"I might tell you simply that he does," said Alice at last, "seeing that I wrote to him yesterday, letting him know that such were our arrangements; but I feel that I should not thus answer the question you mean to ask. You want to know whether Mr. Grey will approve of it. As I only wrote yesterday of course I have not heard, and therefore cannot say. But I can say this, aunt, that much as I might regret his disapproval, it would make no change in my plans."
"Would it not? Then I must tell you, you are very wrong. It ought to make a change. What! the disapproval of the man you are going to marry make no change in your plans?"

"I might tell you simply that he does," said Alice at last, "seeing that I wrote to him yesterday, letting him know the arrangements; but you want to know whether Mr. Grey will approve of it. Of course I have not heard yet, and therefore cannot say. But I can say, aunt, that I if he did disapprove, it would make no change in my plans."
"Would it not? Then I must tell you, you are very wrong. It ought to make a change. What! the disapproval of the man you are going to marry would make no change in your plans?"


"Not in that matter. Come, aunt, if we must discuss this matter let us do it at any rate fairly. In an ordinary way, if Mr. Grey had asked me to give up for any reason my trip altogether, I should have given it up certainly, as I would give up any other indifferent project at the request of so dear a friend,--a friend with whom I am so--so--so closely connected. But if he asked me not to travel with my cousin George, I should refuse him absolutely, without a word of parley on the subject, simply because of the nature and closeness of my connection with him. I suppose you understand what I mean, aunt?"
"I suppose I do. You mean that you would refuse to obey him on the very subject on which he has a right to claim your obedience."

"Not in that matter. Come, aunt, let us be fair. If Mr. Grey asked me to give up my trip altogether for any reason, I should certainly do so. But if he asked me not to travel with my cousin George, I should refuse, simply because of the nature and closeness of my connection with him. I suppose you understand what I mean, aunt?"
"I suppose I do. You mean that you would refuse to obey Mr. Grey on the very subject on which he has a right to claim your obedience."


"He has no right to claim my obedience on any subject," said Alice; and as she spoke Aunt Macleod jumped up with a little start at the vehemence of the words, and of the tone in which they were expressed. She had heard that tone before, and might have been used to it; but, nevertheless, the little jump was involuntary. "At present he has no right to my obedience on any subject, but least of all on that," said Alice. "His advice he may give me, but I am quite sure he will not ask for obedience."
"And if he advises you you will slight his advice."

"He has no right to claim my obedience on any subject," said Alice, so vehemently that Aunt Macleod gave a little involuntary start. "His advice he may give me, but I am quite sure he will not ask for obedience."
"And if he advises you, you will ignore his advice."


"If he tells me that I had better not travel with my cousin George I shall certainly not take his advice. Moreover, I should be careful to let him know how much I was offended by any such counsel from him. It would show a littleness on his part, and a suspicion of which I cannot suppose him to be capable." Alice, as she said this, got up from her seat and walked about the room. When she had finished she stood at one of the windows with her back to her visitor. There was silence between them for a minute or two, during which Lady Macleod was deeply considering how best she might speak the terrible words, which, as Alice's nearest female relative, she felt herself bound to utter. At last she collected her thoughts and her courage, and spoke out.
"My dear Alice, I need hardly say that if you had a mother living, or any person with you filling the place of a mother, I should not interfere in this matter."
"Of course, Aunt Macleod, if you think I am wrong you have quite a right to say so."

"If he tells me that I had better not travel with my cousin George I shall certainly not take his advice. Moreover, I should let him know I was offended by such advice. It would show a littleness on his part, and a suspicion of which I cannot suppose him to be capable."
Alice, as she said this, got up from her seat and walked about the room, pausing at a window with her back to her visitor. There was silence for a minute or two, while Lady Macleod considered how best she might speak the terrible words which she felt herself bound to utter. At last she collected her courage, and spoke out.
"My dear Alice, I need hardly say that if you had a mother living, I should not interfere in this matter."
"Of course, Aunt Macleod, if you think I am wrong you have a perfect right to say so."


"I do think you are wrong,--very wrong, indeed; and if you persist in this I am afraid I must say that I shall think you wicked. Of course Mr. Grey cannot like you to travel with George Vavasor."
"And why not, aunt?" Alice, as she asked this question, turned round and confronted Lady Macleod boldly. She spoke with a steady voice, and fixed her eyes upon the old lady's face, as though determined to show that she had no fear of what might be said to her.
"Why not, Alice? Surely you do not wish me to say why not."
"But I do wish you to say why not. How can I defend myself till the accusation is made?"

"I do think you are wrong, very wrong indeed; and if you persist in this I am afraid I shall think you wicked. Of course Mr. Grey cannot like you to travel with George Vavasor."
"And why not, aunt?" Alice turned round and confronted Lady Macleod boldly. She spoke with a steady voice, and fixed her eyes upon the old lady's face.
"Surely you do not wish me to say."
"But I do wish you to say why not. How can I defend myself till the accusation is made?"


"You are now engaged to marry Mr. Grey, with the consent and approbation of all your friends. Two years ago you had--had--"
"Had what, aunt? If you mean to say that two years ago I was engaged to my cousin George you are mistaken. Three years ago I told him that under certain conditions I would become engaged to him. But my conditions did not suit him, nor his me, and no engagement was ever made. Mr. Grey knows the history of the whole thing. As far as it was possible I have told him everything that took place."
"The fact was, Alice, that George Vavasor's mode of life was such that an engagement with him would have been absolute madness."

"You are now engaged to marry Mr. Grey, with the approval of all your friends. Two years ago you had - had -"
"Had what, aunt? If you mean to say that two years ago I was engaged to my cousin George, you are mistaken. Three years ago I told him that under certain conditions I would become engaged to him. But my conditions did not suit him, nor his me, and no engagement was ever made. Mr. Grey knows the whole history. As far as it was possible I have told him everything that took place."
"Alice, George Vavasor's way of life was such that an engagement with him would have been absolute madness."


"Dear aunt, you must excuse me if I say that I cannot discuss George Vavasor's mode of life. If I were thinking of becoming his wife you would have a perfect right to discuss it, because of your constant kindness to me. But as matters are he is simply a cousin; and as I like him and you do not, we had better say nothing about him."
"I must say this--that after what has passed, and at the present crisis of your life--"
"Dear aunt, I'm not in any crisis."
"Yes you are, Alice; in the most special crisis of a girl's life. You are still a girl, but you are the promised wife of a very worthy man, who will look to you for all his domestic happiness. George Vavasor has the name, at least, of being very wild."
"The worthy man and the wild man must fight it out between them. If I were going away with George by himself, there might be something in what you say."

