“Mrs. Marsham came here, not simply to tell me that you were waltzing with Mr. Fitzgerald—and I wish that when you mention his name you would call him Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“So I do.”
“You generally prefix his Christian name, which it would be much better that you should omit.”
“I will try,” she said, very gently; “but it’s hard to drop an old habit. Before you married me you knew that I had learned to call him Burgo.”
“Let me go on,” said Mr. Palliser.
“Oh, certainly.”
“It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing that Mrs. Marsham came here.”
“And it was not simply to see me waltzing that Mr. Bott stood in the doorways, for he followed me about, and came down after me to the supper-room.”
“Glencora, will you oblige me by not speaking of Mr. Bott?”
“I wish you would oblige me by not speaking of Mrs. Marsham.” Mr. Palliser rose quickly from his chair with a gesture of anger, stood upright for half a minute, and then sat down again. “I beg your pardon, Plantagenet,” she said. “I think I know what you want, and I’ll hold my tongue till you bid me speak.”
“Mrs. Marsham came here because she saw that everyone in the room was regarding you with wonder.” Lady Glencora twisted herself about in her chair, but she said nothing. “She saw that you were not only dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald, but that you were dancing with him—what shall I say?”
“Upon my word I can’t tell you.”
“Recklessly.”
“Oh! recklessly, was I? What was I reckless of?”
“Reckless of what people might say; reckless of what I might feel about it; reckless of your own position.”
“Am I to speak now?”
“Perhaps you had better let me go on. I think she was right to come to me.”
“That’s of course. What’s the good of having spies, if they don’t run and tell as soon as they see anything, especially anything—reckless.”
“Glencora, you are determined to make me angry. I am angry now—very angry. I have employed no spies. When rumours have reached me, not from spies, as you choose to call them, but through your dearest friends and mine—”
“What do you mean by rumours from my dearest friends?”
“Never mind. Let me go on.”
“No; not when you say my dear friends have spread rumours about me. Tell me who they are. I have no dear friends. Do you mean Alice Vavasor?”
“It does not signify. But when I was warned that you had better not go to any house in which you could meet that man, I would not listen to it. I said that you were my wife, and that as such I could trust you anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might distrust you, but I would not do so. When I wished you to go to Monkshade, were there to be any spies there? When I left you last night at Lady Monk’s, do you believe in your heart that I trusted to Mrs. Marsham’s eyes rather than to your own truth? Do you think that I have lived in fear of Mr. Fitzgerald?”
“No, Plantagenet; I do not think so.”
“Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr. Bott to watch your conduct? Answer me, Glencora.”
She paused a moment, thinking what actually was her true belief on that subject. “He does watch me, certainly,” she said.
“That does not answer my question. Do you believe that I have commissioned him to do so?”
“No; I do not.”
“Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I have employed no spies. If it were ever to come to that, that I thought spies necessary, it would be all over with me.”
There was something of feeling in his voice as he said this—something that almost approached to passion which touched his wife’s heart. Whether or not spies would be of any avail, she knew that she had in truth done that of which he had declared that he had never suspected her. She had listened to words of love from her former lover. She had received, and now carried about with her a letter from this man, in which he asked her to elope with him. She had by no means resolved that she would not do this thing. She had been false to her husband; and as her husband spoke of his confidence in her, her own spirit rebelled against the deceit which she herself was practising.
“I know that I have never made you happy,” she said. “I know that I never can make you happy.”
He looked at her, struck by her altered tone, and saw that her whole manner and demeanour were changed. “I do not understand what you mean,” he said. “I have never complained. You have not made me unhappy.” He was one of those men to whom this was enough. If his wife caused him no uneasiness, what more was he to expect from her? No doubt she might have done much more for him. She might have given him an heir. But he was a just man, and knew that the blank he had drawn was his misfortune, and not her fault.
But now her heart was loosed and she spoke out, at first slowly, but after a while with all the quietness of strong passion. “No, Plantagenet; I shall never make you happy. You have never loved me, nor I you. We have never loved each other for a single moment. I have been wrong to talk to you about spies; I was wrong to go to Lady Monk’s; I have been wrong in everything that I have done; but never so wrong as when I let them persuade me to be your wife!”
“Glencora!”
“Let me speak now, Plantagenet. It is better that I should tell you everything; and I will. I will tell you everything;—everything! I do love Burgo Fitzgerald. I do! I do! I do! How can I help loving him? Have I not loved
