During these days Mrs Greenow was mistress of the old Hall down in Westmoreland, and was nursing Kate assiduously through the calamity of her broken arm. There had come to be a considerable amount of confidence between the aunt and the niece. Kate had acknowledged to her aunt that her brother had behaved badly — very badly; and the aunt had confessed to the niece that she regarded Captain Bellfield as a fit subject for compassion.
“And he was violent to you, and broke your arm? I always knew it was so,” Mrs Greenow had said, speaking with reference to her nephew. But this Kate had denied. “No,” said she; “that was an accident. When he went away and left me, he knew nothing about it. And if he had broken both my arms I should not have cared much. I could have forgiven him that.” But that which Kate could not forgive him was the fault which she had herself committed. For his sake she had done her best to separate Alice and John Grey, and George had shown himself to be unworthy of the kindness of her treachery. “I would give all I have in the world to bring them together again,” Kate said. “They’ll come together fast enough if they like each other,” said Mrs Greenow. “Alice is young still, and they tell me she’s as good-looking as ever. A girl with her money won’t have far to seek for a husband, even if this paragon from Cambridgeshire should not turn up again.”
“You don’t know Alice, aunt.”
“No, I don’t. But I know what young women are, and I know what young men are. All this nonsense about her cousin George — what difference will it make? A man like Mr Grey won’t care about that — especially not if she tells him all about it. My belief is that a girl can have anything forgiven her, if she’ll only tell it herself.”
But Kate preferred the other subject, and so, I think, did Mrs Greenow herself. “Of course, my dear,” she would say, “marriage with me, if I should marry again, would be a very different thing to your marriage, or that of any other young person. As for love, that has been all over for me since poor Greenow died. I have known nothing of the softness of affection since I laid him in his cold grave, and never can again. ‘Captain Bellfield,’ I said to him, ‘if you were to kneel at my feet for years, it would not make me care for you in the way of love.’”
“And what did he say to that?”
“How am I to tell you what he said? He talked nonsense about my beauty, as all the men do. If a woman were hump-backed, and had only one eye, they wouldn’t be ashamed to tell her she was a Venus.”
“But, aunt, you are a handsome woman, you know.”
“Laws, my dear, as if I didn’t understand all about it; as if I didn’t know what makes a woman run after! It isn’t beauty — and it isn’t money altogether. I’ve seen women who had plenty of both, and not a man would come nigh them. They didn’t dare. There are some of them, a man would as soon think of putting his arm round a poplar tree, they are so hard and so stiff. You know you’re a little that way yourself, Kate, and I’ve always told you it won’t do.”
“I’m afraid I’m too old to mend, aunt.”
“Not at all, if you’ll only set your wits to work and try. You’ve plenty of money now, and you’re good-looking enough, too, when you take the trouble to get yourself up. But, as I said before, it isn’t that that’s wanted. There’s a stand-off about some women — what the men call a ‘nollimy tangere’, that a man must be quite a furious Orlando to attempt to get the better of it. They look as though matrimony itself were improper, and as if they believed the little babies were found about in the hedges and ditches. They talk of women being forward! There are some of them a deal too backward, according to my way of thinking.”
“Yours is a comfortable doctrine, aunt.”
“That’s just what I want it to be. I want things to be comfortable. Why shouldn’t things be nice about one when’s got the means? Nobody can say it’s a pleasant thing to live alone. I always thought that man in the song hit it off properly. You remember what he says? ‘The poker and tongs to each other belongs.’ So they do, and that should be the way with men and women.”
“But the poker and tongs have but a bad life of it sometimes.”
“Not so often as the people say, my dear. Men and women ain’t like lumps of sugar. They don’t melt because the water is sometimes warm. Now, if I do take Bellfield — and I really think I shall; but if I do, he’ll give me a deal of trouble. I know he will. He’ll always be wanting my money, and, of course, he’ll get more than he ought. I’m not a Solomon, nor yet a Queen of Sheba, no more than anybody else. And he’ll smoke too many cigars, and perhaps drink more brandy and water than he ought. And he’ll be making eyes, too, at some of the girls who’ll be fools enough to let him.”
“Dear me, aunt, if I thought all that ill of him, I’m sure I wouldn’t marry him — especially as you say you don’t love him.”
“As for love, my dear, that’s gone — clear gone!” Whereupon Mrs Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. “Some women can love twice, but I am not one of them. I wish I could — I wish I could!” These last words were spoken in a tone of solemn regret, which, however, she contrived to change as quickly as she had adopted it. “But, my dear, marriage is a comfortable thing. And then, though the Captain may be a little free, I don’t doubt but what I shall get the upper hand with him at last. I shan’t stop his cigars and brandy and water, you know. Why shouldn’t a man smoke and have a glass, if he don’t make a beast of himself? I like to see a man enjoy himself. And then,” she added, speaking tenderly of her absent lover, “I do think he’s fond of me — I do, indeed.”
“So is Mr Cheesacre, for the matter of that.”
“Poor Cheesy! I believe he was, though he did talk so much about money. I always like to believe the best I can of them. But then there was no poetry about Cheesy. I don’t care about saying it now, as you’ve quite made up your mind not to have him.”
“Quite, aunt.”
“Your grandfather’s will does make a difference, you know. But, as I was saying, I do like a little romance about them — just a sniff, as I call it, of the rocks and valleys. One knows that it doesn’t mean much; but it’s like artificial flowers — it gives a little colour, and takes off the dowdiness. Of course, bread and cheese is the real thing. The rocks and valleys are no good at all, if you haven’t got that. But enough is as good as a feast. Thanks to dear Greenow,” — here the handkerchief was again used — “Thanks to dear Greenow, I shall never want. Of course I shan’t let any of the money go into his hands — the Captain’s, I mean. I know a trick worth two of that, my dear. But, lord love you! I’ve enough for him and me. What’s the good of a woman’s wanting to keep it all to herself?”
“And you think you’ll really take him, aunt, and pay his washerwoman’s bills for him? You remember what you told me when I first saw him?”
“Oh, yes; I remember. And if he can’t pay his own washerwoman, isn’t that so much more of a reason that I should do it for him? Well; yes; I think I will take him. That is, if he lets me take him just as I choose. Beggars mustn’t be choosers, my dear.”
In this way the aunt and niece became very confidential, and Mrs Greenow whispered into Kate’s ears her belief that Captain Bellfield might possibly make his way across the country to Westmoreland. “There would be no harm in offering him a bed, would there?” Mrs Greenow asked. “You see the inn at Shap is a long way off for morning calls.” Kate could not take upon herself to say that there would be any harm, but she did not like the idea of having Captain Bellfield as a visitor. “After all, perhaps he mayn’t come,” said the widow. “I don’t see where he is to raise the money for such a journey, now that he has quarrelled with Mr Cheesacre.”
“If Captain Bellfield must come to Vavasor Hall, at any rate let him not come till Alice’s visit had been completed.” That was Kate’s present wish, and so much she ventured to confide to her aunt. But there seemed to be no way of stopping him. “I don’t in the least know where he is, my dear; and as for writing to him, I never did such a thing in my life, and I shouldn’t know how to begin.” Mrs Greenow declared that she had not positively invited the Captain; but on this point Kate hardly gave full credit to her aunt’s statement.
Alice arrived, and, for a day or two, the three ladies lived very pleasantly together. Kate still wore her arm in a sling; but she was able to walk out, and would take long walks in spite of the doctor’s prohibition. Of course, they went up on the mountains. Indeed, all the walks from Vavasor Hall led to the mountains, unless one chose to take the road to Shap. But they went up, across the beacon hill, as though by mutual consent. There were no questions asked between them as to the route to be taken; and though they did not reach the stone on which they had once sat looking over upon Hawes Water, they did reach the spot upon which Kate had encountered her accident. “It was here I fell,” she said; “and the last I saw of him was his back, as he made his way down into the valley, there. When I got upon my legs I could still see him. It was one of those evenings when the clouds are dark, but you can see all objects with a peculiar clearness through the air. I stood here ever so long, holding my arm, and watching him; but he never once turned to look back at me. Do you know, Alice, I fancy that I shall never see him again.”
“Do you suppose that he means to quarrel with you altogether?”
“I can hardly tell you what I mean! He seemed to me to be going away from me, as though he went into another world. His figure against the light was quite clear, and he walked quickly, and on he went, till the slope of the hill hid him from me. Of course, I thought that he would return to the Hall. At one time I almost feared that he would come upon me through the woods, as I went back myself. But yet, I had a feeling — what people call a presentiment — that I should never see him again.”
“He has never written?”
“No; not a word. You must remember that he did not know that I had hurt myself. I am sure he will not write, and I am sure, also, that I shall not. If he wanted money I would send it to him, but I would not write to him.”
“I fear he will always want money, Kate.”
“I fear he will. If you could know what I suffered when he made me write that letter to you! But, of course, I was a beast. Of course, I ought not to have written it.”
“I thought it a very proper letter.”
“It was a mean letter. The whole thing was mean! He should have starved in the street before he had taken your money. He should have given up Parliament, and everything else! I had doubted much about him before, but it was that which first turned my heart against him. I had begun to fear that he was not such a man as I had always thought him — as I had spoken of him to you.”
“I had judged of him for myself,” said Alice.
“Of course you did. But I had endeavoured to make you judge kindly. Alice, dear! We have both suffered for him; you more than I, perhaps; but I, too, have given up everything for him. My whole life has been at his service. I have been his creature, to do his bidding, just as he might tell me. He made me do things that I knew to be wrong — things that were foreign to my own nature; and yet I almost worshipped him. Even now, if he were to come back, I believe that I should forgive him everything.”
“I should forgive him, but I could never do more.”
“But he will never come back. He will never ask us to forgive him, or even wish it. He has no heart.”
“He has longed for money till the Devil has hardened his heart,” said Alice.
“And yet how tender he could be in his manner when he chose it — how soft he could make his words and his looks! Do you remember how he behaved to us in Switzerland? Do you remember that balcony at Basle, and the night we sat there, when the boys were swimming down the river?”
“Yes — I remember.”
“So do I! So do I! Alice, I would give all I have in the world, if I could recall that journey to Switzerland.”
“If you mean for my sake, Kate — ”
“I do mean for your sake. It made no difference to me. Whether I stayed in Westmoreland or went abroad, I must have found out that my god was made of bricks and clay instead of gold. But there was no need for you to be crushed in the ruins.”
“I am not crushed, Kate!”
“Of course, you are too proud to own it?”
“If you mean about Mr Grey, that would have happened just the same, whether I had gone abroad or remained at home.”
“Would it, dear?”
“Just the same.”
There was nothing more than this said between them about Mr Grey. Even to her cousin, Alice could not bring herself to talk freely on that subject. She would never allow herself to think, for a moment, that she had been persuaded by others to treat him as she had treated him. She was sure that she had acted on her own convictions of what was right and wrong; and now, though she had begun to feel that she had been wrong, she would hardly confess as much even to herself.
They walked back, down the hill, to the Hall in silence for the greater part of the way. Once or twice Kate repeated her conviction that she should never again see her brother. “I do not know what may happen to him,” she said in answer to her cousin’s questions; “but when he was passing out of my sight, into the valley, I felt that I was looking at him for the last time.”
“That is simply what people call a presentiment,” Alice replied.
“Exactly so; and presentiments, of course, mean nothing,” said Kate.
Then they walked on towards the house without further speech; but when they reached the end of the little path which led out of the wood, on to the gravelled sweep before the front door, they were both arrested by a sight that met their eyes. There was a man standing, with a cigar in his mouth, before them, swinging a little cane, and looking about him up at the wood. He had on his head a jaunty little straw hat, and he wore a jacket with brass buttons, and white trousers. It was now nearly the middle of May, but the summer does not come to Westmoreland so early as that, and the man, as he stood there looking about him, seemed to be cold and almost uncomfortable. He had not as yet seen the two girls, who stood at the end of the walk, arrested by the sight of him. “Who is it?” asked Alice, in a whisper.
“Captain Bellfield,” said Kate, speaking with something very like dismay in her voice.
“What! Aunt Greenow’s Captain?”
“Yes; Aunt Greenow’s Captain. I have been fearing this, and now, what on earth are we to do with him? Look at him. That’s what Aunt Greenow calls a sniff of the rocks and valleys.”
The Captain began to move, just to move, as though it were necessary to do something to keep the life in his limbs. He had finished his cigar, and looked at the end of it with manifest regret. As he threw it away among a tuft of shrubs his eye fell upon the two ladies, and he uttered a little exclamation. Then he came forward, waving his little straw hat in his hand, and made his salutation. “Miss Vavasor, I am delighted,” he said. “Miss Alice Vavasor, if I am not mistaken? I have been commissioned by my dear friend Mrs Greenow to go out and seek you, but, upon my word, the woods looked so black that I did not dare to venture — and then, of course, I shouldn’t have found you.”
Kate put out her left hand, and then introduced her cousin to the Captain. Again he waved his little straw hat, and strove to bear himself as though he were at home and comfortable. But he failed, and it was manifest that he failed. He was not the Bellfield who had conquered Mr Cheesacre on the sands at Yarmouth, though he wore the same jacket and waistcoat, and must now have enjoyed the internal satisfaction of feeling that his future maintenance in life was assured to him. But he was not at his ease. His courage had sufficed to enable him to follow his quarry into Westmoreland, but it did not suffice to make him comfortable while he was there. Kate instantly perceived his condition, and wickedly resolved that she would make no effort to assist him. She went through some ceremony of introduction, and then expressed her surprise at seeing him so far north.
