he persuaded the Queen to write an affectionate letter
to her mother. The way seemed open for a reconciliation,
but the Duchess was stormy still. She didn’t
believe that Victoria had written that letter; it was
not in her handwriting; and she sent for the Duke
to tell him so. The Duke, assuring her that the
letter was genuine, begged her to forget the past.
But that was not so easy. “What am I to
do if Lord Melbourne comes up to me?” “Do,
ma’am? Why, receive him with civility.”
Well, she would make an effort... “But
what am I to do if Victoria asks me to shake hands
with Lehzen?” “Do, ma’am? Why,
take her in your arms and kiss her.” “What!”
The Duchess bristled in every feather, and then she
burst into a hearty laugh. “No, ma’am,
no,” said the Duke, laughing too. “I
don’t mean you are to take Lehzen in your arms
and kiss her, but the Queen.” The Duke
might perhaps have succeeded, had not all attempts
at conciliation been rendered hopeless by a tragical
event. Lady Flora, it was discovered, had been
suffering from a terrible internal malady, which now
grew rapidly worse. There could be little doubt
that she was dying. The Queen’s unpopularity
reached an extraordinary height. More than once
she was publicly insulted. “Mrs. Melbourne,”
was shouted at her when she appeared at her balcony;
and, at Ascot, she was hissed by the Duchess of Montrose
and Lady Sarah Ingestre as she passed. Lady Flora
died. The whole scandal burst out again with redoubled
vehemence; while, in the Palace, the two parties were
henceforth divided by an impassable, a Stygian, gulf.
Nevertheless, Lord M. was back, and every trouble
faded under the enchantment of his presence and his
conversation. He, on his side, had gone through
much; and his distresses were intensified by a consciousness
of his own shortcomings. He realised clearly enough
that, if he had intervened at the right moment, the
Hastings scandal might have been averted; and, in
the bedchamber crisis, he knew that he had allowed
his judgment to be overruled and his conduct to be
swayed by private feelings and the impetuosity of
Victoria. But he was not one to suffer too acutely
from the pangs of conscience. In spite of the
dullness and the formality of the Court, his relationship
with the Queen had come to be the dominating interest
in his life; to have been deprived of it would have
been heartrending; that dread eventuality had been—somehow—avoided;
he was installed once more, in a kind of triumph;
let him enjoy the fleeting hours to the full!
And so, cherished by the favour of a sovereign and
warmed by the adoration of a girl, the autumn rose,
in those autumn months of 1839, came to a wondrous
blooming. The petals expanded, beautifully, for
the last time. For the last time in this unlooked—for,
this incongruous, this almost incredible intercourse,
the old epicure tasted the exquisiteness of romance.
To watch, to teach, to restrain, to encourage the royal
young creature beside him—that was much;