Lord Silverbridge’s friend at Oxford. In this there had certainly been but little to recommend him to the intimacy of such a girl as Lady Mary Palliser. Nor had the Duchess, when writing, ever spoken of him as a probable suitor for her daughter’s hand. She had never connected the two names together. But Mrs. Finn had been clever enough to perceive that the Duchess had become fond of Mr. Tregear, and would willingly have heard something to his advantage. And she did hear something to his advantage, — something also to his disadvantage. At his mother’s death this young man would inherit a property amounting to about fifteen hundred a year. “And I am told,” said Mrs. Finn, “that he is quite likely to spend his money before it comes to him.” There had been nothing more written specially about Mr. Tregear; but Mrs. Finn had feared not only that the young man loved the girl, but that the young man’s love had in some imprudent way been fostered by the mother.

Then there had been some fitful confidence during those few days of acute illness. Why should not the girl have the man if he were lovable? And the Duchess referred to her own early days when she had loved, and to the great ruin which had come upon her heart when she had been severed from the man she had loved. “Not but that it has been all for the best,” she had said. “Not but that Plantagenet has been to me all that a husband should be. Only if she can be spared what I suffered, let her be spared.” Even when these things had been said to her, Mrs. Finn had found herself unable to ask questions. She could not bring herself to inquire whether the girl had in truth given her heart to this young Tregear. The one was nineteen and the other as yet but two-and-twenty! But though she asked no questions she almost knew that it must be so. And she knew also that the father, as yet, was quite in the dark on the matter. How was it possible that in such circumstances she should assume the part of the girl’s confidential friend and monitress? Were she to do so she must immediately tell the father everything. In such a position no one could be a better friend than Lady Cantrip, and Mrs. Finn had already almost made up her mind that, should Lady Cantrip occupy the place, she would tell her ladyship all that had passed between herself and the Duchess on the subject.

Of what hopes she might have, or what fears, about her girl, the Duchess had said no word to her husband. But when she had believed that the things of the world were fading away from her, and when he was sitting by her bedside, — dumb, because at such a moment he knew not how to express the tenderness of his heart, — holding her hand, and trying so to listen to her words, that he might collect and remember every wish, she had murmured something about the ultimate division of the great wealth with which she herself had been endowed. “She had never,” she said, “even tried to remember what arrangements had been made by lawyers, but she hoped that Mary might be so circumstanced, that if her happiness depended on marrying a poor man, want of money need not prevent it.” The Duke suspecting nothing, believing this to be a not unnatural expression of maternal interest, had assured her that Mary’s fortune would be ample.

Mrs. Finn made the proposition to Lady Mary in respect to Lady Cantrip’s invitation. Lady Mary was very like her mother, especially in having exactly her mother’s tone of voice, her quick manner of speech, and her sharp intelligence. She had also her mother’s eyes, large and round, and almost blue, full of life and full of courage, eyes which never seemed to quail, and her mother’s dark brown hair, never long but very copious in its thickness. She was, however, taller than her mother, and very much more graceful in her movement. And she could already assume a personal dignity of manner which had never been within her mother’s reach. She had become aware of a certain brusqueness of speech in her mother, a certain aptitude to say sharp things without thinking whether the sharpness was becoming to the position which she held, and, taking advantage of the example, the girl had already learned that she might gain more than she would lose by controlling her words.

“Papa wants me to go to Lady Cantrip,” she said.

“I think he would like it, — just for the present, Lady Mary.”

Though there had been the closest possible intimacy between the Duchess and Mrs. Finn, this had hardly been so as to the intercourse between Mrs. Finn and the children. Of Mrs. Finn it must be acknowledged that she was, perhaps fastidiously, afraid of appearing to take advantage of her friendship with the Duke’s family. She would tell herself that though circumstances had compelled her to be the closest and nearest friend of a Duchess, still her natural place was not among dukes and their children, and therefore in her intercourse with the girl she did not at first assume the manner and bearing which her position in the house would have seemed to warrant. Hence the “Lady Mary.”

“Why does he want to send me away, Mrs. Finn?”