“Well,” said he; I am a little surprised myself — I am, indeed! But I had nothing to do in Norwich — literally nothing; and your aunt had so often talked to me of the beauties of this place,’ — and he waved his hand round at the old house and the dark trees — “that I thought I’d take the liberty of paying you a flying visit. I didn’t mean to intrude in the way of sleeping; I didn’t indeed, Miss Vavasor; only Mrs Greenow has been so kind as to say — ”
“We are so very far out of the world, Captain Bellfield, that we always give our visitors beds.”
“I didn’t intend it; I didn’t indeed, miss!” Poor Captain Bellfield was becoming very uneasy in his agitation. “I did just put my bag, with a change of things, into the gig, which brought me over, not knowing quite where I might go on to.”
“We won’t send you any further today, at any rate,” said Kate.
“Mrs Greenow has been very kind — very kind, indeed. She has asked me to stay till — Saturday!”
Kate bit her lips in a momentary fit of anger. The house was her house, and not her aunt’s. But she remembered that her aunt had been kind to her at Norwich and at Yarmouth, and she allowed this feeling to die away. “We shall be very glad to see you,” she said. “We are three women together here, and I’m afraid you will find us rather dull.”
“Oh dear, no — dull with you! That would be impossible!”
“And how have you left your friend, Mr Cheesacre?”
“Quite well — very well, thank you. That is to say, I haven’t seen him much lately. He and I did have a bit of a breeze, you know.”
“I can’t say that I did know, Captain Bellfield.”
“I thought, perhaps, you had heard. He seemed to think that I was too particular in a certain quarter! Ha — ha — ha! That’s only my joke, you know, ladies.”
They then went into the house, and the Captain straggled in after them. Mrs Greenow was in neither of the two sitting-rooms which they usually occupied. She, too, had been driven somewhat out of the ordinary composure of her manner by the arrival of her lover — even though she had expected it, and had retired to her room, thinking that she had better see Kate in private before they met in the presence of the Captain. “I suppose you have seen my aunt since you have been here?” said Kate.
“Oh dear, yes. I saw her, and she suggested that I had better walk out and find you. I did find you, you know, though I didn’t walk very far.”
“And have you seen your room?”
“Yes — yes. She was kind enough to show me my room. Very nice indeed, thank you — looking out into the front, and all that kind of thing.” The poor fellow was no doubt thinking how much better was his lot at Vavasor Hall than it had been at Oileymead. “I shan’t stay long, Miss Vavasor — only just a night or so; but I did want to see your aunt again — and you, too, upon my word.”
“My aunt is the attraction, Captain Bellfield. We all know that.”
He actually simpered — simpered like a young girl who is half elated and half ashamed when her lover is thrown in her teeth. He fidgeted with the things on the table, and moved himself about uneasily from one leg to the other. Perhaps he was remembering that though he had contrived to bring himself to Vavasor Hall he had not money enough left to take him back to Norwich. — The two girls left him and went to their rooms. “I will go to my aunt at once,” said Kate, “and find out what is to be done.”
“I suppose she means to marry him?”
“Oh, yes; she means to marry him, and the sooner the better now. I knew this was coming, but I did so hope it would not be while you were here. It makes me feel so ashamed of myself that you should see it.”
Kate boldly knocked at her aunt’s door, and her aunt received her with a conscious smile. “I was waiting for you to come,” said Mrs Greenow.
“Here I am, aunt; and, what is more to the purpose, there is Captain Bellfield in the drawing-room.”
“Stupid man! I told him to take himself away about the place till dinner-time. I’ve half a mind to send him back to Shap at once — upon my word I have.”
“Don’t do that, aunt; it would be inhospitable.”
“But he is such an oaf. I hope you understand, my dear, that I couldn’t help it?”
“But you do mean to — to marry him, aunt; don’t you?”
“Well, Kate, I really think I do. Why shouldn’t I? It’s a lonely sort of life being by myself; and, upon my word, I don’t think there’s very much harm in him.”
“I am not saying anything against him; only in that case you can’t very well turn him out of the house.”
“Could not I, though? I could in a minute; and, if you wish it, you shall see if I can’t do it.”
“The rocks and valleys would not allow that, aunt.”
“It’s all very well for you to laugh, my dear. If laughing would break my bones I shouldn’t be as whole as I am now. I might have had Cheesacre if I liked, who is a substantial man, and could have kept a carriage for me; but it was the rocks and valleys that prevented that — and perhaps a little feeling that I might do some good to a poor fellow who has nobody in the world to look after him.” Mrs Greenow, as she said this, put her handkerchief up to her eyes, and wiped away the springing moisture. Tears were always easy with her, but on this occasion Kate almost respected her tears. “I’m sure I hope you’ll be happy, aunt.”
“If he makes me unhappy he shall pay for it;” and Mrs Greenow, having done with her tears, shook her head, as though upon this occasion she quite meant all that she said.
At dinner they were not very comfortable. Either the gloomy air of the place and the neighbourhood of the black pines had depressed the Captain, or else the glorious richness of the prospects before him had made him thoughtful. He had laid aside the jacket with the brass buttons, and had dressed himself for dinner very soberly. And he behaved himself at dinner and after dinner with a wonderful sobriety, being very unlike the Captain who had sat at the head of the table at Mrs Greenow’s picnic. When left to himself after dinner he barely swallowed two glasses of the old Squire’s port wine before he sauntered out into the garden to join the ladies, whom he had seen there; and when pressed by Kate to light a cigar he positively declined.
On the following morning Mrs Greenow had recovered her composure, but Captain Bellfield was still in a rather disturbed state of mind. He knew that his efforts were to be crowned with success, and that he was sure of his wife; but he did not know how the preliminary difficulties were to be overcome, and he did not know what to do with himself at the Hall. After breakfast he fidgeted about in the parlour, being unable to contrive for himself a mode of escape, and was absolutely thrown upon his beam-ends when the widow asked him what he meant to do with himself between that and dinner.
“I suppose I’d better take a walk,” he said; “and perhaps the young ladies — ”
“If you mean my two nieces,” said Mrs Greenow, “I’m afraid you’ll find they are engaged. But if I’m not too old to walk with — ” The Captain assured her that she was just of the proper age for a walking companion, as far as his taste went, and then attempted some apology for the awkwardness of his expression, at which the three women laughed heartily. “Never mind, Captain,” said Mrs Greenow. “We’ll have our walk all the same, and won’t mind those young girls. Come along.” Then they started, not up towards the mountains, as Kate always did when she walked in Westmoreland, but mildly — and at a gentle place, as beseemed their years, along the road towards Shap. The Captain politely opened the old gate for the widow, and then carefully closed it again — not allowing it to swing, as he would have done at Yarmouth. Then he tripped up to his place beside her, suggested his arm, which she declined, and walked on for some paces in silence. What on earth was he to say to her? He had done his love-making successfully, and what was he to do next?
“Well, Captain Bellfield,” said she. They were walking very slowly, and he was cutting the weeds by the roadside with his cane. He knew by her voice that something special was coming so he left the weeds and ranged himself close up alongside of her. “Well, Captain Bellfield — so I suppose I’m to be good-natured; am I?”
“Arabella, you’ll make me the happiest man in the world.”
“That’s all fudge.” She would have said “all rocks and valleys,” only he would not have understood her.
“Upon my word, you will.”
“I hope I shall make you respectable?”
“Oh, yes; certainly. I quite intend that.”
“It is the great thing that you should intend. Of course I am going to make a fool of myself.”
“No, no; don’t say that.”
“If I don’t say it, all my friends will say it for me. It’s lucky for you that I don’t much care what people say.”
“It is lucky — I know that I’m lucky. The very first day I saw you I thought what a happy fellow I was to meet you. Then, of course, I was only thinking of your beauty.”
“Get along with you!”
“Upon my word, yes. Come, Arabella, as we are to be man and wife, you might as well.” At this moment he had got very close to her, and had recovered something of his usual elasticity; but she would not allow him even to put his arm round her waist. “Out in the high road!” she said. “How can you be so impertinent — and so foolish?”
“You might as well, you know — just once.”
“Captain Bellfield, I brought you out here not for such fooling as that, but in order that we might have a little chat about business. If we are to be man and wife, as you say, we ought to understand on what footing we are to begin together. I’m afraid your own private means are not considerable?”
“Well, no; they are not, Mrs Greenow.”
“Have you anything?” The Captain hesitated, and poked the ground with his cane. “Come, Captain Bellfield, let us have the truth at once, and then we shall understand each other.” The Captain still hesitated, and said nothing. “You must have had something to live upon, I suppose?” suggested the widow. Then the Captain, by degrees, told his story. He had a married sister by whom a guinea a week was allowed to him. That was all. He had been obliged to sell out of the army, because he was unable to live on his pay as a lieutenant. The price of his commission had gone to pay his debts, and now — yes, it was too true — now he was in debt again. He owed ￡90 to Cheesacre, ￡32 10/-to a tailor at Yarmouth, over ￡17 at his lodgings in Norwich. At the present moment he had something under 30/-in his pocket. The tailor at Yarmouth had lent him ￡3 in order that he might make his journey into Westmoreland, and perhaps be enabled to pay his debts by getting a rich wife. In the course of the cross-examination Mrs Greenow got much information out of him; and then, when she was satisfied that she had learned, not exactly all the truth, but certain indications of the truth, she forgave him all his offences.
“And now you will give a fellow a kiss, just one kiss,” said the ecstatic Captain, in the height of his bliss.
“Hush!” said the widow, “there’s a carriage coming on the road — close to us.”
“Hush!” said the widow, “there’s a carriage coming on the road — close to us.” Mrs Greenow, as she spoke these words, drew back from the Captain’s arms before the first kiss of permitted ante-nuptial love had been exchanged. The scene was on the high road from Shap to Vavasor, and as she was still dressed in all the sombre habiliments of early widowhood, and as neither he nor his sweetheart were under forty, perhaps it was as well that they were not caught toying together in so very public a place. But they were only just in time to escape the vigilant eyes of a new visitor. Round the corner of the road, at a sharp trot, came the Shap post-horse, with the Shap gig behind him — the same gig which had brought Bellfield to Vavasor on the previous day — and seated in the gig, looming large, with his eyes wide awake to everything round him, was — — Mr Cheesacre.
It was a sight terrible to the eyes of Captain Bellfield, and by no means welcome to those of Mrs Greenow. As regarded her, her annoyance had chiefly reference to her two nieces, and especially to Alice. How was she to account for this second lover? Kate, of course, knew all about it; but how could Alice be made to understand that she, Mrs Greenow, was not to blame — that she had, in sober truth, told this ardent gentleman that there was no hope for him? And even as to Kate, Kate, whom her aunt had absurdly chosen to regard as the object of Mr Cheesacre’s pursuit — what sort of a welcome would she extend to the owner of Oileymead? Before the wheels had stopped, Mrs Greenow had begun to reflect whether it might be possible that she should send Mr Cheesacre back without letting him go on to the Hall; but if Mrs Greenow was dismayed, what were the feelings of the Captain? For he was aware that Cheesacre knew that of him which he had not told. How ardently did he now wish that he had sailed nearer to the truth in giving in the schedule of his debts to Mrs Greenow.
“That man’s wanted by the police,” said Cheesacre, speaking while the gig was still in motion. “He’s wanted by the police, Mrs Greenow,” and in his ardour he stood up in the gig and pointed at Bellfield. Then the gig stopped suddenly, and he fell back into his seat in his effort to prevent his falling forward. “He’s wanted by the police,” he shouted out again, as soon as he was able to recover his voice.
Mrs Greenow turned pale beneath the widow’s veil which she had dropped. What might not her Captain have done? He might have procured things, to be sent to him, out of shops on false pretences; or, urged on by want and famine, he might have committed — forgery. “Oh, my!” she said, and dropped her hand from his arm, which she had taken.
“It’s false,” said Bellfield.
“It’s true,” said Cheesacre.
“I’ll indict you for slander, my friend,” said Bellfield.
“Pay me the money you owe me,” said Cheesacre. “You’re a swindler!”
Mrs Greenow cared little as to her lover being a swindler in Mr Cheesacre’s estimation. Such accusations from him she had heard before. But she did care very much as to this mission of the police against her Captain. If that were true, the Captain could be her Captain no longer. “What is this I hear, Captain Bellfield?” she said.
“It’s a lie and a slander. He merely wants to make a quarrel between us. What police are after me, Mr Cheesacre?”
“It’s the police, or the sheriff’s officer, or something of the kind,” said Cheesacre.
“Oh, the sheriff’s officers!” exclaimed Mrs Greenow, in a tone of voice which showed how great had been her relief.
“Mr Cheesacre, you shouldn’t come and say such things — you shouldn’t, indeed. Sheriff’s officers can be paid, and there’s an end of them.”
“I’ll indict him for the libel — I will, as sure as I’m alive,” said Bellfield.
“Nonsense,” said the widow. “Don’t you make a fool of yourself. When men can’t pay their way they must put up with having things like that said of them. Mr Cheesacre, where were you going?”
“I was going to Vavasor Hall, on purpose to caution you.”
“It’s too late,” said Mrs Greenow, sinking behind her veil.
“Why, you haven’t been and married him since yesterday? He only had twenty-four hours’ start of me, I know. Or, perhaps you had it done clandestine in Norwich? Oh, Mrs Greenow!”
He got out of the gig, and the three walked back towards the Hall together, while the boy drove on with Mr Cheesacre’s carpet-bag. “I hardly know,” said Mrs Greenow, “whether we can welcome you. There are other visitors, and the house is full.”