"Dear aunt, I cannot discuss George Vavasor's mode of life. If I were thinking of becoming his wife you would have a perfect right to discuss it. But he is simply a cousin; and as I like him and you do not, we had better say nothing about him."
"I must say this - that after what has passed, and at the present crisis of your life-"
"Dear aunt, I'm not in any crisis."
"Yes, you are, Alice; in the most special crisis of a girl's life. You are the promised wife of a worthy man. George Vavasor has the reputation of being very wild."
"The worthy man and the wild man must fight it out between them. If I were going away with George by himself, there might be something in what you say."


"That would be monstrous."
"Monstrous or not, it isn't what I'm about to do. Kate and I have put our purses together, and are going to have an outing for our special fun and gratification. As we should be poor travellers alone, George has promised to go with his sister. Papa knows all about it, and never thought of making any objection."
Lady Macleod shook her head. She did not like to say anything against Mr. Vavasor before his daughter; but the shaking of her head was intended to signify that Mr. Vavasor's assent in such a matter was worth nothing.

"That would be monstrous."
"Monstrous or not, it isn't what I'm about to do. Kate and I have put our purses together, and are going to have an outing for our own pleasure. As we should be poor travellers alone, George has promised to go with his sister. Papa knows all about it, and never objected."
Lady Macleod shook her head, meaning that Mr. Vavasor's assent in such a matter was worth nothing.


"I can only say again," said Lady Macleod, "that I think Mr. Grey will be displeased,--and that he will have very great cause for displeasure. And I think, moreover, that his approbation ought to be your chief study. I believe, my dear, I'll ask you to let Jane get me a cab. I shan't have a bit too much time to dress for the concert."

"I think Mr. Grey will be displeased, and with good cause. And I think, moreover, that his approval should be your chief concern. My dear, ask Jane to get me a cab. I need to dress for the concert."


Alice simply rang the bell, and said no further word on the subject which they had been discussing. When Lady Macleod got up to go away, Alice kissed her, as was customary with them, and the old lady as she went uttered her customary valediction. "God bless you, my dear. Good-bye! I'll come to-morrow if I can." There was therefore no quarrel between them. But both of them felt that words had been spoken which must probably lead to some diminution of their past intimacy.

Alice rang the bell. When Lady Macleod was leaving, Alice kissed her, as usual, and the old lady uttered her customary farewell.
"God bless you, my dear. Good-bye! I'll come tomorrow if I can." There was therefore no quarrel between them. But both felt that words had been spoken which must lessen their intimacy.


When Lady Macleod had gone Alice sat alone for an hour thinking of what had passed between them,--thinking rather of those two men, the worthy man and the wild man, whose names had been mentioned in close connection with herself. John Grey was a worthy man, a man worthy at all points, as far as she knew him. She told herself it was so. And she told herself, also, that her cousin George was wild,--very wild. And yet her thoughts were, I fear, on the whole more kindly towards her cousin than towards her lover. She had declared to her aunt that John Grey would be incapable of such suspicion as would be shown by any objection on his part to the arrangements made for the tour. She had said so, and had so believed; and yet she continued to brood over the position which her affairs would take, if he did make the objection which Lady Macleod anticipated. She told herself over and over again, that under such circumstances she would not give way an inch. "He is free to go," she said to herself. "If he does not trust me he is quite free to go."

When Lady Macleod had gone Alice sat alone for an hour thinking of those two men, the worthy man and the wild man.
John Grey was a worthy man, she told herself. And she told herself, also, that her cousin George was very wild. And yet her thoughts were, I fear, more kindly towards her cousin than towards her lover.
She had declared to her aunt that John Grey would be incapable of suspicion over the arrangements made for the tour. She believed it; and yet she continued to brood over what would happen if he did object. She told herself over and over again, that under such circumstances she would not give way an inch.
She said to herself, "If he does not trust me he is quite free to go."


It may almost be said that she came at last to anticipate from her lover that very answer to her own letter which she had declared him to be incapable of making.

And she came at last to anticipate from her lover that very answer to her own letter which she had declared him to be incapable of making.


Lady Monk's house in Gloucester Square was admirably well adapted for the giving of parties. It was a large house, and seemed to the eyes of guests to be much larger than it was. The hall was spacious, and the stairs went up in the centre, facing you as you entered the inner hall. Round the top of the stairs there was a broad gallery, with an ornamented railing, and from this opened the doors into the three reception-rooms. There were two on the right, the larger of which looked out backwards, and these two were connected by an archway, as though made for folding-doors; but the doors, I believe, never were there. Fronting the top of the staircase there was a smaller room, looking out backwards, very prettily furnished, and much used by Lady Monk when alone. It was here that Burgo had held that conference with his aunt of which mention has been made. Below stairs there was the great dining-room, on which, on these occasions, a huge buffet was erected for refreshments,--what I may call a masculine buffet, as it was attended by butlers and men in livery,--and there was a smaller room looking out into the square, in which there was a feminine battery for the dispensing of tea and such like smaller good things, and from which female aid could be attained for the arrangement or mending of dresses in a further sanctum within it. For such purposes as that now on foot the house was most commodious. Lady Monk, on these occasions, was moved by a noble ambition to do something different from that done by her neighbours in similar circumstances, and therefore she never came forward to receive her guests.

Lady Monk's house in Gloucester Square was admirably well adapted for parties. The hall was spacious, with the stairs going up the centre; round the top of the stairs there was a broad gallery, with an ornamented railing, and from this opened the doors into the three reception-rooms. The two on the right were connected by an archway; and there was a smaller room, very prettily furnished, which Lady Monk used when alone.
Downstairs was the great dining-room, on which a huge buffet was erected for refreshments, attended by butlers and men in livery; and there was a smaller room looking out into the square, where maids could dispense tea and other good things.
Lady Monk, on these occasions, never came forward to receive her guests.

Chapter 49: How Lady Glencora Went to Lady Monk's Party


She ensconced herself, early in the evening, in that room at the head of the stairs, and there they who chose to see her made their way up to her, and spoke their little speeches. They who thought her to be a great woman,--and many people did think her to be great,--were wont to declare that she never forgot those who did come, or those who did not. And even they who desired to describe her as little,--for even Lady Monk had enemies,--would hint that though she never came out of the room, she would rise from her chair and make a step towards the door whenever any name very high in fashionable life greeted her ears. So that a mighty Cabinet Minister, or a duchess in great repute, or any special wonder of the season, could not fail of entering her precincts and being seen there for a few moments. It would, of course, happen that the doorway of her chamber would become blocked; but there were precautions taken to avoid this inconvenience as far as possible, and one man in livery was employed to go backwards and forwards between his mistress and the outer world, so as to keep the thread of a passage open.
But though Lady Monk was in this way enabled to rest herself during her labours, there was much in her night's work which was not altogether exhilarating. Ladies would come into her small room and sit there by the hour, with whom she had not the slightest wish to hold conversation. The Duchess of St. Bungay would always be there,--so that there was a special seat in one corner of the room which was called the Duchess' stool. "I shouldn't care a straw about her," Lady Monk had been heard to complain, "if she would talk to anybody. But nobody will talk to her, and then she listens to everything."

