“I haven’t thought about them. Madame Goesler had better take them.”
“But she won’t.”
“I suppose they had better be sold.”
“By auction?”
“That would be the proper way.”
“I shouldn’t like that at all. Couldn’t we buy them ourselves, and let the money stand till she choose to take it? It’s an affair of trade, I suppose, and you’re at the head of all that now.” Then again she asked him some question about the Home Secretary, with reference to Phineas Finn; and when he told her that it would be highly improper for him to speak to that officer on such a subject, she pretended to suppose that the impropriety would consist in the interference of a man holding so low a position as he was. “Of course it is not the same now,” she said, “as it used to be when you were at the Exchequer.” All which he took without uttering a word of anger, or showing a sign of annoyance. “You only get two thousand a year, do you, at the Board of Trade, Plantagenet?”
“Upon my word, I forget. I think it’s two thousand five hundred.”
“How nice! It was five at the Exchequer, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; five thousand at the Exchequer.”
“When you’re a Lord of the Treasury it will only be one;—will it?”
“What a goose you are, Glencora. If it suited me to be a Lord of the Treasury, what difference would the salary make?”
“Not the least;—nor yet the rank, or the influence, or the prestige, or the general fitness of things. You are above all such sublunary ideas. You would clean Mr. Gresham’s shoes for him, if—the service of your country required it.” These last words she added in a tone of voice very similar to that which her husband himself used on occasions.
“I would even allow you to clean them—if the service of the country required it,” said the Duke.
But, though he was magnanimous, he was not happy, and perhaps the intense anxiety which his wife displayed as to the fate of Phineas Finn added to his discomfort. The Duchess, as the Duke of St. Bungay had said, was enthusiastic, and he never for a moment dreamed of teaching her to change her nature; but it would have been as well if her enthusiasm at the present moment could have been brought to display itself on some other subject. He had been brought to feel that Phineas Finn had been treated badly when the good things of Government were being given away, and that this had been caused by the jealous prejudices of the man who had been since murdered. But an expectant Undersecretary of State, let him have been ever so cruelly left out in the cold, should not murder the man by whom he has been ill-treated. Looking at all the evidence as best he could, and listening to the opinions of others, the Duke did think that Phineas had been guilty. The murder had clearly been committed by a personal enemy, not by a robber. Two men were known to have entertained feelings of enmity against Mr. Bonteen; as to one of whom he was assured that it was impossible that he should have been on the spot. As to the other it seemed equally manifest that he must have been there. If it were so, it would have been much better that his wife should not display her interest publicly in the murderer’s favour. But the Duchess, wherever she went, spoke of the trial as a persecution; and seemed to think that the prisoner should already be treated as a hero and a martyr. “Glencora,” he said to her, “I wish that you could drop the subject of this trial till it be over.”
“But I can’t.”
“Surely you can avoid speaking of it.”
“No more than you can avoid your decimals. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, and my heart is very full. What harm do I do?”
“You set people talking of you.”
“They have been doing that ever since we were married;—but I do not know that they have made out much against me. We must go after our nature, Plantagenet. Your nature is decimals. I run after units.” He did not deem it wise to say anything further—knowing that to this evil also of Phineas Finn the gods would at last vouchsafe an ending.
LIX
Mrs. Bonteen
At the time of the murder, Lady Eustace, whom we must regard as the wife of Mr. Emilius till it be proved that he had another wife when he married her, was living as the guest of Mr. Bonteen. Mr. Bonteen had pledged himself to prove the bigamy, and Mrs. Bonteen had opened her house and her heart to the injured lady. Lizzie Eustace, as she had always been called, was clever, rich, and pretty, and knew well how to ingratiate herself with the friend of the hour. She was a greedy, grasping little woman, but, when she had before her a sufficient object, she could appear to pour all that she had into her friend’s lap with all the prodigality of a child. Perhaps Mrs. Bonteen had liked to have things poured into her lap. Perhaps Mr. Bonteen had enjoyed the confidential tears of a pretty woman. It may be that the wrongs of a woman doomed to live with Mr. Emilius as his wife had touched their hearts. Be that as it might, they had become the acknowledged friends and supporters of Lady Eustace, and she was living with them in their little house in St. James’s Place on that fatal night.
Lizzie behaved herself very well when the terrible tidings were brought home. Mr. Bonteen was so often late at the House or at his club that his wife rarely sat up for him; and when the servants were