“I’m not one to intrude where I’m not wanted. You may be sure of that. If I can’t get my supper for love, I can get it for money. That’s more than some people can say. I wonder when you’re going to pay me what you owe me, Lieutenant Bellfield?”
Nevertheless the widow had contrived to reconcile the two men before she reached the Hall. They had actually shaken hands, and the lamb Cheesacre had agreed to lie down with the wolf Bellfield. Cheesacre, moreover, had contrived to whisper into the widow’s ears the true extent of his errand into Westmoreland. This, however, he did not do altogether in Bellfield’s hearing. When Mrs Greenow ascertained that there was something to be said, she made no scruple in sending her betrothed away from her. “You won’t throw a fellow over, will you, now?” whispered Bellfield into her ear as he went. She merely frowned at him, and bade him begone; so that the walk which Mrs Greenow began with one lover she ended in company with the other.
Bellfield, who was sent on to the house, found Alice and Kate surveying the newly-arrived carpet-bag. “He knows ’un,” said the boy who had driven the gig, pointing to the Captain.
“It belongs to your old friend, Mr Cheesacre,” said Bellfield to Kate.
“And has he come too?” said Kate.
The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and admitted that it was hard. “And it’s not of the slightest use,” said he; “not the least in the world. He never had a chance in that quarter.”
“Not enough of the rocks and valleys about him, was there, Captain Bellfield?” said Kate. But Captain Bellfield understood nothing about the rocks and valleys, though he was regarded by certain eyes as being both a rock and a valley himself.
In the meantime Cheesacre was telling his story. He first asked, in a melancholy tone, whether it was really necessary that he must abandon all his hopes. “He wasn’t going to say anything against the Captain,” he said, “if things were really fixed. He never begrudged any man his chance.”
“Things are really fixed,” said Mrs Greenow.
He could, however, not keep himself from hinting that Oileymead was a substantial home, and that Bellfield had not as much as a straw mattress to lie upon. In answer to this Mrs Greenow told him that there was so much more reason why someone should provide the poor man with a mattress. “If you look at it in that light, of course it’s true,” said Cheesacre, Mrs Greenow told him that she did look at it in that light. “Then I’ve done about that,” said Cheesacre; “and as to the little bit of money he owes me, I must give him his time about it, I suppose.” Mrs Greenow assured him that it should be paid as soon as possible after the nuptial benediction had been said over them. She offered, indeed, to pay it at once if he was in distress for it, but he answered contemptuously that he never was in distress for money. He liked to have his own, that was all.
After this he did not get away to his next subject quite so easily as he wished; and it must be admitted that there was a difficulty. As he could not have Mrs Greenow he would be content to put up with Kate for his wife. That was his next subject. Rumours as to the old Squire’s will had no doubt reached him, and he was now willing to take advantage of that assistance which Mrs Greenow had before offered him in this matter. The time had come in which he ought to marry; of that he was aware. He had told many of his friends in Norfolk that Kate Vavasor had thrown herself at his head, and very probably he had thought it true. In answer to all his love speeches to herself, the aunt had always told him what an excellent wife her niece would make him. So now he had come to Westmoreland with this second string to his bow. “You know you put it into my head your own self,” pleaded Mr Cheesacre. “Didn’t you, now?”
“But things are so different since that,” said the widow.
“How different? I ain’t different. There’s Oileymead just where it always was, and the owner of it don’t owe a shilling to any man. How are things different?”
“My niece has inherited property.”
“And is that to make a change? Oh! Mrs Greenow, who would have thought to find you mercenary like that? Inherited property! Is she going to fling a man over because of that?”
Mrs Greenow endeavoured to explain to him that her niece could hardly be said to have flung him over, and at last pretended to become angry when he attempted to assert his position. “Why, Mr Cheesacre, I am quite sure she never gave you a word of encouragement in her life.”
“But you always told me I might have her for the asking.”
“And now I tell you that you mayn’t. It’s of no use your going on there to ask her, for she will only send you away with an answer you won’t like. Look here, Mr Cheesacre; you want to get married, and it’s quite time you should. There’s my dear friend Charlie Fairstairs. How could you get a better wife than Charlie?”
“Charlie Fairstairs!” said Cheesacre, turning up his nose in disgust. “She hasn’t got a penny, nor any one belonging to her. The man who marries her will have to find the money for the smock she stands up in.”
“Who’s mercenary now, Mr Cheesacre? Do you go home and think of it; and if you’ll marry Charlie, I’ll go to your wedding. You shan’t be ashamed of her clothing. I’ll see to that.”
They were now close to the gate, and Cheesacre paused before he entered. “Do you think there’s no chance at all for me, then?” said he.
“I know there’s none. I’ve heard her speak about it.”
“Somebody else, perhaps, is the happy man?”
“I can’t say anything about that, but I know that she wouldn’t take you. I like farming, you know, but she doesn’t.”
“I might give that up,” said Cheesacre readily — “at any rate, for a time.”
“No, no, no; it would do no good. Believe me, my friend, that it is of no use.”
He still paused at the gate. “I don’t see what’s the use of my going in,” said he. To this she made him no answer. “There’s a pride about me,” he continued, “that I don’t choose to go where I’m not wanted.”
“I can’t tell you, Mr Cheesacre, that you are wanted in that light, certainly.”
“Then I’ll go. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell the boy with the gig to come after me? That’s six pound ten it will have cost me to come here and go back. Bellfield did it cheaper, of course; he travelled second class. I heard of him as I came along.”
“The expense does not matter to you, Mr Cheesacre.”
To this he assented, and then took his leave, at first offering his hand to Mrs Greenow with an air of offended dignity, but falling back almost into humility during the performance of his adieu. Before he was gone he had invited her to bring the Captain to Oileymead when she was married, and had begged her to tell Miss Vavasor how happy he should be to receive her. “And, Mr Cheesacre,” said the widow, as he walked back along the road, “don’t forget dear Charlie Fairstairs.”
They were all standing at the front door of the house when Mrs Greenow re-appeared — Alice, Kate, Captain Bellfield, the Shap boy, and the Shap horse and gig. “Where is he?” Kate asked in a low voice, and everyone there felt how important was the question. “He has gone,” said the widow. Bellfield was so relieved that he could not restrain his joy, but took off his little straw hat and threw it up into the air. Kate’s satisfaction was almost as intense. “I am so glad,” said she. “What on earth should we have done with him?” “I never was so disappointed in my life,” said Alice. “I have heard so much of Mr Cheesacre, but have never seen him.” Kate suggested that she should get into the gig and drive after him. “He ain’t a been and took hisself off?” suggested the boy, whose face became very dismal as the terrible idea struck him. But, with juvenile craft, he put his hand on the carpet-bag, and finding that it did not contain stones, was comforted. “You drive after him, young gentleman, and you’ll find him on the road to Shap,” said Mrs Greenow. “Mind you give him my love,” said the Captain in his glee, “and say I hope he’ll get his turnips in well.”
This little episode went far to break the day, and did more than anything else could have done to put Captain Bellfield at his ease. It created a little joint-stock fund of merriment between the whole party, which was very much needed. The absence of such joint-stock fund is always felt when a small party is thrown together without such assistance. Some bond is necessary on these occasions, and no other bond is so easy or so pleasant. Now, when the Captain found himself alone for a quarter of an hour with Alice, he had plenty of subjects for small-talk. “Yes, indeed. Old Cheesacre, in spite of his absurdities, is not a bad sort of fellow at bottom — awfully fond of his money, you know, Miss Vavasor, and always boasting about it.” “That’s not pleasant, said Alice. No; the most unpleasant thing in the world. There’s nothing I hate so much, Miss Vavasor, as that kind of talking. My idea is this — when a man has lots of money, let him make the best use he can of it, and say nothing about it. Nobody ever heard me talking about my money.” He knew that Alice knew that he was a pauper; but, nevertheless, he had the satisfaction of speaking of himself as though he were not a pauper.
In this way the afternoon went very pleasantly. For an hour before dinner Captain Bellfield was had into the drawing-room, and was talked to by his widow on matters of business; but he had of course known that this was necessary. She scolded him soundly about those sheriff’s officers. Why had he not told her? “As long as there’s anything kept back, I won’t have you,” said she. “I won’t become your wife till I’m quite sure there’s not a penny owing that is not shown in the list.” Then I think he did tell her all — or nearly all. When all was counted it was not so very much. Three or four hundred pounds would make him a new man, and what was such a sum as that to his wealthy widow! Indeed, for a woman wanting a husband of that sort, Captain Bellfield was a safer venture than would be a man of a higher standing among his creditors. It is true Bellfield might have been a forger, or a thief, or a returned convict — but then his debts could not be large. Let him have done his best, he could not have obtained credit for a thousand pounds; whereas, no one could tell the liabilities of a gentleman of high standing. Burgo Fitzgerald was a gentleman of high standing, and his creditors would have swallowed up every shilling that Mrs Greenow possessed; but with Captain Bellfield she was comparatively safe.
Upon the whole I think that she was lucky in her choice; or, perhaps, I might more truly say, that she had chosen with prudence. He was no forger, or thief — in the ordinary sense of the word; nor was he a returned convict. He was simply an idle scamp, who had hung about the world for forty years, doing nothing, without principle, shameless, accustomed to eat dirty puddings, and to be kicked — morally kicked — by such men as Cheesacre. But he was moderate in his greediness, and possessed of a certain appreciation of the comfort of a daily dinner, which might possibly suffice to keep him from straying very wide as long as his intended wife should be able to keep the purse-strings altogether in her own hands. Therefore, I say that Mrs Greenow had been lucky in her choice, and not altogether without prudence.
“I think of taking this house,” said she, “and of living here.”
“What, in Westmoreland!” said the Captain, with something of dismay in his tone. What on earth would he do with himself all his life in that gloomy place!
“Yes, in Westmoreland. Why not in Westmoreland as well as anywhere else? If you don’t like Westmoreland, it’s not too late yet, you know.” In answer to this the poor Captain was obliged to declare that he had no objection whatever to Westmoreland.
“I’ve been talking to my niece about it,” continued Mrs Greenow, “and I find that such an arrangement can be made very conveniently. The property is left between her and her uncle — the father of my other niece, and neither of them want to live here.”
“But won’t you be rather dull, my dear?”
“We could go to Yarmouth, you know, in the autumn.” Then the Captain’s visage became somewhat bright again. “And, perhaps, if you are not extravagant, we could manage a month or so in London during the winter, just to see the plays and do a little shopping.” Then the Captain’s face became very bright. “That will be delightful,” said he. “And as for being dull,” said the widow, “when people grow old they must be dull. Dancing can’t go on for ever.” In answer to this the widow’s Captain assured the widow that she was not at all old; and now, on this occasion, that ceremony came off successfully which had been interrupted on the Shap road by the noise of Mr Cheesacre’s wheels. “There goes my cap,” said she. “What a goose you are! What will Jeannette say?”
“Bother Jeannette,” said the Captain in his bliss. “She can do another cap, and many more won’t be wanted,” Then I think the ceremony was repeated.
Upon the whole the Captain’s visit was satisfactory — at any rate to the Captain. Everything was settled. He was to go away on Saturday morning, and remain in lodgings at Penrith till the wedding, which they agreed to have celebrated at Vavasor Church. Kate promised to be the solitary bridesmaid. There was some talk of sending for Charlie Fairstairs, but the idea was abandoned. “We’ll have her afterwards,” said the widow to Kate, “when you are gone, and we shall want her more. And I’ll get Cheesacre here, and make him marry her. There’s no good in paying for two journeys.” The Captain was to be allowed to come over from Penrith twice a week previous to his marriage; or perhaps, I might more fairly say, that he was commanded to do so. I wonder how he felt when Mrs Greenow gave him his first five-pound note, and told him that he must make it do for a fortnight? — whether it was all joy, or whether there was about his heart any touch of manly regret?
“Captain Bellfield, of Vavasor Hall, Westmoreland. It don’t sound badly,” he said to himself, as he travelled away on his first journey to Penrith.
On the night of Lady Monk’s party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in vain. The old butler and factotum of the house, who was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife’s triumphs, was interrogated by his mistress, and said that he thought Mr Burgo had left the house. Lady Monk herself knocked at her nephew’s door, when she went upstairs, ascending an additional flight of stairs with her weary old limbs in order that she might do so; she even opened the door and saw the careless débris of his toilet about the room. But he was gone. “Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it,” she said to herself, as she went down to her own room.
But Burgo, as we know, had not “arranged it.” It may be remembered that when Mr Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room at Lady Monk’s, bringing with him the scarf which Lady Glencora had left upstairs, Burgo was no longer with her. He had become well aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night. The poor fool, acting upon his aunt’s implied advice rather than his own hopes, had secured a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street, some five minutes’ walk from his aunt’s house. And he had purchased feminine wrappings, cloaks, &c. — things that he thought might be necessary for his companion. He had, too, ordered rooms at the new hotel near the Dover Station — the London Bridge Station — from whence was to start on the following morning a train to catch the tidal boat for Boulogne. There was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-five guineas out of his aunt’s money, not having been able to induce the tradesman to grant it to him on credit; and there were other things — slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, and what else might, as he thought, under such circumstances be most necessary. Poor thoughtful, thoughtless fool!