She stayed in that room at the head of the stairs, and they who wished to see her made their way up and spoke their little speeches. She would rise from her chair and take a step towards the door to greet anyone very high in fashionable life, like a Cabinet Minister or a duchess. Of course the doorway of her chamber would become blocked; but a man in livery was employed to go backwards and forwards between his mistress and the outer world.
But ladies would also come into her small room and sit there by the hour, with whom Lady Monk had not the slightest wish to hold conversation. The Duchess of St. Bungay would always be there.
"I shouldn't care a straw about her," Lady Monk had been heard to complain, "if she would talk to anybody. But nobody will talk to her, and she listens to everything."


There had been another word or two between Burgo Fitzgerald and his aunt before the evening came, a word or two in the speaking of which she had found some difficulty. She was prepared with the money,--with that two hundred pounds for which he had asked,--obtained with what wiles, and lies, and baseness of subterfuge I need not stop here to describe. But she was by no means willing to give this over into her nephew's hands without security. She was willing to advance him this money; she had been willing even to go through unusual dirt to get it for him; but she was desirous that he should have it only for a certain purpose. How could she bind him down to spend it as she would have it spent? Could she undertake to hand it to him as soon as Lady Glencora should be in his power? Even though she could have brought herself to say as much,--and I think she might also have done so after what she had said,--she could not have carried out such a plan. In that case the want would be instant, and the action must be rapid. She therefore had no alternative but to entrust him with the bank-notes at once. "Burgo," she said, "if I find that you deceive me now, I will never trust you again."

There had been another word or two between Burgo Fitzgerald and his aunt, which she had spoken with some difficulty. She had the two hundred pounds for which he had asked - obtained with what wiles and lies I need not here describe.
But she was not willing to give this to her nephew without security. How could she bind him to spend it as she wanted it spent? Could she hand it to him as soon as Lady Glencora was in his power? That was not possible; she had no alternative but to entrust him with the bank-notes at once.
"Burgo," she said, "if you deceive me now, I will never trust you again."


"All right," said Burgo, as he barely counted the money before he thrust it into his breast-pocket. "It is lent to you for a certain purpose, should you happen to want it," she said, solemnly. "I do happen to want it very much," he answered. She did not dare to say more; but as her nephew turned away from her with a step that was quite light in its gaiety, she almost felt that she was already cozened. Let Burgo's troubles be as heavy as they might be, there was something to him ecstatic in the touch of ready money which always cured them for the moment.
[Illustration: "All right," said Burgo, as he thrust the money into his breast-pocket.]
On the morning of Lady Monk's party a few very uncomfortable words passed between Mr. Palliser and his wife.
"Your cousin is not going, then?" said he.
"Alice is not going."

"All right," said Burgo, thrusting the money into his breast-pocket.
"It is lent to you for a certain purpose, should you happen to want it," she said, solemnly.
"I do happen to want it very much," he answered. She did not dare to say more; but as her nephew turned away from her with a light step, she almost felt that she was already tricked. There was always something ecstatic to Burgo in the touch of ready money which cured his troubles for the moment.
On the morning of Lady Monk's party a few very uncomfortable words passed between Mr. Palliser and his wife.
"Your cousin Alice is not going, then?" said he.
"No."


"Then you can give Mrs. Marsham a seat in your carriage?"
"Impossible, Plantagenet. I thought I had told you that I had promised my cousin Jane."
"But you can take three."
"Indeed I can't,--unless you would like me to sit out with the coachman."
There was something in this,--a tone of loudness, a touch of what he called to himself vulgarity,--which made him very angry. So he turned away from her, and looked as black as a thundercloud.
"You must know, Plantagenet," she went on, "that it is impossible for three women dressed to go out in one carriage. I am sure you wouldn't like to see me afterwards if I had been one of them."

"Then you can give Mrs. Marsham a seat in your carriage?"
"Impossible, Plantagenet. I thought I had told you that I had promised my cousin Jane."
"But you can take three."
"Indeed I can't - unless you would like me to sit with the coachman."
There was a touch of what he called vulgarity in this which made him very angry. So he turned away from her, and looked as black as a thundercloud.
"You must know, Plantagenet," she went on, "that it is impossible for three women in evening dress to fit in one carriage."


"You need not have said anything to Lady Jane when Miss Vavasor refused. I had asked you before that."
"And I had told you that I liked going with young women, and not with old ones. That's the long and the short of it."
"Glencora, I wish you would not use such expressions."
"What! not the long and the short? It's good English. Quite as good as Mr. Bott's, when he said in the House the other night that the Government kept their accounts in a higgledy-piggledy way. You see, I have been studying the debates, and you shouldn't be angry with me."

"You need not have asked Lady Jane when Miss Vavasor refused."
"And I had told you that I liked going with young women, and not with old ones. That's the long and the short of it."
"Glencora, I wish you would not use such expressions."
"What! the long and the short? It's good English. Quite as good as Mr. Bott's, when he said in the House the other night that the Government kept their accounts in a higgledy-piggledy way. You see, I have been studying the debates, and you shouldn't be angry with me."


"I am not angry with you. You speak like a child to say so. Then, I suppose, the carriage must go for Mrs. Marsham after it has taken you?"
"It shall go before. Jane will not be in a hurry, and I am sure I shall not."
"She will think you very uncivil; that is all. I told her that she could go with you when I heard that Miss Vavasor was not to be there."


"Then, Plantagenet, you shouldn't have told her so, and that's the long--; but I mustn't say that. The truth is this, if you give me any orders I'll obey them,--as far as I can. If I can't I'll say so. But if I'm left to go by my own judgement, it's not fair that I should be scolded afterwards."
"I have never scolded you."
"Yes, you have. You have told me that I was uncivil."
"I said that she would think you so."

"Then, Plantagenet, you shouldn't have told her so. If you give me any orders I'll obey them - as far as I can. If I can't I'll say so. But if I'm left to go by my own judgement, it's not fair that I should be scolded afterwards."
"I have never scolded you."
"Yes, you have. You have told me that I was uncivil."
"I said that she would think you so."


