“I met the Duke once at Matching,” said Phineas.
“I remember it well. I was there, and first made the Duke’s acquaintance on that occasion. I don’t know how it was that we became intimate;—but we did, and then I formed a sort of friendship with Lady Glencora; and somehow it has come about that we have been a great deal together since.”
“I suppose you like Lady Glencora?”
“Very much indeed—and the Duke, too. The truth is, Mr. Finn, that let one boast as one may of one’s independence—and I very often do boast of mine to myself—one is inclined to do more for a Duke of Omnium than for a Mr. Jones.”
“The Dukes have more to offer than the Joneses;—I don’t mean in the way of wealth only, but of what one enjoys most in society generally.”
“I suppose they have. At any rate, I am glad that you should make some excuse for me. But I do like the man. He is gracious and noble in his bearing. He is now very old, and sinking fast into the grave; but even the wreck is noble.”
“I don’t know that he ever did much,” said Phineas.
“I don’t know that he ever did anything according to your idea of doing. There must be some men who do nothing.”
“But a man with his wealth and rank has opportunities so great! Look at his nephew!”
“No doubt Mr. Palliser is a great man. He never has a moment to speak to his wife or to anybody else; and is always thinking so much about the country that I doubt if he knows anything about his own affairs. Of course he is a man of a different stamp—and of a higher stamp, if you will. But I have an idea that such characters as those of the present Duke are necessary to the maintenance of a great aristocracy. He has had the power of making the world believe in him simply because he has been rich and a duke. His nephew, when he comes to the title, will never receive a tithe of the respect that has been paid to this old fainéant.”
“But he will achieve much more than ten times the reputation,” said Phineas.
“I won’t compare them, nor will I argue; but I like the Duke. Nay;—I love him. During the last two years I have allowed the whole fashion of my life to be remodelled by this intimacy. You knew what were my habits. I have only been in Vienna for one week since I last saw you, and I have spent months and months at Matching.”
“What do you do there?”
“Read to him;—talk to him;—give him his food, and do all that in me lies to make his life bearable. Last year, when it was thought necessary that very distinguished people should be entertained at the great family castle—in Barsetshire, you know—”
“I have heard of the place.”
“A regular treaty or agreement was drawn up. Conditions were sealed and signed. One condition was that both Lady Glencora and I should be there. We put our heads together to try to avoid this; as, of course, the Prince would not want to see me particularly—and it was altogether so grand an affair that things had to be weighed. But the Duke was inexorable. Lady Glencora at such a time would have other things to do, and I must be there, or Gatherum Castle should not be opened. I suggested whether I could not remain in the background and look after the Duke as a kind of upper nurse—but Lady Glencora said it would not do.”
“Why should you subject yourself to such indignity?”
“Simply from love of the man. But you see I was not subjected. For two days I wore my jewels beneath royal eyes—eyes that will sooner or later belong to absolute majesty. It was an awful bore, and I ought to have been at Vienna. You ask me why I did it. The fact is that things sometimes become too strong for one, even when there is no real power of constraint. For years past I have been used to have my own way, but when there came a question of the entertainment of royalty I found myself reduced to blind obedience. I had to go to Gatherum Castle, to the absolute neglect of my business; and I went.”
“Do you still keep it up?”
“Oh, dear, yes. He is at Matching now, and I doubt whether he will ever leave it again. I shall go there from here as a matter of course, and relieve guard with Lady Glencora.”
“I don’t see what you get for it all.”
“Get;—what should I get? You don’t believe in friendship, then?”
“Certainly I do;—but this friendship is so unequal. I can hardly understand that it should have grown from personal liking on your side.”
“I think it has,” said Madame Goesler, slowly. “You see, Mr. Finn, that you as a young man can hardly understand how natural it is that a young woman—if I may call myself young—should minister to an old man.”
“But there should be some bond to the old man.”
“There is a bond.”
“You must not be angry with me,” said Phineas.
“I am not in the least angry.”
“I should not venture to express any opinion, of course—only that you ask me.”
“I do ask you, and you are quite welcome to express