The butler was right. He did leave the house. He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage from some back hiding-place in the hall, and then slipped out, unmindful of his shining boots, and dress coat and jewelled studs. He took a Gibus hat — his own, or that of some other unfortunate — and slowly made his way down to the place in Bruton Street. There was the carriage and pair of horses, all in readiness; and the driver, when he had placed himself by the door of the vehicle, was not long in emerging from the neighbouring public-house. “All ready, your honour,” said the man. “I shan’t want you tonight,” said Burgo, hoarsely — “go away.” “And about the things, your honour?” “Take them to the devil. No; stop. Take them back with you, and ask somebody to keep them till I send for them. I shall want them and another carriage in a day or two,” Then he gave the man half a sovereign, and went away, not looking at the little treasures which he had spent so much of his money in selecting for his love. When he was gone, the waterman and the driver turned them over with careful hands and gloating eyes. “It’s a ’eiress, I’ll go bail,” said the waterman. “Pretty dear! I suppose her parints was too many for her,” said the driver. But neither of them imagined the enormity which the hirer of the chaise had in truth contemplated.
Burgo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor Square, and from thence down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews which there are in those parts, into Park Lane. He had now passed the position of Mr Palliser’s house, having come out on Park Lane at a spot nearer to Piccadilly; but he retraced his steps, walking along by the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite to the house. Then he stood there, leaning back upon the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora’s windows. What did he expect to see? Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow that is made by the one loved object — that may be made by her, or, by some violent conjecture of the mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such love as that is, I think, always innocent. Burgo Fitzgerald did not love like that. I almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all. There was in his breast a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse. He wanted money. He wanted the thing of which this Palliser had robbed him. He wanted revenge — though his desire for that was not a burning desire. And among other things, he wanted the woman’s beauty of the woman whom he coveted. He wanted to kiss her again as he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft, and lovely, and loving for him. But as for seeing her shadow, unless its movement indicated some purpose in his favour — I do not think that he cared much about that.
And why then was he there? Because in his unreasoning folly he did not know what step to take, or what step not to take. There are men whose energies hardly ever carry them beyond looking for the thing they want. She might see him from the window, and come to him. I do not say that he thought that it would be so. I fancy that he never thought at all about that or about anything. If you lie under a tree, and open your mouth, a plum may fall into it. It was probably an undefined idea of some such chance as this which brought him against the railings in the front of Mr Palliser’s house; that, and a feeling made up partly of despair and partly of lingering romance that he was better there, out in the night air, under the gas-lamps, than he could be elsewhere. There he stood and looked, and cursed his ill-luck. But his curses had none of the bitterness of those which George Vavasor was always uttering. Through it all there remained about Burgo one honest feeling — one conviction that was true — a feeling that it all served him right, and that he had better, perhaps, go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble. If he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate any one; and whenever he made any self-inquiry into his own circumstances, he always told himself that it was all his own fault. When he cursed his fate, he only did so because cursing is so easy. George Vavasor would have ground his victims up to powder if he knew how; but Burgo Fitzgerald desired to hurt no one.
There he stood till he was cold, and then, as the plum did not drop into his mouth, he moved on. He went up into Oxford Street, and walked along it the whole distance to the corner of Bond Street, passing by Grosvenor Square, to which he intended to return. At the corner of Bond Street, a girl took hold of him, and looked up into his face. “Ah!” she said, I saw you once before.’ — “Then you saw the most miserable devil alive,” said Burgo. “You can’t be miserable,” said the girl. “What makes you miserable? You’ve plenty of money.” — “I wish I had,” said Burgo. “And plenty to eat and drink,” exclaimed the girl; and you are so handsome! I remember you. You gave me supper one night when I was starving. I ain’t hungry now. Will you give me a kiss?’ — “I’ll give you a shilling, and that’s better,” said Burgo. “But give me a kiss too,” said the girl. He gave her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and after that he left her and passed on. “I’m d — d if I wouldn’t change with her!” he said to himself. “I wonder whether anything really ails him?” thought the girl “He said he was wretched before. Shouldn’t I like to be good to such a one as him!”
Burgo went on, and made his way into the house in Grosvenor Square, by some means probably unknown to his aunt, and certainly unknown to his uncle. He emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted a roll of notes which he had kept in one of them. There were still a hundred and thirty pounds left. Lady Glencora had promised that she would see him again. She had said as much as that quite distinctly. But what use would there be in that if all his money should then be gone? He knew that the keeping of money in his pocket was to him quite an impossibility. Then he thought of his aunt. What should he say to his aunt if he saw her in the course of the coming day? Might it not be as well for him to avoid his aunt altogether?
He breakfasted upstairs in his bedroom — in his bed, indeed, eating a small paté de foie gras from the supper-table, as he read a French novel. There he was still reading his French novel in bed when his aunt’s maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see him before she went out. “Tell me, Lucy,” said he, “how is the old girl?”
“She’s as cross as cross, Mr Burgo. Indeed, I shan’t — not a minute longer. Don’t, now; will you? I tell you she’s waiting for me.” From which it may be seen that Lucy shared the general feminine feeling in favour of poor Burgo. Thus summoned Burgo applied himself to his toilet; but as he did so, he recruited his energies from time to time by a few pages of the French novel, and also by small doses from a bottle of cura?oa which he had in his bedroom. He was utterly a pauper. There was no pauper poorer than he in London that day. But, nevertheless, he breakfasted on paté de foie gras and cura?oa, and regarded those dainties very much as other men regard bread and cheese and beer.
But though he was dressing at the summons of his aunt, he had by no means made up his mind that he would go to her. Why should he go to her? What good would it do him? She would not give him more money. She would only scold him for his misconduct. She might, perhaps, turn him out of the house if he did not obey her — or attempt to do so; but she would be much more likely to do this when he had made her angry by contradicting her. In neither case would he leave the house, even though its further use were positively forbidden him, because his remaining there was convenient; but as he could gain nothing by seeing “the old girl,” as he had called her, he resolved to escape to his club without attending to her summons.
But his aunt, who was a better general than he, out-manoeuvred him. He crept down the back stairs; but as he could not quite condescend to escape through the area, he was forced to emerge upon the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him, coming out of the breakfast-parlour. “Did not Lucy tell you that I wanted to see you?” Lady Monk asked, with severity in her voice.
Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to have his hair washed and brushed. He would have been back in twenty minutes. There was no energy about the poor fellow, unless, perhaps, when he was hunting; but he possessed a readiness which enabled him to lie at a moment’s notice with the most perfect ease. Lady Monk did not believe him; but she could not confute him, and therefore she let the lie pass.
“Never mind your hair now,” she said. “I want to speak to you. Come in here for a few minutes.”
As there was no way of escape left to him, he followed his aunt into the breakfast-parlour,
“Burgo,” she said, when she had seated herself, and had made him sit in a chair opposite to her, “I don’t think you will ever do any good.”
“I don’t much think I shall, aunt.”
“What do you mean, then, to do with yourself?”
“Oh — I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it.”
“You can’t stay here in this house. Sir Cosmo was speaking to me about you only yesterday morning.”
“I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes it better — that is, when the season is a little more through.”
“He won’t have you at Monkshade. He won’t let you go there again. And he won’t have you here. You know that you are turning what I say into joke.”
“No, indeed, aunt.”
“Yes, you are — you know you are. You are the most ungrateful, heartless creature I ever met. You must make up your mind to leave this house at once.”
“Where does Sir Cosmo mean that I should go, then?”
“To the workhouse, if you like. He doesn’t care.”
“I don’t suppose he does — the least in the world,” said Burgo, opening his eyes, and stretching his nostrils, and looking into his aunt’s face as though he had great ground for indignation.
But the turning of Burgo out of the house was not Lady Monk’s immediate purpose. She knew that he would hang on there till the season was over. After that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he should have succeeded in a certain enterprise. She had now caught him in order that she might learn whether there was any possible remaining chance of success as to that enterprise. So she received his indignation in silence, and began upon another subject. “What a fool you made of yourself last night, Burgo!”
“Did I— more of a fool than usual?”
“I believe that you will never be serious about anything. Why did you go on waltzing in that way when every pair of eyes in the room was watching you?”
“I couldn’t help going on, if she liked it.”
“Oh, yes — say it was her fault. That’s so like a man!”
“Look here, aunt; I’m not going to sit here and be abused. I couldn’t take her in my arms, and fly away with her out of a crowd.”
“Who wants you to fly away with her?”
“For the matter of that, I suppose that you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, then, I do.”
“You! you haven’t spirit to do that, or anything else. You are like a child that is just able to amuse itself for the moment, and never can think of anything further. You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too — and her; but, of course, you care nothing about that.”
“I had a plan all ready — only he came back.”
“Of course he came back. Of course he came back, when they sent him word how you and she were going on. And now he will have forgiven her, and after that, of course, the thing will be all over.”
“I tell you what, aunt; she would go if she knew how. When I was forced to leave her last night, she promised to see me again. And as for being idle, and not doing anything — why, I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed.”
“What good did that do?”
“It didn’t do any good, as it happened. But a fellow can only try. I believe, after all, it would be easier down in the country — especially now that he has taken it into his head to look after her.”
Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low voice, “What did she say to you when you were parting? What were her exact words?” She, at any rate, was not deficient in energy. She was anxious enough to see her purpose accomplished. She would have conducted the matter with discretion, if the running away with Mr Palliser’s wife could, in very fact, have been done by herself.
“She said she would see me again. She promised it twice.”
“And was that all?”
“What could she say more, when she was forced to go away?”
“Had she said that she would go with you?”
“I had asked her — half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse. I know she means it, if she knew how to get away. She hates him — I’m sure of it. A woman, you know, wouldn’t absolutely say that she would go, till she was gone.”
“If she really meant it, she would tell you”
“I don’t think she could have told me plainer. She said she would see me again. She said that twice over.”
Again Lady Monk sat silent. She had a plan in her head — a plan that might, as she thought, give to her nephew one more chance. But she hesitated before she could bring herself to explain it in detail. At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr Palliser’s wife, but in lending it had said no word upon the subject. During the last season she had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house in London, and had taken care that Burgo should meet her there. Then a hint or two had been spoken, and Lady Glencora had been asked to Monkshade. Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to Monkshade, and Lady Monk had then been baffled. But she did not therefore give up the game. Having now thought of it so much, she began to speak of it more boldly, and had procured money for her nephew that he might thereby be enabled to carry off the woman. But though this had been well understood between them, though words had been spoken which were sufficiently explicit, the plan had not been openly discussed. Lady Monk had known nothing of the mode in which Lady Glencora was to have been carried off after her party, nor whither she was to have been taken. But now — now she must arrange it herself, and have a scheme of her own, or else the thing must fail absolutely. Even she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to her nephew on such a subject. What if he should be false to her, and tell of her? But when a woman has made such schemes, nothing distresses her so sadly as their failure. She would risk all rather than that Mr Palliser should keep his wife.
“I will try and help you,” she said at last, speaking hoarsely, almost in a whisper, “if you have courage to make an attempt yourself.”
“Courage!” said he. “What is it you think I am afraid of? Mr Palliser? I’d fight him — or all the Pallisers, one after another, if it would do any good.”
“Fighting! There’s no fighting wanted, as you know well enough. Men don’t fight nowadays. Look here! If you can get her to call here some day — say on Thursday, at three o’clock — I will be here to receive her; and instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab for her somewhere near. She can come, as it were, to make a morning call.”
“A cab!”
“Yes; a cab won’t kill her, and it is less easily followed than a carriage.”
“And where shall we go?”
“There is a train to Southampton at four, and the boat sails for Jersey at half past six; you will be in Jersey the next morning, and there is a boat goes on to St Malo, almost at once. You can go direct from one boat to the other — that is, if she has strength and courage.” After that, who will say that Lady Monk was not a devoted aunt?
“That would do excellently well,” said the enraptured Burgo.
“She will have a difficulty in getting away from me, out of the house. Of course I shall say nothing about it, and shall know nothing about it. She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere to pick someone up, and to return — out somewhere to Tyburnia, or down to Pimlico. Then she can leave me, and go out on foot, to where you have the cab. She can tell the hall-porter that she will walk to her carriage. Do you understand?” Burgo declared that he did understand.
“You must call on her, and make your way in, and see her, and arrange all this. It must be a Thursday, because of the boats.” Then she made inquiry about his money, and took from him the notes which he had, promising to return them, with something added, on the Thursday morning; but he asked, with a little whine, for a five-pound note, and got it. Burgo then told her about the travelling-bags and the stockings, and they were quite pleasant and confidential. “Bid her come in a stout travelling dress,” said Lady Monk. “She can wear some lace or something over it, so that the servants won’t observe it. I will take no notice of it.” Was there ever such an aunt?
After this, Burgo left his aunt, and went away to his club, in a state of most happy excitement.
Alice, on her return from Westmoreland, went direct to Park Lane, whither Lady Glencora and Mr Palliser had also returned before her. She was to remain with them in London one entire day, and on the morning after that they were to start for Paris. She found Mr Palliser in close attendance upon his wife. Not that there was anything in his manner which at all implied that he was keeping watch over her, or that he was more with her, or closer to her than a loving husband might wish to be with a young wife; but the mode of life was very different from that which Alice had seen at Matching Priory!
On her arrival Mr Palliser himself received her in the hall, and took her up to his wife before she had taken off her travelling hat. “We are so much obliged to you, Miss Vavasor,” he said. “I feel it quite as deeply as Glencora.”
“Oh, no,” she said; “it is I that am under obligation to you for taking me.”
