Can You Forgive Her? (35 page)

Alice did not know what to say. She found it impossible to discuss all the most secret and deepest of her feelings
out in that open carriage, perhaps in the hearing of the servant behind, on this her first meeting with her cousin, – of whom, in fact, she knew very little. She had not intended to discuss these things at all, and certainly not in such a manner as this. So she remained silent. ‘This is the beginning of the park,’ said Lady Glencora, pointing to a grand old ruin of an oak tree, which stood on the
wide margin of the road, outside the rounded corner of the park palings, propped up with a skeleton of supporting sticks all round it. ‘And that is Matching oak, under which Coeur de Lion or Edward the Third, I forget which, was met by Sir Guy de Palisere as he came from the war, or from hunting, or something of that kind. It was the king, you know, who had been fighting or
whatever it was, and
Sir Guy entertained him when he was very tired. Jeffrey Palliser, who is my husband’s cousin, says that old Sir Guy luckily pulled out his brandy-flask. But the king immediately gave him all the lands of Matching, – only there was a priory then and a lot of monks, and I don’t quite understand how that was. But I know one of the younger brothers always used to be abbot and sit in the House of Lords.
And the king gave him Littlebury at the same time, which is about seven miles away from here. As Jeffrey Palliser says, it was a great deal of money for a pull at his flask. Jeffrey Palliser is here now, and I hope you’ll like him. If I have no child, and Mr Palliser were not to marry again, Jeffrey would be the heir.’ And here again her voice was low and slow, and altogether changed in its tone.

‘I suppose that’s the way most of the old families got their estates.’

‘Either so, or by robbery. Many of them were terrible thieves, my dear, and I dare say Sir Guy was no better than he should be. But since that they have always called some of the Pallisers Plantagenet My husband’s name is Plantagenet The Duke is called George Plantagenet, and the king was his godfather. The queen is my godmother,
I believe, but I don’t know that I’m much the better for it. There’s no use in godfathers and godmothers; – do you think there is?’

‘Not much as it’s managed now.’

‘If I had a child, – Oh, Alice, it’s a dreadful thing not to have a child when so much depends on it!’

‘But you’re such a short time married yet.’

‘Ah, well; I can see it in his eyes when he asks me questions; but I don’t think
he’d say an unkind word, not if his own position depended on it. Ah, well; this is Matching. That other gate we passed, where Dandy wanted to turn in, – that’s where we usually go up, but I’ve brought you round to show you the town. That’s the inn, – whoever can possibly come to stay there I don’t know; I never saw anybody go in or out. That’s the baker who bakes our bread, – we baked it at the house
at first, but nobody could eat it; and I know that that man there mends Mr Palliser’s shoes. He’s very particular about his shoes. We shall see the church as we go
in at the other gate. It is in the park, and is very pretty, – but not half so pretty as the priory ruins close to the house. The ruins are our great lion. I do so love to wander about them at moonlight. I often think of you when I
do; I don’t know why. – But I do know why, and I’ll tell you some day. Come, Miss Flirt!’

As they drove up through the park, Lady Glencora pointed out first the church and then the ruins, through the midst of which the road ran, and then they were at once before the front door. The corner of the modern house came within two hundred yards of the gateway of the old priory. It was a large building,
very pretty, with two long fronts; but it was no more than a house. It was not a palace, nor a castle, nor was it hardly to be called a mansion. It was built with gabled roofs, four of which formed the side from which the windows of the drawing-rooms opened out upon a lawn which separated the house from the old ruins, and which indeed surrounded the ruins, and went inside them, forming the present
flooring of the old chapel, and the old refectory, and the old cloisters. Much of the cloisters indeed was standing, and there the stone pavement remained; but the square of the cloisters was all turfed, and in the middle of it stood a large modern stone vase, out of the broad basin of which hung flowering creepers and green tendrils.

As Lady Glencora drove up to the door, a gentleman, who had
heard the sound of the wheels, came forth to meet them. ‘There’s Mr Palliser,’ said she; ‘that shows that you are an honoured guest, for you may be sure that he is hard at work and would not have come out for anybody else. Plantagenet, here is Miss Vavasor, perished. Alice, my husband.’ Then Mr Palliser put forth his hand and helped her out of the carriage.