"Then, if it's only what she thinks, I don't care two straws about it. She may have the carriage to herself if she likes, but she shan't have me in it,--not unless I'm ordered to go. I don't like her, and I won't pretend to like her. My belief is that she follows me about to tell you if she thinks that I do wrong."
"Glencora!"
"And that odious baboon with the red bristles does the same thing,--only he goes to her because he doesn't dare to go to you."

"Then, if it's only what she thinks, I don't care two straws about it. I don't like her. My belief is that she follows me about to tell you if she thinks that I do wrong."
"Glencora!"
"And that odious baboon with the red bristles does the same thing - only he goes to her because he doesn't dare to go to you."


Plantagenet Palliser was struck wild with dismay. He understood well who it was whom his wife intended to describe; but that she should have spoken of any man as a baboon with red bristles, was terrible to his mind! He was beginning to think that he hardly knew how to manage his wife. And the picture she had drawn was very distressing to him. She had no mother; neither had he; and he had wished that Mrs. Marsham should give to her some of that matronly assistance and guidance which a mother does give to her young married daughter. It was true, too, as he knew, that a word or two as to some socially domestic matters had filtered through to him from Mr. Bott, down at Matching Priory, but only in such a way as to enable him to see what counsel it was needful that he should give. As for espionage over his wife,--no man could despise it more than he did! No man would be less willing to resort to it! And now his wife was accusing him of keeping spies, both male and female.

Plantagenet Palliser was struck wild with dismay. He understood well whom his wife meant; but that she should have spoken of any man as a baboon with red bristles, was terrible! He was beginning to think that he hardly knew how to manage his wife.
It was true that a word or two about domestic matters had filtered through to him from Mr. Bott, down at Matching Priory, but only in such a way as to enable him to see what advice he should give. As for spying on his wife - no man could despise it more than he did! And now his wife was accusing him of keeping spies.


"Glencora!" he said again; and then he stopped, not knowing what to say to her.
"Well, my dear, it's better you should know at once what I feel about it. I don't suppose I'm very good; indeed I dare say I'm bad enough, but these people about me won't make me any better. The duennas don't make the Spanish ladies worth much."
"Duennas!" After that, Lady Glencora sat herself down, and Mr. Palliser stood for some moments looking at her.

"Glencora!" he said again; and then he stopped, not knowing what to say to her.
"Well, my dear, it's better you should know at once what I feel about it. I dare say I'm bad enough, but these people about me won't make me any better. The duennas don't make the Spanish ladies worth much."
"Duennas!"
Lady Glencora sat down, and Mr. Palliser stood for some moments looking at her.


It ended in his making her a long speech, in which he said a good deal of his own justice and forbearance, and something also of her frivolity and childishness. He told her that his only complaint of her was that she was too young, and, as he did so, she made a little grimace,--not to him, but to herself, as though saying to herself that that was all he knew about it. He did not notice it, or, if he did, his notice did not stop his eloquence. He assured her that he was far from keeping any watch over her, and declared that she had altogether mistaken Mrs. Marsham's character. Then there was another little grimace. "There's somebody has mistaken it worse than I have," the grimace said. Of the bristly baboon he condescended to say nothing, and he wound up by giving her a cold kiss, and saying that he would meet her at Lady Monk's.

It ended in his making her a long speech, in which he said a good deal of his own justice and forbearance, and something also of her frivolity and childishness. He told her that his only complaint of her was that she was too young, and, as he did so, she made a little grimace to herself, as if to say it was more than that. He did not notice it, or, if he did, it did not stop his eloquence. He assured her that he was far from keeping any watch over her, and declared that she had altogether mistaken Mrs. Marsham's character. At that, there was another little grimace. He ended by giving her a cold kiss, and saying that he would meet her at Lady Monk's.


When the evening came,--or rather the night,--the carriage went first for Mrs. Marsham, and having deposited her at Lady Monk's, went back to Park Lane for Lady Glencora. Then she had herself driven to St. James's Square, to pick up Lady Jane, so that altogether the coachman and horses did not have a good time of it. "I wish he'd keep a separate carriage for her," Lady Glencora said to her cousin Jane,--having perceived that her servants were not in a good humour. "That would be expensive," said Lady Jane. "Yes, it would be expensive," said Lady Glencora. She would not condescend to make any remark as to the non-importance of such expense to a man so wealthy as her husband, knowing that his wealth was, in fact, hers. Never to him or to any other,--not even to herself,--had she hinted that much was due to her because she had been magnificent as an heiress. There were many things about this woman that were not altogether what a husband might wish. She was not softly delicate in all her ways; but in disposition and temper she was altogether generous. I do not know that she was at all points a lady, but had Fate so willed it she would have been a thorough gentleman.

When the evening came, the carriage went first for Mrs. Marsham, and having deposited her at Lady Monk's, went back to Park Lane for Lady Glencora. Then she had herself driven to St. James's Square, to pick up Lady Jane, so that altogether the coachman and horses did not have a good time of it.
"I wish he'd keep a separate carriage for her," Lady Glencora said to her cousin Jane.
"That would be expensive," said Lady Jane.
"Yes, it would," said Lady Glencora, not deigning to remark that her husband's wealth was, in fact, hers. She put on no airs because she was an heiress. She was not softly delicate in all her ways; but she was altogether generous. I do not know that she was at all points a lady, but had Fate so willed it, she would have been a thorough gentleman.


Mrs. Marsham was by no means satisfied with the way in which she was treated. She would not have cared to go at all to Lady Monk's party had she supposed that she would have to make her entry there alone. With Lady Glencora she would have seemed to receive some of that homage which would certainly have been paid to her companion. The carriage called, moreover, before she was fully ready, and the footman, as he stood at the door to hand her in, had been very sulky. She understood it all. She knew that Lady Glencora had positively declined her companionship; and if she resolved to be revenged, such resolution on her part was only natural. When she reached Lady Monk's house, she had to make her way up stairs all alone. The servants called her Mrs. Marsh, and under that name she got passed on into the front drawing-room. There she sat down, not having seen Lady Monk, and meditated over her injuries.

Mrs. Marsham was by no means satisfied with the way she was treated. She would not have cared to go to Lady Monk's party if she had known that she would have to make her entry there alone, without a share of the homage which would certainly have been paid to Lady Glencora. If she resolved to be revenged, such resolution was only natural. When she reached Lady Monk's house, she had to make her way upstairs all alone. She sat down in the front drawing room, and meditated on her injuries.