He merely smiled, and shook his head, and then took her upstairs. On the stairs he said one other word to her: “You must forgive me if I was cross to you that night she went out among the ruins.” Alice muttered something — some little fib of courtesy as to the matter having been forgotten, or never borne in mind; and then they went on to Lady Glencora’s room. It seemed to Alice that he was not so big or so much to be dreaded as when she had seen him at Matching. His descent from an expectant, or more than an expectant, Chancellor of the Exchequer, down to a simple, attentive husband, seemed to affect his gait, his voice, and all his demeanour. When he received Alice at the Priory he certainly loomed before her as something great, whereas now his greatness seemed to have fallen from him. We must own that this was hard upon him, seeing that the deed by which he had divested himself of his greatness had been so pure and good!
“Dear Alice, this is so good of you! I am all in the midst of packing, and Plantagenet is helping me.” Plantagenet winced a little under this, as the hero of old must have winced when he was found with the distaff. Mr Palliser had relinquished his sword of state for the distaff which he had assumed, and could take no glory in the change. There was, too, in his wife’s voice the slightest hint of mockery, which, slight as it was, he perhaps thought she might have spared. “You have nothing left to pack,” continued Glencora, “and I don’t know what you can do to amuse yourself.”
“I will help you,” said Alice.
“But we have so very nearly done. I think we shall have to pull all the things out, and put them up again, or we shall never get through tomorrow. We couldn’t start tomorrow — could we, Plantagenet?”
“Not very well, as your rooms are ordered in Paris for the next day.”
“As if we couldn’t find rooms at every inn on the road. Men are so particular. Now in travelling I should like never to order rooms — never to know where I was going or when I was going, and to carry everything I wanted in a market-basket.” Alice, who by this time had followed her friend along the passage to her bedroom, and had seen how widely the packages were spread about, bethought herself that the market-basket should be a large one. “And I would never travel among Christians. Christians are so slow, and they wear chimney-pot hats everywhere. The further one goes from London among Christians, the more they wear chimney-pot hats. I want Plantagenet to take us to see the Kurds, but he won’t.”
“I don’t think that would be fair to Miss Vavasor,” said Mr Palliser, who had followed them.
“Don’t put the blame on her head,” said Lady Glencora. “Women have always pluck for anything. Wouldn’t you like to see a live Kurd, Alice?”
“I don’t exactly know where they live,” said Alice.
“Nor I. I have not the remotest idea of the way to the Kurds. You see my joke, don’t you, though Plantagenet doesn’t? But one knows that they are Eastern, and the East is such a grand idea!”
“I think we’ll content ourselves with Rome, or perhaps Naples, on this occasion,” said Mr Palliser.
The notion of Lady Glencora packing anything for herself was as good a joke as that other one of the Kurds and whey. But she went flitting about from room to room, declaring that this thing must be taken, and that other, till the market-basket would have become very large indeed. Alice was astonished at the extent of the preparations, and the sort of equipage with which they were about to travel. Lady Glencora was taking her own carriage. “Not that I shall ever use it,” she said to Alice, “but he insists upon it, to show that I am not supposed to be taken away in disgrace. He is so good — isn’t he?”
“Very good,” said Alice. I know no one better.
“And so dull!” said Lady Glencora. “But I fancy that all husbands are dull from the nature of their position. If I were a young woman’s husband, I shouldn’t know what to say to her that wasn’t dull.”
Two women and two men servants were to be taken. Alice had received permission to bring her own maid — “or a dozen, if you want them,” Lady Glencora had said. “Mr Palliser in his present mood would think nothing too much to do for you. If you were to ask him to go among the Kurds, he’d go at once — or on to Crim Tartary, if you made a point of it.” But as both Lady Glencora’s servants spoke French, and as her own did not, Alice trusted herself in that respect to her cousin. “You shall have one all to yourself,” said Lady Glencora. “I only take two for the same reason that I take the carriage — just as you let a child go out in her best frock, for a treat, after you’ve scolded her.”
When Alice asked why it was supposed that Mr Palliser was so specially devoted to her, the thing was explained to her. “You see, my dear, I have told him everything. I always do tell everything. Nobody can say I am not candid. He knows about your not letting me come to your house in the old days. Oh, Alice! — you were wrong then; I shall always say that. But it’s done and gone; and things that are done and gone shall be done and gone for me. And I told him all that you said — about you know what. I have had nothing else to do but make confessions for the last ten days, and when a woman once begins, the more she confesses the better. And I told him that you refused Jeffrey.”
“You didn’t?”
“I did indeed, and he likes you the better for that. I think he’d let Jeffrey marry you now if you both wished it — and then, oh dear! — supposing that you had a son and that we adopted it?”
“Cora, if you go on in that way I will not remain with you.”
“But you must, my dear. You can’t escape now. At any rate, you can’t when we once get to Paris. Oh dear! you shouldn’t grudge me my little naughtinesses. I have been so proper for the last ten days. Do you know I got into a way of driving Dandy and Flirt at the rate of six miles an hour, till I’m sure the poor beasts thought they were always going to a funeral. Poor Dandy and poor Flirt! I shan’t see them now for another year.”
On the following morning they breakfasted early, because Mr Palliser had got into an early habit. He had said that early hours would be good for them. “But he never tells me why,” said Lady Glencora. “I think it is pleasant when people are travelling,” said Alice. “It isn’t that,” her cousin answered; “but we are all to be such particularly good children. It’s hardly fair, because he went to sleep last night after dinner while you and I kept ourselves awake: but we needn’t do that another night, to be sure.” After breakfast they all three went to work to do nothing. It was ludicrous and almost painful to see Mr Palliser wandering about and counting the boxes, as though he could do any good by that. At this special crisis of his life he hated his papers and figures and statistics, and could not apply himself to them. He, whose application had been so unremitting, could apply himself now to nothing. His world had been brought to an abrupt end, and he was awkward at making a new beginning. I believe that they all three were reading novels before one o’clock. Lady Glencora and Alice had determined that they would not leave the house throughout the day. “Nothing has been said about it, but I regard it as part of the bond that I’m not to go out anywhere. Who knows but what I might be found in Gloucester Square?” There was, however, no absolute necessity that Mr Palliser should remain with them; and, at about three, he prepared himself for a solitary walk. He would not go down to the House. All interest in the House was over with him for the present. He had the Speaker’s leave to absent himself for the season. Nor would he call on any one. All his friends knew, or believed they knew, that he had left town. His death and burial had been already chronicled, and were he now to reappear, he could reappear only as a ghost. He was being talked of as the departed one — or rather, such talk on all sides had now come nearly to an end. The poor Duke of St Bungay still thought of him with regret when more than ordinarily annoyed by some special grievance coming to him from Mr Finespun; but even the Duke had become almost reconciled to the present order of things. Mr Palliser knew better than to disturb all this by showing himself again in public; and prepared himself, therefore, to take another walk under the elms in Kensington Gardens.
He had his hat on his head in the hall, and was in the act of putting on his gloves, when there came a knock at the front door. The hall porter was there, a stout, plethoric personage, not given to many words, who was at this moment standing with his master’s umbrella in his hand, looking as though he would fain be of some use to somebody, if any such utility were compatible with the purposes of his existence. Now had come this knock at the door, while the umbrella was still in his hand, and the nature of his visage changed, and it was easy to see that he was oppressed by the temporary multiplicity of his duties. “Give me the umbrella, John,” said Mr Palliser. John gave up the umbrella, and opening the door disclosed Burgo Fitzgerald standing upon the doorstep. “Is Lady Glencora at home?” asked Burgo, before he had seen the husband. John turned a dismayed face upon his master, as though he knew that the comer ought not to be making a morning call at that house — as no doubt he did know very well — and made no instant reply. “I am not sure,” said Mr Palliser, making his way out as he had originally purposed. “The servant will find out for you.” Then he went on his way across Park Lane and into the Park, never once turning back his face to see whether Burgo had effected an entrance into the house. Nor did he return a minute earlier than he would otherwise have done. After all, there was something chivalrous about the man.
“Yes; Lady Glencora was at home,” said the porter, not stirring to make any further inquiry. It was no business of his if Mr Palliser chose to receive such a guest. He had not been desired to say that her ladyship was not at home. Burgo was therefore admitted and shown direct up into the room in which Lady Glencora was sitting. As chance would have it, she was alone. Alice had left her and was in her own chamber, and Lady Glencora was sitting at the window of the small room upstairs that overlooked the Park. She was seated on a footstool with her face between her hands when Burgo was admitted, thinking of him, and of what the world might have been to her had “they left her alone,” as she was in the habit of saying to Alice and to herself.
She rose quickly, so that he saw her only as she was rising. “Ask Miss Vavasor to come to me,” she said, as the servant left the room; and then she came forward to greet her lover.
“Cora,” he said, dashing at once into his subject — hopelessly, but still with a resolve to do as he had said that he would do. “Cora, I have come to you, to ask you to go with me.”
“I will not go with you,” said she.
“Do not answer me in that way, without a moment’s thought. Everything is arranged — ”
“Yes, everything is arranged,” she said. “Mr Fitzgerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr Palliser and I, and my friend, are starting tomorrow. Wish me God-speed and go, and be generous.”
“And is this to be the end of everything?” He was standing close to her, but hitherto he had only touched her hand at greeting her. “Give me your hand, Cora,” he said.
“No — I will never give you my hand again. You should be generous to me and go. This is to be the end of everything — of everything that is common to you and to me. Go, when I ask you.”
“Cora; did you ever love me?”
“Yes; I did love you. But we were separated, and there was no room for love left between us.”
“You are as dear to me now — dearer than ever you were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell me when we last parted that I might come to you again? Are we children, that others should come between us and separate us like that?”
“Yes, Burgo; we are children. Here is my cousin coming. You must leave me now.” As she spoke the door was opened and Alice entered the room. “Miss Vavasor, Mr Fitzgerald,” said Lady Glencora. “I have told him to go and leave me. Now that you have come, Alice, he will perhaps obey me.”
Alice was dumbfounded, and knew not how to speak either to him or to her; but she stood with her eyes riveted on the face of the man of whom she had heard so much. Yes; certainly he was very beautiful. She had never before seen man’s beauty such as that. She found it quite impossible to speak a word to him then — at the spur of the moment, but she acknowledged the introduction with a slight inclination of the head, and then stood silent, as though she were waiting for him to go.
“Mr Fitzgerald, why do you not leave me and go?” said Lady Glencora.
Poor Burgo also found it difficult enough to speak. What could he say? His cause was one which certainly did not admit of being pleaded in the presence of a strange lady; and he might have known from the moment in which he heard Glencora’s request that a third person should be summoned to their meeting — and probably did know, that there was no longer any hope for him. It was not on the cards that he should win. But there remained one thing that he must do. He must get himself out of that room; and how was he to effect that?
“I had hoped,” said he, looking at Alice, though he addressed Lady Glencora — “I had hoped to be allowed to speak to you alone for a few minutes.”
“No, Mr Fitzgerald; it cannot be so. Alice, do not go. I sent for my cousin when I saw you, because I did not choose to be alone with you. I have asked you to go — ”
“You perhaps have not understood me?”
“I understand you well enough.”
“Then, Mr Fitzgerald,” said Alice, “why do you not do as Lady Glencora has asked you? You know — you must know, that you ought not to be here.”
“I know nothing of the kind,” said he, still standing his ground.
“Alice,” said Lady Glencora, “we will leave Mr Fitzgerald here, since he drives us from the room.”
In such contests, a woman has ever the best of it at all points. The man plays with a button to his foil, while the woman uses a weapon that can really wound. Burgo knew that he must go — felt that he must skulk away as best he might, and perhaps hear a low titter of half-suppressed laughter as he went. Even that might be possible. “No, Lady Glencora,” he said, “I will not drive you from the room. As one must be driven out, it shall be I. I own I did think that you would at any rate have been — less hard to me.” He then turned to go, bowing again very slightly to Miss Vavasor.
He was on the threshold of the door before Glencora’s voice recalled him. “Oh my God!” she said, “I am hard — harder than flint. I am cruel. Burgo!” And he was back with her in a moment, and had taken her by the hand.
“Glencora,” said Alice, “pray — pray let him go. Mr Fitzgerald, if you are a man, do not take advantage of her folly.”
“I will speak to him,” said Lady Glencora. “I will speak to him, and then he shall leave me.” She was holding him by the hand now and turning to him, away from Alice, who had taken her by the arm. “Burgo,” she said, repeating his name twice again, with all the passion that she could throw into the word — “Burgo, no good can come of this. Now, you must leave me. You must go. I shall stay with my husband as I am bound to do. Because I have wronged you, I will not wrong him also. I loved you — you know I loved you.” She still held him by the hand, and was now gazing up into his face, while the tears were streaming from her eyes.
“Sir,” said Alice, “you have heard from her all that you can care to hear. If you have any feeling of honour in you, you will leave her.”
“I will never leave her, while she tells me that she loves me!”
“Yes, Burgo, you will — you must! I shall never tell you that again, never. Do as she bids you. Go, and leave us — but I could not bear that you should tell me that I was hard.”
“You are hard — hard and cruel, as you said, yourself.”
“Am I? May God forgive you for saying that of me!”
“Then why do you send me away?”
“Because I am a man’s wife, and because I care for his honour, if not for my own. Alice, let us go.”
He still held her, but she would have been gone from him had he not stooped over her, and put his arm round her waist. In doing this, I doubt whether he was quicker than she would have been had she chosen to resist him. As it was, he pressed her to his bosom, and, stooping over her, kissed her lips. Then he left her, and making his way out of the room, and down the stairs, got himself out into the street.