‘I hope you’ve not found it very cold,’
said he. ‘The winter has come upon us quite suddenly.’

He said nothing more to her than this, till he met her again before dinner. He was a tall thin man, apparently not more than thirty years of age, looking in all respects like a gentleman, but with nothing in his appearance that was remarkable. It was a face that you might see and forget, and see again and forget again; and yet when you looked
at it and pulled it to pieces, you found that it
was a fairly good face, showing intellect in the forehead, and much character in the mouth. The eyes too, though not to be called bright, had always something to say for themselves, looking as though they had a real meaning. But the outline of the face was almost insignificant, being too thin; and he wore no beard to give it character. But, indeed,
Mr Palliser was a man who had never thought of assisting his position in the world by his outward appearance. Not to be looked at, but to be read about in the newspapers, was his ambition. Men said that he was to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and no one thought of suggesting that the insignificance of his face would stand in his way.

‘Are the people all out?’ his wife asked him.

‘The men have
not come in from shooting; – at least I think not; – and some of the ladies are driving, I suppose. But I haven’t seen anybody since you went.’

‘Of course you haven’t. He never has time, Alice, to see any one. But we’ll go up stairs, dear. I told them to let us have tea in my dressing-room, as I thought you’d like that better than going into the drawing-room before you had taken off your things.
You must be famished, I know. Then you can come down, or if you want to avoid two dressings you can sit over the fire upstairs till dinnertime.’ So saying she skipped up stairs and Alice followed her. ‘Here’s my dressing-room, and here’s your room all but opposite. You look out into the park. It’s pretty, isn’t it? But come into my dressing-room, and see the ruins out of the window.’

Alice followed
Lady Glencora across the passage into what she called her dressing-room, and there found herself surrounded by an infinitude of feminine luxuries. The prettiest of tables were there; – the easiest of chairs; – the most costly of cabinets; – the quaintest of old china ornaments. It was bright with the gayest colours, – made pleasant to the eye with the binding of many books, having nymphs painted
on the ceiling and little Cupids on the doors. ‘Isn’t it pretty?’ she said, turning quickly on Alice. ‘I call it my dressing-room because in that way I can keep people out of it, but I have my brushes and soap in a little closet there, and my clothes, – my clothes are everywhere I suppose, only there are none of them here. Isn’t it pretty?’

‘Very pretty.’

‘The Duke did it all. He understands
such things thoroughly. Now to Mr Palliser a dressing-room is a dressing-room, and a bedroom a bedroom. He cares for nothing being pretty; not even his wife, or he wouldn’t have married me.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you meant it’

‘Well, I don’t know. Sometimes when I look at myself, when I simply am myself, with no making up or grimacing, you know, I think I’m the ugliest young woman the sun
ever shone on. And in ten years’ time I shall be the ugliest old woman. Only think, – my hair is beginning to get grey, and I’m not twenty-one yet Look at it;’ and she lifted up the wavy locks just above her ear. ‘But there’s one comfort; he doesn’t care about beauty. How old are you?’

‘Over five-and-twenty,’ said Alice.

‘Nonsense; – then I oughtn’t to have asked you. I am so sorry.’

‘That’s
nonsense at any rate. Why should you think I should be ashamed of my age?’

‘I don’t know why, only somehow, people are; and I didn’t think you were so old. Five-and-twenty seems so old to me. It would be nothing if you were married; only, you see, you won’t get married.’

‘Perhaps I may yet; some day.’

‘Of course you will. You’ll have to give way. You’ll find that they’ll get the better of you.
Your father will storm at you, and Lady Macleod will preach at you, and Lady Midlothian will jump upon you.’

‘I’m not a bit afraid of Lady Midlothian.’

‘I know what it is, my dear, to be jumped upon. We talked with such horror of the French people giving their daughters in marriage, just as they might sell a house or a field, but we do exactly the same thing ourselves. When they all come upon
you in earnest how are you to stand against them? How can any girl do it?’

‘I think I shall be able.’