It was past eleven before Lady Glencora arrived, and Burgo Fitzgerald had begun to think that his evil stars intended that he should never see her again. He had been wickedly baulked at Monkshade, by what influence he had never yet ascertained; and now he thought that the same influence must be at work to keep her again away from his aunt's house. He had settled in his mind no accurate plan of a campaign; he had in his thoughts no fixed arrangement by which he might do the thing which he meditated. He had attempted to make some such plan; but, as is the case with all men to whom thinking is an unusual operation, concluded at last that he had better leave it to the course of events. It was, however, obviously necessary that he should see Lady Glencora before the course of events could be made to do anything for him. He had written to her, making his proposition in bold terms, and he felt that if she were utterly decided against him, her anger at his suggestion, or at least her refusal, would have been made known to him in some way. Silence did not absolutely give consent, but it seemed to show that consent was not impossible. From ten o'clock to past eleven he stood about on the staircase of his aunt's house, waiting for the name which he was desirous of hearing, and which he almost feared to hear. Men spoke to him, and women also, but he hardly answered. His aunt once called him into her room, and with a cautionary frown on her brow, bade him go dance.

It was past eleven before Lady Glencora arrived, and Burgo Fitzgerald had begun to think that his evil stars intended that he should never see her again. He had no definite plan in mind. He had attempted to make a plan; but, like all men to whom thinking is unusual, concluded at last that he had better leave it to the course of events.
It was, however, necessary that he should see Lady Glencora before the course of events could do anything for him. He had written to her boldly, and he felt that her silence seemed to show that consent was not impossible. From ten o'clock to past eleven he stood about on the staircase, waiting for the name which he desired yet almost feared to hear.
His aunt once called him into her room, and with a frown told him to go and dance.


"Don't look so dreadfully preoccupied," she said to him in a whisper. But he shook his head at her, almost savagely, and went away, and did not dance. Dance! How was he to dance with such an enterprise as that upon his mind? Even to Burgo Fitzgerald the task of running away with another man's wife had in it something which prevented dancing. Lady Monk was older, and was able to regulate her feelings with more exactness. But Burgo, though he could not dance, went down into the dining-room and drank. He took a large beer-glass full of champagne and soon after that another. The drink did not flush his cheeks or make his forehead red, or bring out the sweat-drops on his brow, as it does with some men; but it added a peculiar brightness to his blue eyes. It was by the light of his eyes that men knew when Burgo had been drinking.

But he shook his head almost savagely, and went away. Dance! How was he to dance? Even to Burgo Fitzgerald the task of running away with another man's wife had in it something which prevented dancing.
Instead he went down into the dining-room and drank. He took a large beer-glass full of champagne and then another. The drink did not flush his cheeks, but it added a peculiar brightness to his blue eyes. It was by the light of his eyes that men knew when Burgo had been drinking.


At last, while he was still in the supper room, he heard Lady Glencora's name announced. He had already seen Mr. Palliser come in and make his way up-stairs some quarter of an hour before; but as to that he was indifferent. He had known that the husband was to be there. When the long-expected name reached his ears, his heart seemed to jump within him. What, on the spur of the moment, should he do? As he had resolved that he would be doing,--that something should be done, let it be what it might,--he hurried to the dining-room door, and was just in time to see and be seen as Lady Glencora was passing up the stairs. She was just above him as he got himself out into the hall, so that he could not absolutely greet her with his hand; but he looked up at her, and caught her eye. He looked up, and moved his hand to her in token of salutation. She looked down at him, and the expression of her face altered visibly as her glance met his. She barely bowed to him,--with her eyes rather than with her head, but he flattered himself that there was, at any rate, no anger in her countenance.

At last, while he was in the supper room, he heard Lady Glencora's name announced. He had already seen Mr. Palliser come in and make his way upstairs a quarter of an hour before. When the long-expected name now reached his ears, his heart seemed to jump. What should he do?
He hurried to the dining-room door, just in time to see and be seen as Lady Glencora was passing up the stairs. He looked up at her, and caught her eye, and moved his hand in salutation.
She looked down at him, and her expression altered visibly as her glance met his. She barely bowed to him, but he thought there was, at any rate, no anger in her face.


How beautiful he was as he gazed up at her, leaning against the wall as he stood, and watching her as she made her slow way up the stairs! She felt that his eyes were on her, and where the stairs turned she could not restrain herself from one other glance. As her eyes fell on his again, his mouth opened, and she fancied that she could hear the faint sigh that he uttered. It was a glorious mouth, such as the old sculptors gave to their marble gods! And Burgo, if it was so that he had not heart enough to love truly, could look as though he loved. It was not in him deceit,--or what men call acting. The expression came to him naturally, though it expressed so much more than there was within; as strong words come to some men who have no knowledge that they are speaking strongly. At this moment Burgo Fitzgerald looked as though it were possible that he might die of love.

How beautiful he was as he gazed up at her, leaning against the wall and watching her as she made her slow way up the stairs! She felt that his eyes were on her, and where the stairs turned she could not restrain herself from one other glance. As her eyes fell on his again, his mouth opened, and she fancied that she could hear a faint sigh. It was a glorious mouth, such as the old sculptors gave to their marble gods! Burgo, though he had not heart enough to love truly, could look as though he loved. At this moment he looked as though he might die of love.


Lady Glencora was met at the top of the stairs by Lady Monk, who came out to her, almost into the gallery, with her sweetest smile,--so that the newly-arrived guest, of course, entered into the small room. There sat the Duchess of St. Bungay on her stool in the corner, and there, next to the Duchess, but at the moment engaged in no conversation, stood Mr. Bott. There was another lady there, who stood very high in the world, and whom Lady Monk was very glad to welcome--the young Marchioness of Hartletop. She was in slight mourning; for her father-in-law, the late Marquis, had died no t yet quite six months since. Very beautiful she was, and one whose presence at their houses ladies and gentlemen prized alike. She never said silly things, like the Duchess, never was troublesome as to people's conduct to her, was always gracious, yet was never led away into intimacies, was without peer the best-dressed woman in London, and yet gave herself no airs;--and then she was so exquisitely beautiful. Her smile was loveliness itself. There were, indeed, people who said that it meant nothing; but then, what should the smile of a young married woman mean? She had not been born in the purple, like Lady Glencora, her father being a country clergyman who had never reached a higher grade than that of an archdeacon; but she knew the ways of high life, and what an exigeant husband would demand of her, much better than poor Glencora. She would have spoken of no man as a baboon with a bristly beard.