“Thank God, that he is gone!” said Alice.
“You may say so,” said Lady Glencora, “for you have lost nothing!”
“And you have gained everything!”
“Have I? I did not know that I had ever gained anything, as yet. The only human being to whom I have ever yet given my whole heart — the only thing that I have ever really loved, has just gone from me for ever, and you bid me thank God that I have lost him. There is no room for thankfulness in any of it; either in the love or in the loss. It is all wretchedness from first to last!”
“At any rate, he understands now that you meant it when you told him to leave you.”
“Of course I meant it. I am beginning to know myself by degrees. As for running away with him, I have not the courage to do it. I can think of it, scheme for it, wish for it — but as for doing it, that is beyond me. Mr Palliser is quite safe. He need not try to coax me to remain.”
Alice knew that it was useless to argue with her, so she came and sat over her — for Lady Glencora had again placed herself on the stool by the window — and tried to soothe her by smoothing her hair, and nursing her like a child.
“Of course I know that I ought to stay where I am,” she said, breaking out, almost with rage, and speaking with quick, eager voice. “I am not such a fool as to mistake what I should be if I left my husband, and went to live with that man as his mistress. You don’t suppose that I should think that sort of life very blessed. But why have I been brought to such a pass as this? And as for female purity! Ah! What was their idea of purity when they forced me, like ogres, to marry a man for whom they knew I never cared? Had I gone with him — had I now eloped with that man who ought to have been my husband — whom would a just God have punished worst — me, or those two old women and my uncle, who tortured me into this marriage?”
“Come, Cora — be silent.”
“I won’t be silent! You have had the making of your own lot. You have done what you liked, and no one has interfered with you. You have suffered, too; but you, at any rate, can respect yourself.”
“And so can you, Cora — thoroughly, now.”
“How — when he kissed me, and I could hardly restrain myself from giving him back his kiss tenfold, could I respect myself? But it is all sin. I sin towards my husband, feigning that I love him; and I sin in loving that other man, who should have been my husband. There — I hear Mr Palliser at the door. Come away with me; or rather, stay, for he will come up here, and you can keep him in talk while I try to recover myself.”
Mr Palliser did at once as his wife had said, and came upstairs to the little front room, as soon as he had deposited his hat in the hall. Alice was, in fact, in doubt what she should do as to mentioning, or omitting to mention, Mr Fitzgerald’s name. In an ordinary way, it would be natural that she should name any visitor who had called, and she specially disliked the idea of remaining silent because that visitor had come as the lover of her host’s wife. But, on the other hand, she owed much to Lady Glencora; and there was no imperative reason, as things had gone, why she should make mischief. There was no further danger to be apprehended. But Mr Palliser at once put an end to her doubts. “You have had a visitor here?” said he.
“Yes,” said Alice.
“I saw him as I went out,” said Mr Palliser. “Indeed, I met him at the hall door. He, of course, was wrong to come here — so wrong, that he deserves punishment, if there were any punishment for such offences.”
“He has been punished, I think,” said Alice.
“But as for Glencora,” continued Mr Palliser, without any apparent notice of what Alice had said, “I thought it better that she should see him or not, as she should herself decide.”
“She had no choice in the matter. As it turned out, he was shown up here at once. She sent for me, and I think she was right to do that.”
“Glencora was alone when he came in?”
“For a minute or two — till I could get to her.”
“I have no questions to ask about it,” said Mr Palliser, after waiting for a few moments. He had probably thought that Alice would say something further. “I am very glad that you were within reach of her, as otherwise her position might have been painful. For her, and for me perhaps, it may be as well that he has been here. As for him, I can only say, that I am forced to suppose him to be a villain. What a man does when driven by passion, I can forgive; but that he should deliberately plan schemes to ruin both her and me, is what I can hardly understand.” As he made this little speech I wonder whether his conscience said anything to him about Lady Dumbello, and a certain evening in his own life, on which he had ventured to call that lady Griselda.
The little party of three dined together very quietly, and after dinner they all went to work with their novels. Before long Alice saw that Mr Palliser was yawning, and she began to understand how much he had given up in order that his wife might be secure. It was then, when he had left the room for a few minutes, in order that he might wake himself by walking about the house, that Glencora told Alice of his yawning down at Matching. “I used to think that he would fall in pieces. What are we to do about it?”
“Don’t seem to notice it,” said Alice.
“That’s all very well,” said the other; “but he’ll set us off yawning as bad as himself, and then he’ll notice it. He has given himself up to politics, till nothing else has any salt in it left for him. I cannot think why such a man as that wanted a wife at all?”
“You are very hard upon him, Cora.”
“I wish you were his wife, with all my heart. But, of course, I know why he got married. And I ought to feel for him as he has been so grievously disappointed.” Then Mr Palliser having walked off his sleep, returned to the room, and the remainder of the evening was passed in absolute tranquillity.
Burgo Fitzgerald, when he left the house, turned back into Grosvenor Square, not knowing, at first, whither he was going. He took himself as far as his uncle’s door, and then, having paused there for a moment, hurried on. For half an hour, or thereabouts, something like true feeling was at work within his heart. He had once more pressed to his bosom the woman he had, at any rate, thought that he had loved. He had had his arm round her, and had kissed her, and the tone with which she had called him by his name was still ringing in his ears. “Burgo!” He repeated his own name audibly to himself, as though in this way he could recall her voice. He comforted himself for a minute with the conviction that she loved him. He felt — for a moment — that he could live on such consolation as that! But among mortals there could, in truth, hardly be one with whom such consolation would go a shorter way. He was a man who required to have such comfort backed by patés and cura?oa to a very large extent, and now it might be doubted whether the amount of patés and cura?oa at his command would last him much longer.
He would not go in and tell his aunt at once of his failure, as he could gain nothing by doing so. Indeed, he thought that he would not tell his aunt at all. So he turned back from Grosvenor Square, and went down to his club in St James’s Street, feeling that billiards and brandy and water might, for the present, be the best restorative. But, as he went back, he blamed himself very greatly in the matter of those bank-notes which he had allowed Lady Monk to take from him. How had it come to pass that he had been such a dupe in her hands? When he entered his club in St James’s Street his mind had left Lady Glencora, and was hard at work considering how he might best contrive to get that spoil out of his aunt’s possession.
On the following morning everybody was stirring by times at Mr Palliser’s house in Park Lane, and the master of that house yawned no more. There is some life in starting for a long journey, and the life is the stronger and the fuller if the things and people to be carried are numerous and troublesome. Lady Glencora was a little troublesome, and would not come down to breakfast in time. When rebuked on account of this manifest breach of engagement, she asserted that the next train would do just as well; and when Mr Palliser proved to her, with much trouble, that the next train could not enable them to reach Paris on that day, she declared that it would be much more comfortable to take a week in going than to hurry over the ground in one day. There was nothing she wanted so much as to see Folkestone.
“If that is the case, why did not you tell me so before?” said Mr Palliser, in his gravest voice. “Richard and the carriage went down yesterday, and are already on board the packet.”
“If Richard and the carriage are already on board the packet,” said Lady Glencora, “of course we must follow them, and we must put off the glories of Folkestone till we come back. Alice, haven’t you observed that, in travelling, you are always driven on by some Richard or some carriage, till you feel that you are a slave?”
All this was trying to Mr Palliser; but I think that he enjoyed it, nevertheless, and that he was happy when he found that he did get his freight off from the Pimlico Station in the proper train.
Of course Lady Glencora and Alice were very ill crossing the Channel; of course the two maids were worse than their mistresses; of course the men kept out of their master’s way when they were wanted, and drank brandy and water with the steward downstairs; and of course Lady Glencora declared that she would not allow herself to be carried beyond Boulogne that day — but, nevertheless, they did get on to Paris. Had Mr Palliser become Chancellor of the Exchequer, as he had once hoped, he could hardly have worked harder than he did work. It was he who found out which carriage had been taken for them, and who put, with his own hands, the ladies’ dressing-cases and cloaks on to the seats — who laid out the novels, which, of course, were not read by the road — and made preparations as though this stage of their journey was to take them a week, instead of five hours and a half.
“Oh, dear! how I have slept!” said Lady Glencora, as they came near to Paris.
“I think you’ve been tolerably comfortable,” said Mr Palliser, joyfully.
“Since we got out of that horrid boat I have done pretty well. Why do they make the boats so nasty? I’m sure they do it on purpose.”
“It would be difficult to make them nice, I suppose,” said Alice.
“It is the sea that makes them uncomfortable,” said Mr Palliser.
“Never mind; we shan’t have any more of it for twelve months, at any rate. We can get to the Kurds, Alice, without getting into a packet again. That, to my way of thinking, is the great comfort of the Continent. One can go everywhere without being seasick.”
Mr Palliser said nothing, but he sighed as he thought of being absent for a whole year. He had said that such was his intention, and would not at once go back from what he himself had said. But how was he to live for twelve months out of the House of Commons? What was he to do with himself, with his intellect and his energy, during all these coming dreary days? And then — he might have been Chancellor of the Exchequer! He might even now, at this very moment, have been upon his legs, making a financial statement of six hours’ duration, to the delight of one-half of the House, and bewilderment of the other, instead of dragging cloaks across that dingy, dull, dirty waiting-room at the Paris Station, in which British subjects are kept in prison while their boxes are being tumbled out of the carriages.
“But we are not to stop here — are we?” said Lady Glencora, mournfully.
“No, dear — I have given the keys to Richard. We will go on at once.”
“But can’t we have our things?”
“In about half an hour,” pleaded Mr Palliser.
“I suppose we must bear it, Alice?” said Lady Glencora as she got into the carriage that was waiting for her.
Alice thought of the last time in which she had been in that room — when George and Kate had been with her — and the two girls had been quite content to wait patiently while their trunks were being examined. But Alice was now travelling with great people — with people who never spoke of their wealth, or seemed ever to think of it, but who showed their consciousness of it at every turn of their lives. “After all,” Alice had said to herself more than once, “I doubt whether the burden is not greater than the pleasure.”
They stayed in Paris for a week, and during that time Alice found that she became very intimate with Mr Palliser. At Matching she had, in truth, seen but little of him, and had known nothing. Now she began to understand his character, and learned how to talk to him. She allowed him to tell her of things in which Lady Glencora resolutely persisted in taking no interest. She delighted him by writing down in a little pocket-book the number of eggs that were consumed in Paris every day, whereas Glencora protested that the information was worth nothing unless her husband could tell her how many of the eggs were good, and how many bad. And Alice was glad to find that a hundred and fifty thousand female operatives were employed in Paris, while Lady Glencora said it was a great shame, and that they ought all to have husbands. When Mr Palliser explained that that was impossible, because of the redundancy of the female population, she angered him very much by asserting that she saw a great many men walking about who, she was quite sure, had not wives of their own.
“I do so wish you had married him!” Glencora said to Alice that evening. “You would always have had a pocket-book ready to write down the figures, and you would have pretended to care about the eggs, and the bottles of wine, and the rest of it. As for me, I can’t do it. If I see an hungry woman, I can give her my money; or if she be a sick woman, I can nurse her; or if I hear of a very wicked man, I can hate him — but I cannot take up poverty and crime in the lump. I never believe it all. My mind isn’t big enough.”
They went into no society at Paris, and at the end of a week were all glad to leave it.
“I don’t know that Baden will be any better,” Lady Glencora said; “but, you know, we can leave that again after a bit — and so we shall go on getting nearer to the Kurds.”
To this, Mr Palliser demurred. “I think we had better make up our mind to stay a month at Baden.”
“But why should we make up our minds at all?” his wife pleaded.
“I like to have a plan,” said Mr Palliser.
“And so do I,” said his wife “— if only for the sake of not keeping it.”
“There’s nothing I hate so much as not carrying out my intentions,” said Mr Palliser.
Upon this, Lady Glencora shrugged her shoulders, and made a mock grimace to her cousin. All this her husband bore for a while meekly, and it must be acknowledged that he behaved very well. But, then, he had his own way in everything. Lady Glencora did not behave very well — contradicting her husband, and not considering, as, perhaps, she ought to have done, the sacrifice he was making on her behalf. But, then, she had her own way in nothing.
She had her own way in almost nothing; but on one point she did conquer her husband. He was minded to go from Paris back to Cologne, and so down the Rhine to Baden. Lady Glencora declared that she hated the Rhine — that, of all rivers, it was the most distasteful to her; that, of all scenery, the scenery of the Rhine was the most over-praised; and that she would be wretched all the time if she were carried that way. Upon this, Mr Palliser referred the matter to Alice; and she, who had last been upon the Rhine with her cousins Kate and George Vavasor, voted for going to Baden by way of Strasbourg.
“We will go by Strasbourg, then,” said Mr Palliser, gallantly.
“Not that I want to see that horrid church again,” said Glencora.
“Everything is alike horrid to you, I think,” said her husband. “You are determined not to be contented, so that it matters very little which way we go.”
“That’s the truth,” said his wife. “It does matter very little.”
They got on to Baden — with very little delay at Strasbourg, and found half an hotel prepared for their reception. Here the carriage was brought into use for the first time, and the mistress of the carriage talked of sending home for Dandy and Flirt. Mr Palliser, when he heard the proposition, calmly assured his wife that the horses would not bear the journey. “They would be so out of condition,” he said, “as not to be worth anything for two or three months.”
“I only meant to ask for them if they could come in a balloon,” said Lady Glencora.
This angered Mr Palliser, who had really, for a few minutes, thought of pacifying his wife by sending for the horses.