‘To be sure you’re older, – and you are not so heavily weighted. But never mind; I didn’t mean to talk about that; – not yet at any rate. Well, now, my dear, I must go down. The Duchess of St
Bungay is here, and Mr Palliser will be angry if I don’t do pretty to her. The Duke is to be the new
President of the Council, or rather, I believe he is President now. I try to remember it all, but it is so hard when one doesn’t really care two pence how it goes. Not but what I’m very anxious that Mr Palliser should be Chancellor of the Exchequer. And now, will you remain here, or will you come down with me, or will you go to your own room, and I’ll call for you when I go down to dinner? We dine
at eight’

Alice decided that she would stay in her own room till dinner time, and was taken there by Lady Glencora. She found her maid unpacking her clothes, and for a while employed herself in assisting at the work; but that was soon done, and then she was left alone. ‘I shall feel so strange, ma’am, among all those people downstairs,’ said the girl. ‘They all seem to look at me as though they
didn’t know who I was.’

‘You’ll get over that soon, Jane.’

‘I suppose I shall; but you see, they’re all like knowing each other, miss.’

Alice, when she sat down alone, felt herself to be very much in the same condition as her maid. What would the Duchess of St Bungay or Mr Jeffrey Palliser, – who himself might live to be a duke if things went well for him, – care for her? As to Mr Palliser,
the master of the house, it was already evident to her that he would not put himself out of his way for her. Had she not done wrong to come there? If it were possible for her to fly away, back to the dullness of Queen Anne Street, or even to the preachings of Lady Macleod, would she not do so immediately? What business had she, – she asked herself, – to come to such a house as that? Lady Glencora
was very kind to her, but frightened her even by her kindness. Moreover, she was aware that Lady Glencora could not devote herself especially to any such guest as she was. Lady Glencora must of course look after her duchesses, and do pretty, as she called it, to her husband’s important political alliances.

And then she began to think about Lady Glencora herself. What a strange, weird nature she
was, – with her round blue eyes and wavy hair, looking sometimes like a child and sometimes almost like an old woman! And how she talked! What things she
said, and what terrible forebodings she uttered of stranger things that she meant to say! Why had she at their first meeting made that allusion to the mode of her own betrothal, – and then, checking herself for speaking of it so soon, almost
declare that she meant to speak more of it hereafter? ‘She should never mention it to any one,’ said Alice to herself. ‘If her lot in life has not satisfied her, there is so much the more reason why she should not mention it.’ Then Alice protested to herself that no father, no aunt, no Lady Midlothian should persuade her into a marriage of which she feared the consequences. But Lady Glencora had made
for herself excuses which were not altogether untrue. She had been very young, and had been terribly weighted with her wealth.

And it seemed to Alice that her cousin had told her everything in that hour and a half that they had been together. She had given a whole history of her husband and of herself. She had said how indifferent he was to her pleasures, and how vainly she strove to interest
herself in his pursuits. And then, as yet, she was childless and without prospect of a child, when, as she herself had said, – ’so much depended on it‘. It was very strange to Alice that all this should have been already told to her. And why should Lady Glencora think of Alice when she walked out among the priory ruins by moonlight?

The two hours seemed to her very long, – as though she were
passing her time in absolute seclusion at Matching. Of course she did not dare to go downstairs. But at last her maid came to dress her.

‘How do you get on below, Jane?’ her mistress asked her.

‘Why, miss, they are uncommon civil, and I don’t think after all it will be so bad. We had our teas very comfortable in the housekeeper’s room. There are five or six of us altogether, all ladies‘ –maids,
miss; and there’s nothing on earth to do all the day long, only sit and do a little needlework over the fire.’

A few minutes before eight Lady Glencora knocked at Alice’s door, and took her arm to lead her to the drawing-room. Alice saw that she was magnificently dressed, with an enormous expanse of robe, and that her locks had been so managed that no one could suspect the presence of a grey
hair. Indeed, with all her
magnificence, she looked almost a child. ‘Let me see,’ she said, as they went downstairs together. ‘I’ll tell Jeffrey to take you in to dinner. He’s about the easiest young man we have here. He rather turns up his nose at everything, but that doesn’t make him the less agreeable; does it, dear? – unless he turns up his nose at you, you know.’