Lady Glencora was met at the top of the stairs by Lady Monk, who came out to her with her sweetest smile. Lady Glencora entered the small room, where sat the Duchess of St. Bungay, with Mr. Bott standing next to her.
There was another lady there, who stood very high in the world, and whom Lady Monk was very glad to welcome - the young Marchioness of Hartletop. Very beautiful she was, and never said silly things, was always gracious, yet was never led away into intimacies, was the best-dressed woman in London, and yet gave herself no airs - and she was exquisitely beautiful. Her smile was loveliness itself. There were, indeed, people who said that it meant nothing; but then, what should the smile of a young married woman mean? Her father had been a country clergyman; but she knew the ways of high life much better than poor Glencora. She would have spoken of no man as a baboon with a bristly beard.


She never talked of the long and the short of it. She did not wander out o' nights in winter among the ruins. She made no fast friendship with ladies whom her lord did not like. She had once, indeed, been approached by a lover since she had been married,--Mr. Palliser himself having been the offender,--but she had turned the affair to infinite credit and profit, had gained her husband's closest confidence by telling him of it all, had yet not brought on any hostile collision, and had even dismissed her lover without annoying him. But then Lady Hartletop was a miracle of a woman!

She did not wander out on winter nights among the ruins.
She had once, indeed, been approached by a lover after she had been married - Mr. Palliser himself having been the offender - but she had turned the affair to credit, had gained her husband's closest confidence by telling him of it all, and had even dismissed her lover without annoying him. But then Lady Hartletop was a miracle of a woman!


Lady Glencora was no miracle. Though born in the purple, she was made of ordinary flesh and blood, and as she entered Lady Monk's little room, hardly knew how to recover herself sufficiently for the purposes of ordinary conversation. "Dear Lady Glencora, do come in for a moment to my den. We were so sorry not to have you at Monkshade. We heard such terrible things about your health." Lady Glencora said that it was only a cold,--a bad cold. "Oh, yes; we heard,--something about moonlight and ruins. So like you, you know. I love that sort of thing, above all people; but it doesn't do; does it? Circumstances are so exacting.

Lady Glencora was no miracle. She was made of ordinary flesh and blood, and as she entered Lady Monk's little room, hardly knew how to recover herself enough to make ordinary conversation.
"Dear Lady Glencora, we were so sorry not to have you at Monkshade. We heard such terrible things about your health." Lady Glencora said that it was only a cold. "Oh, yes; we heard something about moonlight and ruins. So like you.


I think you know Lady Hartletop;--and there's the Duchess of St. Bungay. Mr. Palliser was here five minutes since." Then Lady Monk was obliged to get to her door again and Lady Glencora found herself standing close to Lady Hartletop.
"We saw Mr. Palliser just pass through," said Lady Hartletop, who was able to meet and speak of the man who had dared to approach her with his love, without the slightest nervousness.
"Yes; he said he should be here," said Lady Glencora.
"There's a great crowd," said Lady Hartletop. "I didn't think London was so full."
"Very great." said Lady Glencora, and then they had said to each other all that society required. Lady Glencora, as we know, could talk with imprudent vehemence by the hour together if she liked her companion; but the other lady seldom committed herself by more words than she had uttered now,--unless it was to her tirewoman.

I think you know Lady Hartletop; and the Duchess of St. Bungay." Then Lady Monk was obliged to go to her door again and Lady Glencora found herself standing close to Lady Hartletop.
"We saw Mr. Palliser just pass through," said Lady Hartletop, who was able to speak of the man who had dared to approach her with his love, without the slightest nervousness.
"Yes," said Lady Glencora.
"There's a great crowd," said Lady Hartletop. "I didn't think London was so full."
"Very great." said Lady Glencora, and then they had said to each other all that society required.


"How very well you are looking," said the Duchess. "And I heard you had been so ill." Of that midnight escapade among the ruins it was fated that Lady Glencora should never hear the last.
"How d'ye do, Lady Glencowrer?" sounded in her ear, and there was a great red paw stuck out for her to take. But after what had passed between Lady Glencora and her husband to-day about Mr. Bott, she was determined that she would not take Mr. Bott's hand.
"How are you, Mr. Bott?" she said. "I think I'll look for Mr. Palliser in the back room."

"How very well you are looking," said the Duchess. "And I heard you had been so ill."
"How d'ye do, Lady Glencowrer?" sounded in her ear, and there was a great red paw stuck out for her to take. But she was determined that she would not take Mr. Bott's hand.
"How are you, Mr. Bott?" she said. "I think I'll look for Mr. Palliser in the back room."


"Dear Lady Glencora," whispered the Duchess, in an ecstasy of agony. Lady Glencora turned and bowed her head to her stout friend. "Do let me go away with you. There's that woman, Mrs. Conway Sparkes, coming, and you know how I hate her." She had nothing to do but to take the Duchess under her wing, and they passed into the large room together. It is, I think, more than probable that Mrs. Conway Sparkes had been brought in by Lady Monk as the only way of removing the Duchess from her stool.
Just within the dancing-room Lady Glencora found her husband, standing in a corner, looking as though he were making calculations.
"I'm going away," said he, coming up to her. "I only just came because I said I would. Shall you be late?"

"Dear Lady Glencora," whispered the Duchess, in an ecstasy of agony. Lady Glencora turned to her. "Do let me go away with you. There's that woman, Mrs. Conway Sparkes, coming, and you know how I hate her."
She had to take the Duchess under her wing, and they passed into the large room together. It is, I think, probable that Mrs. Conway Sparkes had been brought in by Lady Monk as the only way of removing the Duchess.
In the dancing-room Lady Glencora found her husband standing in a corner, looking as though he were making calculations.
"I'm going," said he, coming up to her. "I only came because I said I would. Will you be late?"


"Oh, no; I suppose not."
"Shall you dance?"
"Perhaps once,--just to show that I'm not an old woman."
"Don't heat yourself. Good-bye." Then he went, and in the crush of the doorway he passed Burgo Fitzgerald, whose eye was intently fixed upon his wife. He looked at Burgo, and some thought of that young man's former hopes flashed across his mind,--some remembrance, too, of a caution that had been whispered to him; but for no moment did a suspicion come to him that he ought to stop and watch by his wife.

"Oh, no; I suppose not."
"Shall you dance?"
"Perhaps once, just to show that I'm not an old woman."
"Don't heat yourself. Good-bye." Then he went, and in the crush of the doorway he passed Burgo Fitzgerald, whose eye was intently fixed upon his wife. He looked at Burgo, and some thought of that young man's former hopes flashed across his mind - some remembrance, too, of a caution that had been whispered to him; but for no moment did he suspect that he ought to stay and guard his wife.


Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning where we last saw him,--against the dining-room wall at the bottom of the staircase; and as he did so some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind, This thing that he was about to do, or to attempt,--was it in itself a good thing, and would it be good for her whom he pretended to love? What would be her future if she consented now to go with him, and to divide herself from her husband? Of his own future he thought not at all. He had never done so. Even when he had first found himself attracted by the reputation of her wealth, he cannot be said to have looked forward in any prudential way to coming years. His desire to put himself in possession of so magnificent a fortune had simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table. But now, during these moments, he did think a little of her. Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all women should cease to acknowledge her; when men would regard her as one degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her; when she would be driven to live loudly because the softness and graces of quiet life would be denied to her? Burgo knew well what must be the nature of such a woman's life in such circumstances. Would Glencora be happy with him while living such a life simply because he loved her?

Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning against the wall at the bottom of the staircase; and some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind.
This thing that he was about to attempt - was it good, and would it be good for Glencora? What would her future be if she consented to go with him, and to leave her husband? Of his own future he thought not at all. He had never done so. Even when he had first found himself attracted by her wealth, it simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table. But now he did think a little of her. Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all regarded her as degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her?

Chapter 50: How Lady Glencora Came Back from Lady Monk's Party


And, under such circumstances, was it likely that he would continue to love her? Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant of men, and the least trustworthy? Leaning thus against the wall at the bottom of the stairs he did ask himself all these questions with something of true feeling about his heart, and almost persuaded himself that he had better take his hat and wander forth anywhere into the streets. It mattered little what might become of himself. If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things that would be not altogether undesirable.
But then the remembrance of his aunt's two hundred pounds came upon him, which money he even now had about him on his person, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given to him. As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and, therefore, refunding the money--no such thought as that was possible to him! To give back two hundred pounds entire,--two hundred pounds which were already within his clutches, was not within the compass of Burgo's generosity. Remembering the cash, he told himself that hesitation was no longer possible to him. So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a sigh that was audible to all around him, and took himself up-stairs.

And, under such circumstances, would he continue to love her? Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant and untrustworthy of men? He asked himself these questions with something of true feeling, and almost persuaded himself that he had better wander forth into the streets. If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things.
But then he remembered his aunt's two hundred pounds, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given. As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and refunding the money - that was impossible! He could not give back two hundred pounds. So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a deep sigh, and took himself upstairs.


He looked in at his aunt's room, and then he saw her and was seen by her. "Well, Burgo," she said, with her sweetest smile, "have you been dancing?" He turned away from her without answering her, muttering something between his teeth about a cold-blooded Jezebel,--which, if she had heard it, would have made her think him the most ungrateful of men. But she did not hear him, and smiled still as he went away, saying something to Mrs. Conway Sparkes as to the great change for the better which had taken place in her nephew's conduct.
"There's no knowing who may not reform," said Mrs. Sparkes, with an emphasis which seemed to Lady Monk to be almost uncourteous.

He looked in at his aunt's room.
"Well, Burgo," she said, with her sweetest smile, "have you been dancing?" He turned away, muttering something about a cold-blooded Jezebel. But she did not hear, and smiled as he went.


Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was in progress, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop. Lord Hartletop was a man not much more given to conversation than his wife, and Lady Glencora seemed to go through her work with very little gratification either in the dancing or in the society of her partner. She was simply standing up to dance, because, as she had told Mr. Palliser, ladies of her age generally do stand up on such occasions. Burgo watched her as she crossed and re-crossed the room, and at last she was aware of his presence. It made no change in her, except that she became even somewhat less animated than she had been before. She would not seem to see him, nor would she allow herself to be driven into a pretence of a conversation with her partner because he was there. "I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz," Burgo said to himself, as soon as the last figure of the quadrille was in action. "Why should I not ask her as well as any other woman?" Then the music ceased, and after a minute's interval Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room. Burgo, who had been standing near the door, followed them at once.

Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop. Lady Glencora seemed to enjoy neither the dancing nor the society of her partner. She was simply standing up to dance because it was the correct thing to do. Burgo watched her, and at last she became aware of his presence. It made no change in her, except that she became even less animated than before. She would not seem to see him.
"I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz," Burgo said to himself. Then the music ceased, and Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room. Burgo followed them.


The crowd was great, so that he could not get near them or even keep them in sight, but he was aware of the way in which they were going.
It was five minutes after this when he again saw her, and then she was seated on a cane bench in the gallery, and an old woman was standing close to her, talking to her. It was Mrs. Marsham cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was telling that lady that she needed no such advice, in words almost as curt as those I have used. Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that, as far as that was concerned, he had done his duty for the night. Burgo knew nothing of Mrs. Marsham,--had never seen her before, and was quite unaware that she had any special connection with Mr. Palliser. It was impossible, he thought, to find Lady Glencora in a better position for his purpose, so he made his way up to her through the crowd, and muttering some slight inaudible word, offered her his hand.

The crowd was so great that he could not get near them, but he knew which way they were going.
Five minutes later he again saw her, seated on a cane bench in the gallery, with an old woman standing close to her, talking to her. It was Mrs. Marsham, cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was curtly telling that lady that she needed no such advice. Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that he had done his duty for the night.
Burgo knew nothing of Mrs. Marsham, and was quite unaware that she had any connection with Mr. Palliser. So he made his way up to Lady Glencora through the crowd, and muttering some inaudible word, offered her his hand.


"That will do very well thank you, Mrs. Marsham," Lady Glencora said at this moment. "Pray, do not trouble yourself," and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald. Mrs. Marsham, though unknown to him, knew with quite sufficient accuracy who he was, and all his history, as far as it concerned her friend's wife. She had learned the whole story of the loves of Burgo and Lady Glencora. Though Mr. Palliser had never mentioned that man's name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna would make it expedient that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him should he come near the sheepfold. And there he was, close to them, almost leaning over them, with the hand of his late lady love,--the hand of Mr. Palliser's wife,--within his own! How Lady Glencora might have carried herself at this moment had Mrs. Marsham not been there, it is bootless now to surmise; but it may be well understood that under Mrs. Marsham's immediate eye all her resolution would be in Burgo's favour. She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she uttered no articulate word, her countenance seemed to show that the meeting was not unpleasant to her.
"Will you waltz?" said Burgo,--asking it not at all as though it were a special favour,--asking it exactly as he might have done had they been in the habit of dancing with each other every other night for the last three months.