“Alice,” she asked, one morning, “how many eggs are eaten in Baden every morning before ten o’clock?”
Mr Palliser, who at the moment was in the act of eating one, threw down his spoon, and pushed his plate from him.
“What’s the matter, Plantagenet?” she asked.
“The matter!” he said. “But never mind; I am a fool to care for it.”
“I declare I didn’t know that I had done anything wrong,” said Lady Glencora. “Alice, do you understand what it is?”
Alice said that she did understand very well.
“Of course she understands,” said Mr Palliser. “How can she help it? And, indeed, Miss Vavasor, I am more unhappy than I can express myself, to think that your comfort should be disturbed in this way.”
“Upon my word I think Alice is doing very well,” said Lady Glencora. “What is there to hurt her comfort? Nobody scolds her. Nobody tells her that she is a fool. She never jokes, or does anything wicked, and, of course, she isn’t punished.”
Mr Palliser, as he wandered that day alone through the gambling-rooms at the great Assembly House, thought that, after all, it might have been better for him to have remained in London, to have become Chancellor of the Exchequer, and to have run all risks.
“I wonder whether it would be any harm if I were to put a few pieces of money on the table, just once?” Lady Glencora said to her cousin, on the evening of the same day, in one of those gambling salons. There had been some music on that evening in one side of the building, and the Pallisers had gone to the rooms. But as neither of the two ladies would dance, they had strayed away into the other apartments.
“The greatest harm in the world!” said Alice; “and what on earth could you gain by it? You don’t really want any of those horrid people’s money?”
“I’ll tell you what I want — something to live for — some excitement. Is it not a shame that I see around me so many people getting amusement, and that I can get none? I’d go and sit out there, and drink beer and hear the music, only Plantagenet wouldn’t let me. I think I’ll throw one piece on to the table to see what becomes of it.”
“I shall leave you if you do,” said Alice.
“You are such a prude! It seems to me as if it must have been my special fate — my good fate, I mean — that has thrown me so much with you. You look after me quite as carefully as Mr Bott and Mrs Marsham ever did; but as I chose you myself, I can’t very well complain, and I can’t very well get rid of you.”
“Do you want to get rid of me, Cora?”
“Sometimes. Do you know, there are moments when I almost make up my mind to go headlong to the devil — when I think it is the best thing to be done. It’s a hard thing for a woman to do, because she has to undergo so much obloquy before she gets used to it. A man can take to drinking, and gambling and all the rest of it, and nobody despises him a bit. The domestic old fogies give him lectures if they can catch him, but he isn’t fool enough for that. All he wants is money, and he goes away and has his fling. Now I have plenty of money — or, at any rate, I had — and I never got my fling yet. I do feel so tempted to rebel, and go ahead, and care for nothing.”
“Throwing one piece on to the table wouldn’t satisfy that longing.”
“You think I should be like the wild beast that has tasted blood, and can’t be controlled. Look at all these people here. There are husbands gambling, and their wives don’t know it; and wives gambling, and their husbands don’t know it. I wonder whether Plantagenet ever has a fling? What a joke it would be to come and catch him!”
“I don’t think you need be afraid.”
“Afraid! I should like him all the better for it. If he came to me, some morning, and told me that he had lost a hundred thousand pounds, I should be so much more at my ease with him.”
“You have no chance in that direction, I’m quite sure.”
“None the least. He’d make a calculation that the chances were nine to seven against him, and then the speculation would seem to him to be madness.”
“I don’t suppose he’d wish to try, even though he were sure of winning.”
“Of course not. It would be a very vulgar kind of thing then. Look — there’s an opening there. I’ll just put on one napoleon.”
“You shall not. If you do, I’ll leave you at once. Look at the women who are playing. Is there one there whom it would not disgrace you to touch? Look what they are. Look at their cheeks, and their eyes, and their hands. Those men who rake about the money are bad enough, but the women look like fiends.”
“You’re not going to frighten me in that hobgoblin sort of way, you know. I don’t see anything the matter with any of the people.”
“What do you think of that young woman who has just got a handful of money from the man next to her?”
“I think she is very happy. I never get money given to me by handfuls, and the man to whom I belong gives me no encouragement when I want to amuse myself.” They were now standing near to one end of the table, and suddenly there came to be an opening through the crowd up to the table itself. Lady Glencora, leaving Alice’s side, at once stepped up and deposited a piece of gold on one of the marked compartments. As soon as she placed it she retreated again with flushed face, and took hold of Alice’s arm. “There,” she said, “I have done it.” Alice, in her dismay, did not know what step to take. She could not scold her friend now, as the eyes of many were turned upon them, nor could she, of course, leave her, as she had threatened. Lady Glencora laughed with her peculiar little low laughter, and stood her ground. “I was determined you shouldn’t frighten me out of it,” she said.
One of the ministers at the table had in the meantime gone on with the cards, and had called the game; and another minister had gently pushed three or four more pieces of gold up to that which Lady Glencora had flung down, and had then cunningly caught her eye, and, with all the courtesy of which he was master, had pushed them further on towards her. She had supposed herself to be unknown there in the salon, but no doubt all the croupiers and half the company knew well enough who was the new customer at the table. There was still the space open, near to which she stood, and then someone motioned to her to come and take up the money which she had won. She hesitated, and then the croupier asked her, in that low, indifferent voice which these men always use, whether she desired that her money should remain. She nodded her head to him, and he at once drew the money back again to the spot on which she had placed the first Napoleon. Again the cards were turned up softly, again the game was called, and again she won. The money was dealt out to her — on this occasion with a full hand. There were lying there between twenty and thirty napoleons, of which she was the mistress. Her face had flushed before, but now it became very red. She caught hold of Alice, who was literally trembling beside her, and tried to laugh again. But there was that in her eye which told Alice that she was really frightened. Some one then placed a chair for her at the table, and in her confusion, not knowing what she was to do, she seated herself. “Come away,” said Alice, taking hold of her, and disregarding everything but her own purpose, in the agony of the moment. “You must come away! You shall not sit there!” “I must get rid of that money,” said Glencora, trying to whisper her words, “and then I will come away.” The croupier again asked her if the money was to remain, and she again nodded her head. Everybody at the table was now looking at her. The women especially were staring at her — those horrid women with vermilion cheeks, and loud bonnets half off their heads, and hard, shameless eyes, and white gloves, which, when taken off in the ardour of the game, disclosed dirty hands. They stared at her with that fixed stare which such women have, and Alice saw it all, and trembled.
Again she won. “Leave it,” said Alice, “and come away.” “I can’t leave it, said Glencora. If I do, there’ll be a fuss. I’ll go the next time.” What she said was, of course, in English, and was probably understood by no one near her; but it was easy to be seen that she was troubled, and, of course, those around her looked at her the more because of her trouble. Again that little question and answer went on between her and the croupier, and on this occasion the money was piled up on the compartment — a heap of gold which made envious the hearts of many who stood around there. Alice had now both her hands on the back of the chair, needing support. If the devil should persist, and increase that stock of gold again, she must go and seek for Mr Palliser. She knew not what else to do. She understood nothing of the table, or of its laws; but she supposed all those ministers of the game to be thieves, and believed that all villanous contrivances were within their capacity. She thought that they might go on adding to that heap so long as Lady Glencora would sit there, presuming that they might thus get her into their clutches. Of course, she did not sift her suspicions. Who does at such moments? “Come away at once, and leave it,” she said, “or I shall go.” At that moment the croupier raked it all up, and carried it all away; but Alice did not see that this had been done. A hand had been placed on her shoulder, and as she turned round her face her eyes met those of Mr Palliser.
“It is all gone,” said Glencora, laughing. And now she, turning round, also saw her husband. “I am so glad that you are come,” said Alice. “Why did you bring her here?” said Mr Palliser. There was anger in his tone, and anger in his eye. He took his wife’s arm upon his own, and walked away quickly, while Alice followed them alone. He went off at once, down the front steps of the building, towards the hotel. What he said to his wife, Alice did not hear; but her heart was swelling with the ill-usage to which she herself was subjected. Though she might have to go back alone to England, she would tell him that he was ill-treating her. She followed him on, up into their drawing-room, and there he stood with the door open in his hand for her, while Lady Glencora threw herself upon a sofa, and burst out into affected laughter. “Here’s a piece of work,” she said, “about a little accident.”
“An accident!” said Mr Palliser.
“Yes, an accident. You don’t suppose that I sat down there meaning to win all that money?” Whereupon he looked at her with scorn.
“Mr Palliser,” said Alice, “you have treated me this evening in a manner I did not expect from you. It is clear that you blame me.”
“I have not said a word, Miss Vavasor.”
“No; you have not said a word. You know well how to show your anger without speaking. As I do not choose to undergo your displeasure, I will return to England by myself.”
“Alice! Alice!” said Glencora, jumping up, “that is nonsense! What is all this trumpery thing about? Leave me, because he chooses to be angry about nothing?”
“Is it nothing that I find my wife playing at a common gambling-table, surrounded by all that is wretched and vile — established there, seated, with heaps of gold before her?”
“You wrong me, Plantagenet,” said Glencora. “There was only one heap, and that did not remain long. Did it, Alice?”
“It is impossible to make you ashamed of anything,” he said.
“I certainly don’t like being ashamed,” she answered; “and don’t feel any necessity on this occasion.”
“If you don’t object, Mr Palliser,” said Alice, “I will go to bed. You can think over all this at night — and so can I. Goodnight, Glencora.” Then Alice took her candle, and marched off to her own room, with all the dignity of which she was mistress.
The second week in July saw Mr Palliser’s party, carriage and all, established at Lucerne, in Switzerland, safe beyond the reach of the German gambling-tables. Alice Vavasor was still with them; and the reader will therefore understand that that quarrel about Lady Glencora’s wickedness had been settled without any rupture. It had been settled amicably, and by the time that they had reached Lucerne, Alice was inclined to acknowledge that the whole thing was not worth notice; but for many days her anger against Mr Palliser had not been removed, and her intimacy with him had been much checked. It was now a month since the occurrence of that little scene in the salon at Baden, which was described in the last chapter — since Mr Palliser had marched off with his wife, leaving Alice to follow as she best could by herself. After that, as the reader may remember, he had almost told her that she was to be blamed because of his wife’s indiscretion; and when she had declared her intention of leaving him, and making her way home to England by herself, he had answered her not at all, and had allowed her to go off to her own room under the full ban of his displeasure. Since that he had made no apology to her; he had not, in so many words, acknowledged that he had wronged her; but Alice had become aware that he intended to apologise by his conduct, and she had been content so far to indulge his obstinacy as to accept this conduct on his part in lieu of any outspoken petition for pardon. The acknowledgment of a mistake and the asking for grace is almost too much for any woman to expect from such a man as Mr Palliser.
Early on the morning after the scene in question, Lady Glencora had gone into Alice’s bedroom, and had found her cousin in her dressing-gown, packing up her things, or looking as though she intended to do so. “You are not such a fool,” she said, “as to think anything of what occurred yesterday?” Alice assured her that, whether fool or not, she did think a great deal of it. “In point of fact,” said Alice, “I can’t stand it. He expects me to take care of you, and chooses to show himself offended if you don’t do just what he thinks proper; whereas, as you know well enough, I have not the slightest influence over you.” All these positions Lady Glencora contradicted vigorously. Of course, Mr Palliser had been wrong in walking out of the Assembly Rooms as he had done, leaving Alice behind him. So much Lady Glencora admitted. But this had come of his intense anxiety. “And you know what a man he is,” said his wife — “how stiff and hard, and unpleasant he can be without meaning it.” — “There is no reason why I should bear his unpleasantness,” said Alice. “Yes, there is — great reason. You are to do it for the sake of friendship. And as for my not doing what you tell me, you know that’s not true.”
“Did I not beg you to keep away from the table?”
“Of course you did, and of course I was naughty; but that was only once. Alice, I want you more than I ever wanted you before. I cannot tell you more now, but you must stay with me.”
Alice consented to come down to breakfast without any immediate continuance of her active preparations for going, and at last, of course, she stayed. When she entered the breakfast room Mr Palliser came up to her, and offered her his hand. She had no alternative but to take it, and then seated herself. That there was an intended apology in the manner in which he offered her toast and butter, she was convinced; and the special courtesy with which he handed her to the carriage, when she and Lady Glencora went out for their drive, after dinner, was almost as good as a petition for pardon. So the thing went on, and by degrees Mr Palliser and Miss Vavasor were again friends.
But Alice never knew in what way the matter was settled between Mr Palliser and his wife, or whether there was any such settling. Probably there was none. “Of course, he understands that it didn’t mean anything,” Lady Glencora had said. “He knows that I don’t want to gamble.” But let that be as it might, their sojourn at Baden was curtailed, and none of the party went up again to the Assembly Rooms before their departure.
Before establishing themselves at Lucerne they made a little tour round by the Falls of the Rhine and Zurich. In their preparations for this journey, Alice made a struggle, but a struggle in vain, to avoid a passage through Basle. It was only too clear to her that Mr Palliser was determined to go by Basle. She could not bring herself to say that she had recollections connected with that place which would make a return to it unpleasant to her. If she could have said as much, even to Glencora, Mr Palliser would no doubt have gone round — round by any more distant route that might have been necessary to avoid that eternal gateway into Switzerland. But she could not say it. She was very averse to talking about herself and her own affairs, even with her cousin. Of course Lady Glencora knew the whole story of Mr John Grey and his rejection — and knew much also of that other story of Mr George Vavasor. And, of course, like all Alice’s friends, she hated George Vavasor, and was prepared to receive Mr John Grey with open arms, if there were any possibility that her cousin would open her arms to him also. But Alice was so stubborn about her own affairs that her friend found it almost impossible to speak of them. “It is not that you trouble me,” Alice once said, “but that you trouble yourself about that which is of no use. It is all done and over; and though I know that I have behaved badly — very badly — yet I believe that everything has been done for the best. I am inclined to think that I can live alone, or perhaps with my cousin Kate, more happily than I could with any husband.”
