“I don’t think Lady Glencora will waltz tonight,” said Mrs. Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else the enormity of Burgo’s proposition had struck her so forcibly as to take away from her all her presence of mind. Otherwise, she must have been aware that such an answer from her would surely drive her friend’s wife into open hostility.
“And why not, Mrs. Marsham?” said Lady Glencora rising from her seat. “Why shouldn’t I waltz tonight? I rather think I shall, the more especially as Mr. Fitzgerald waltzes very well.” Thereupon she put her hand upon Burgo’s arm.
Mrs. Marsham made still a little effort—a little effort that was probably involuntary. She put out her hand, and laid it on Lady Glencora’s left shoulder, looking into her face as she did so with all the severity of caution of which she was mistress. Lady Glencora shook her duenna off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into the hands of this man who was now touching her, or whether she would not, she had not as yet decided; but of this she was very sure, that nothing said or done by Mrs. Marsham should have any effect in restraining her.
What could Mrs. Marsham do? Mr. Palliser was gone. Some rumour of that proposed visit to Monkshade, and the way in which it had been prevented, had reached her ear. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love, as married, the woman whom he had loved before she was married. There was a rumour about that he still had some hope. Mrs. Marsham had never believed that Mr. Palliser’s wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe as a positive elopement that she had taken upon herself the duty of duenna. Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr. Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs. Marsham thought that she could accomplish. It had not hitherto occurred to her that she might be required to guard Mr. Palliser from positive dishonour; but now—now she hardly knew what to think about it. What should she do? To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr. Bott looming large before her on the top of the staircase.
In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo’s arm. “Who is that woman?” said Burgo. They were the first words he spoke to her, though since he had last seen her he had written to her that letter which even now she carried about her. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close, and questions such as that he had asked were common between them. And her answer was of the same nature. “Oh, such an odious woman!” she said. “Her name is Mrs. Marsham; she is my bête noire.” And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said of that which was Burgo’s settled purpose, and which at some moments was her settled purpose also.
Burgo waltzed excellently, and in old days, before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping to the intermediate door between her den and the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott standing together just inside the other door, near to the staircase, looked on also—in horror.
“He shouldn’t have gone away and left her,” said Mr. Bott, almost hoarsely.
“But who could have thought it?” said Mrs. Marsham. “I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I suppose you’d better tell him?” said Mr. Bott.
“But I don’t know where to find him,” said Mrs. Marsham.
“I didn’t mean now at once,” said Mr. Bott;—and then he added, “Do you think it is as bad as that?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Marsham.
The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath. “I am so much out of practice,” said Lady Glencora; “I didn’t think—I should have been able—to dance at all.” Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and stretched her nostrils—as ladies do as well as horses when the running has been severe and they want air.
“You’ll take another turn,” said he.
“Presently,” said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs. Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.
“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said he.
It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth. It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views. The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity. There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back. “Does it put you in mind of ‘old days?’ ” he said.
The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs. Marsham; her own unsettled mind—quite