“That is such nonsense.”
“Perhaps so; but, at any rate, I mean to try. We Vavasors don’t seem to be good at marrying.”
“You want someone to break your heart for you; that’s what you want,” said Lady Glencora. In saying this she knew but little of the state of her friend’s head, and perhaps was hardly capable of understanding it. With all the fuss that Lady Glencora made to herself — with all the tears that she had shed about her lost lover, and was so often shedding — with all her continual thinking of the matter, she had never loved Burgo Fitzgerald as Alice Vavasor had loved Mr Grey. But her nature was altogether different to that of Alice. Love with her had in it a gleam of poetry, a spice of fun, a touch of self-devotion, something even of hero-worship; but with it all there was a dash of devilry, and an aptitude almost for wickedness. She knew Burgo Fitzgerald to be a scapegrace, and she liked him the better on that account. She despised her husband because he had no vices. She would have given everything she had to Burgo — pouring her wealth upon him with a total disregard of herself, had she been allowed to do so. She would have forgiven him sin after sin, and might perhaps have brought him round, at last, to some life not absolutely reckless and wretched. But in all that she might have done, there would have been no thoughtfulness — no true care either for him or for herself. And now that she was married there was no thoughtfulness, or care either for herself or for her husband. She was ready to sacrifice herself for him, if any sacrifice might be required of her. She believed herself to be unfit for him, and would have submitted to be divorced — or smothered out of the way, for the matter of that — if the laws of the land would have permitted it. But she had never for a moment given to herself the task of thinking what conduct on her part might be the best for his welfare.
But Alice’s love had been altogether of another kind — and I am by no means sure that it was better suited for the work of this work a day world than that of her cousin. It was too thoughtful. I will not say that there was no poetry in it, but I will say that it lacked romance. Its poetry was too hard for romance. There was certainly in it neither fun nor wickedness; nor was there, I fear, so large a proportion of hero-worship as there always should be in a girl’s heart when she gives it away. But there was in it an amount of self-devotion which none of those near to her had hitherto understood — unless it were that one to whom the understanding of it was of the most importance. In all the troubles of her love, of her engagements, and her broken promises, she had thought more of others than of herself — and, indeed, those troubles had chiefly come from that self-devotion. She had left John Grey because she feared that she would do him no good as his wife — that she would not make him happy; and she had afterwards betrothed herself for a second time to her cousin, because she believed that she could serve him by marrying him. Of course she had been wrong. She had been very wrong to give up the man she did love, and more wrong again in suggesting to herself the possibility of marrying the man she did not love. She knew that she had been wrong in both, and was undergoing repentance with very bitter inward sackcloth. But she said little of all this even to her cousin.
They went to Lucerne by Basle, and put up at the big hotel with the balcony over the Rhine, which Alice remembered so well. On the first evening of her arrival she found herself again looking down upon the river, as though it might have been from the same spot which she had occupied together with George and Kate. But, in truth, that house is very large, and has many bedrooms over the water. Who has ever been through Basle, and not stood in one of them, looking down upon the father of waters? Here, on this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. “George has lost his election,” the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. “It was worth our while to try it,” she said to herself, and then went on with her letter.
“I and Aunt Greenow are up in London” [the letter went on to say] “and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats — three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day — or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me — which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset Grandpapa’s will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George’s lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety — on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together — after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you — and I know that you will pity me.
“I am here to see the London lawyer — but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements — greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. ‘Of course, he’ll run wild directly he’s married,’ she said to me, yesterday; ‘and, of course, there’ll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he’ll be by and by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.’ I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself — if a sacrifice it were to be — when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the pleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds.”
Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey’s courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute — and had finally acted with false judgment. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. “She mistakes me,” Alice thought, as she put up her letter. “She is not the enemy who has wounded me.”
Mr Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of The Times in his hand, opened to its full extent — for he had been too impatient to cut the paper — and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. “Iphy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge,” she said at last.
“Who? I! yes; I’m returned,” said Mr Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. “Yes; I have been returned,” said Mr Palliser. “I’m sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate.”
“So I find,” said Alice. “It will be a great misfortune to him.”
“Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times.”
“This has been the third time with him,” said Alice, “and he is a poor man.”
“Dear, dear,” said Mr Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. “I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out.”
“Who is that unfortunate?” asked Lady Glencora.
“Mr Bott,” said the unthinking husband.
“Mr Bott out!” exclaimed Lady Glencora. “Mr Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching — he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he’ll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now.”
A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr Palliser’s face became black beneath The Times newspaper. “I did not know,” said he, “that my friend Mr Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies.”
“Enemies! I don’t suppose they were enemies,” said Glencora. “But he was a man whom no one could help observing — and disliking.”
“He was a man I specially disliked,” said Alice, with great courage. “He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society, I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy.”
“Bravo, Alice!” said Lady Glencora.
“I hope he did nothing at Matching, to — to — to —,” began Mr Palliser, apologetically.
“Nothing especially to offend me, Mr Palliser — except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences.”
“And then he was so ugly,” said Lady Glencora.
“I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief,” said Alice.
“Of course he did,” said Lady Glencora; “and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable.”
Mr Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. “I suppose he will remain now among his own people,” said Mr Palliser.
“Let us hope he will,” said Lady Glencora “— and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence.” Then there was nothing more said about Mr Bott.
It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of the voices — the quick passage of the boats — the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men’s hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight — like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly.
“Oh, how I wish I could do that!” said Lady Glencora.
“It seems to be very dangerous,” said Mr Palliser. “I don’t know how they can stop themselves.”
“Why should they want to stop themselves?” said Lady Glencora. “Think how cool the water must be; and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly; and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn’t try it?”
As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and when George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr Grey.
On the day after that, Mr Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter.
I am inclined to think that Mr Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence — having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition.
Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr Palliser’s aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and seasick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment.
But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine — or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear — and then Mr Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. “How I do hate this carriage,” Lady Glencora said one day. “I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever.” There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret.
“If you have anything to tell, why don’t you tell it?” Alice once said.
“You are so hard,” said Lady Glencora.
“So you tell me very often,” Alice replied; “and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won’t make a petition for your confidence.” Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while.
But we must go back to the stranger. Mr Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr Palliser.
“I am Mr Palliser,” said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance.
“My name is John Grey,” said the stranger.
Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr Palliser’s voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr John Grey’s history to be aware that Mr John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together.
“Perhaps you don’t wish to meet the carriage?” said Mr Palliser. “If so, we had better go through the town and up the river.”
They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr Palliser’s hands and left the sitting-room for the night.
“Alice,” said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, “I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?”
Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. “Who is it, Glencora?” she asked, very calmly.
“Whom in all the world would you best like to see?” said Glencora.
“My cousin Kate, certainly,” said Alice.
“Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don’t believe you — or else you’re a fool.”
Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora’s mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. “Perhaps I am a fool,” she said.
“Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don’t you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?”
“Of course I know now,” said Alice, very calmly, “that Mr John Grey has come.”
“Yes, Mr John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute — or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom.” Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. “Well?” said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. “Well?”
“Well?” said Alice.
“Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr Smith had come?”
“No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr Grey’s arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it — if it will do you any good to know that; but I don’t feel that I have much to say about it.”
“I wish I had let Mr Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed.”
“It would not have made much difference.”
“Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life — for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe — except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?”
“What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come.”
“And you have never said a word about it.”
“He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away.”
“Why — why — why would it be better?”
“Because his being here will do no good to any one.”
“No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before tomorrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I’ll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will.” Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. “What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you tomorrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call?”
“He may come if he pleases. You don’t think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!”
“And may we ask him to dine with us?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well — goodnight. I don’t understand you, that’s all.”
It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house? If it were so, at any rate he should not see her; so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her head was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it?
She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it — had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him — since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lakeside; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault.
If he were there, by the lakeside, she did not see him. — I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady’s candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love — as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out; but I think he was already in bed, being tired with long travel, before Lady Glencora had left Alice’s room.
At breakfast the next morning nothing was said for awhile about the new arrival. At last Mr Palliser ventured to speak. “Glencora has told you, I think, that Mr Grey is here? Mr Grey is an old friend of yours, I believe?”
Alice, keeping her countenance as well as she was able, said Mr Grey had been, and, indeed, was, a very dear friend of hers. Mr Palliser knew the whole story, and what was the use of any little attempt at dissimulation? “I shall be glad to see him — if you will allow me?” she went on to say.
“Glencora suggests that we should ask him to dinner,” said Mr Palliser; and then that matter was settled.
But Mr Grey did not wait till dinner-time to see Alice. Early in the morning his card was brought up, and Lady Glencora, as soon as she saw the name, immediately ran away,
“Indeed you need not go,” said Alice.
“Indeed I shall go,” said her ladyship. “I know what’s proper on these occasions, if you don’t.”
So she went, whisking herself along the passages with a little run; and Mr Grey, as he was shown into her ladyship’s usual sitting-room, saw the skirt of her ladyship’s dress as she whisked herself off towards her husband.
“I told you I should come,” he said, with his ordinary sweet smile. “I told you that I should follow you, and here I am.”
He took her hand, and held it, pressing it warmly. She hardly knew with what words first to address him, or how to get her hand back from him.
“I am very glad to see you — as an old friend,” she said; “but I hope — ”
“Well — you hope what?”
“I hope you have had some better cause for travelling than a desire to see me?”
“No, dearest; no. I have had no better cause, and, indeed, none other. I have come on purpose to see you; and had Mr Palliser taken you off to Asia or Africa, I think I should have felt myself compelled to follow him. You know why I follow you?”
“Hardly,” said she — not finding at the moment any other word that she could say.
“Because I love you. You see what a plain-spoken John Bull I am, and how I come to the point at once. I want you to be my wife; and they say that perseverance is the best way when a man has such a want as that.”
“You ought not to want it,” she said, whispering the words as though she were unable to speak them out loud.
“But I do, you see. And why should I not want it?”
“I am not fit to be your wife.”
“I am the best judge of that, Alice. You have to make up your mind whether I am fit to be your husband.”
“You would be disgraced if you were to take me, after all that has passed — after what I have done. What would other men say of you when they knew the story?”
“Other men, I hope, would be just enough to say, that when I had made up my mind, I was tolerably constant in keeping to it. I do not think they could say much worse of me than that.”
“They would say that you had been jilted, and had forgiven the jilt.”
“As far as the forgiveness goes, they would tell the truth. But, indeed, Alice, I don’t very much care what men do say of me.”
“But I care, Mr Grey — and though you may forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Indeed I know now, as I have known all along, that I am not fit to be your wife. I am not good enough. And I have done that which makes me feel that I have no right to marry any one.” These words she said, jerking out the different sentences almost in convulsions; and when she had come to the end of them, the tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I have thought about it, and I will not. I will not. After what has passed, I know that it will be better — more seemly, that I should remain as I am.”
Soon after that she left him, not, however, till she had told him that she would meet him again at dinner, and had begged him to treat her simply as a friend. “In spite of everything, I hope that we may always be friends — dear friends,” she said.
“I hope we may,” he answered “— the very dearest.” And then he left her.
In the afternoon he again encountered Mr Palliser, and having thought over the matter since his interview with Alice, he resolved to tell his whole story to his new acquaintance — not in order that he might ask for counsel from him, for in this matter he wanted no man’s advice — but that he might get some assistance. So the two men walked off together, up the banks of the clear-flowing Reuss, and Mr Palliser felt the comfort of having a companion.
“I have always liked her,” said Mr Palliser, “though, to tell the truth, I have twice been very angry with her.”
“I have never been angry with her,” said the lover.
“And my anger was in both instances unjust. You may imagine how great is my confidence in her, when I have thought she was the best companion my wife could have for a long journey, taken under circumstances that were — that were —; but I need not trouble you with that.”
So great had been the desolation of Mr Palliser’s life since his banishment from London that he almost felt tempted to tell the story of his troubles to this absolute stranger. But he bethought himself of the blood of the Pallisers, and refrained. There are comforts which royalty may never enjoy, and luxuries in which such men as Plantagenet Palliser may not permit themselves to indulge.
“About her and her character I have no doubt in the world,” said Grey. “In all that she has done I think that I have seen her motives; and though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. Had she married that man, I should have forgiven her even that — though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself. Living as she is with you, and with your wife, she may, perhaps, just now be more under your influence and your wife’s than she can possibly be under mine.” Whereupon, Mr Palliser promised that he would do what he could. “I think she loves me,” said Mr Grey.
Mr Palliser said that he was sure she did, though what ground he had for such assurance I am quite unable to surmise. He was probably desirous of saying the most civil thing which occurred to him.
The little dinner-party that evening was pleasant enough, and nothing more was said about love. Lady Glencora talked nonsense to Mr Grey, and Mr Palliser contradicted all the nonsense which his wife talked. But this was all done in such a way that the evening passed away pleasantly. It was tacitly admitted among them that Mr Grey was to be allowed to come among them as a friend, and Lady Glencora managed to say one word to him aside, in which she promised to give him her most cordial co-operation.