"That will do very well, thank you, Mrs. Marsham," Lady Glencora said. "Pray, do not trouble yourself," and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald.
Mrs. Marsham knew who he was, and all his history. Though Mr. Palliser had never mentioned his name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna meant that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him.
And there he was, leaning over them, taking the hand of Mr. Palliser's wife! How Lady Glencora might have behaved at this moment if Mrs. Marsham not been there, it is pointless to guess; but under Mrs. Marsham's eye, all her resolution was in Burgo's favour. She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she said nothing, her face seemed to show pleasure.
"Will you waltz?" said Burgo, asking as though it were a commonplace event.


"I don't think Lady Glencora will waltz to-night," said Mrs. Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else the enormity of Burgo's proposition had struck her so forcibly as to take away from her all her presence of mind. Otherwise, she must have been aware that such an answer from her would surely drive her friend's wife into open hostility.
"And why not, Mrs. Marsham?" said Lady Glencora rising from her seat. "Why shouldn't I waltz to-night? I rather think I shall, the more especially as Mr. Fitzgerald waltzes very well." Thereupon she put her hand upon Burgo's arm.

"I don't think Lady Glencora will waltz tonight," said Mrs. Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else she would have been aware that this answer would drive her friend's wife into open hostility.
"And why not, Mrs. Marsham?" said Lady Glencora, rising from her seat. "Why shouldn't I waltz tonight? I rather think I shall, especially as Mr. Fitzgerald waltzes very well." She put her hand upon Burgo's arm.


Mrs. Marsham made still a little effort,--a little effort that was probably involuntary. She put out her hand, and laid it on Lady Glencora's left shoulder, looking into her face as she did so with all the severity of caution of which she was mistress. Lady Glencora shook her duenna off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into the hands of this man who was now touching her, or whether she would not, she had not as yet decided; but of this she was very sure, that nothing said or done by Mrs. Marsham should have any effect in restraining her.

Mrs. Marsham laid a hand on Lady Glencora's left shoulder, looking into her face with all the severity of caution of which she was capable. Lady Glencora shook her off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into Burgo's hands, she had not yet decided; but she was very sure that Mrs. Marsham should not restrain her.


What could Mrs. Marsham do? Mr. Palliser was gone. Some rumour of that proposed visit to Monkshade, and the way in which it had been prevented, had reached her ear. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love, as married, the woman whom he had loved before she was married. There was a rumour about that he still had some hope. Mrs. Marsham had never believed that Mr. Palliser's wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe as a positive elopement that she had taken upon herself the duty of duenna. Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr. Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs. Marsham thought that she could accomplish. It had not hitherto occurred to her that she might be required to guard Mr. Palliser from positive dishonour; but now--now she hardly knew what to think about it. What should she do?

What could Mrs. Marsham do? Mr. Palliser was gone home. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love Lady Glencora. Mrs. Marsham had never believed that Mr. Palliser's wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe that she had taken on the duty of duenna: it was merely to mould her into a form appropriate for the wife of Mr. Palliser. It had not occurred to her that she might need to guard Mr. Palliser from positive dishonour; but now she hardly knew what to think. What should she do?


To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr. Bott looming large before her on the top of the staircase.
[Illustration: Mr. Bott on the watch.]

To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr. Bott at the top of the staircase.


In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo's arm. "Who is that woman?" said Burgo. They were the first words he spoke to her, though since he had last seen her he had written to her that letter which even now she carried about her. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close, and questions such as that he had asked were common between them. And her answer was of the same nature. "Oh, such an odious woman!" she said. "Her name is Mrs. Marsham; she is my bte noire." And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said of that which was Burgo's settled purpose, and which at some moments was her settled purpose also.

In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo's arm.
"Who is that woman?" said Burgo. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close.
"Oh, such an odious woman!" she said. "Her name is Mrs. Marsham; she is my bte noire." And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said about Burgo's purpose.


Burgo waltzed excellently, and in old days, before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping to the intermediate door between her den and the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott standing together just inside the other door, near to the staircase, looked on also--in horror.
"He shouldn't have gone away and left her," said Mr. Bott, almost hoarsely.
"But who could have thought it?" said Mrs. Marsham. "I'm sure I didn't."
"I suppose you'd better tell him?" said Mr. Bott.

Burgo waltzed excellently, and before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping from her den to the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott, standing together just inside the other door, looked on also - in horror.
"He shouldn't have gone away and left her," said Mr. Bott, almost hoarsely.
"But who could have thought it?" said Mrs. Marsham. "I'm sure I didn't."
"I suppose you'd better tell him?" said Mr. Bott.


"But I don't know where to find him," said Mrs. Marsham.
"I didn't mean now at once," said Mr. Bott;--and then he added, "Do you think it is as bad as that?"
"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Marsham.
The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath. "I am so much out of practice," said Lady Glencora; "I didn't think--I should have been able--to dance at all." Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and stretched her nostrils,--as ladies do as well as horses when the running has been severe and they want air.
"You'll take another turn," said he.
"Presently," said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs. Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.

"But I don't know where to find him," said Mrs. Marsham.
"I didn't mean now, at once," said Mr. Bott. "Do you think it is as bad as that?"
"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Marsham.
The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath.
"I am so much out of practice," said Lady Glencora; "I didn't think I should have been able - to dance at all." Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and breathed deep.
"You'll take another turn," said he.
"Presently," said she, beginning to wonder whether Mrs. Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice, knowing that he must use this opportunity.


"Does it put you in mind of old days?" said he.
It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth. It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views. The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity. There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back. "Does it put you in mind of 'old days?'" he said.


The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs. Marsham; her own unsettled mind--quite unsettled whether it would be best for her to go or to stay! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke to her.
It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost,--so often that they who say it now, say it simply because others have said it before them, never thinking whether or no there be any truth in the proverb. But they who have said so, thinking of their words as they were uttered, have known but little of women. Women doubt every day, who solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so, some by fear, more by conscience, but most of them by that half-prudential, half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the cirumstances, which rarely deserts either men or women till they have brought themselves to the Burgo Fitzgerald state of recklessness. Men when they have fallen even to that, will still keep up some outward show towards the world; but women in this condition defy the world, and declare themselves to be children of perdition. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.
"Does it put you in mind of old days?" said Burgo.

The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice so that she might be guarded from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger about Mrs. Marsham! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke.
It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost. But they who have said so have known little of women. Women doubt every day, and many solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so by fear, or conscience, but mostly by that half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the circumstances. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.
"Does it remind you of old days?" said Burgo.


She was driven to answer, and she knew that much would be decided by the way in which she might now speak. "You must not talk of that," she said, very softly.
"May I not?" And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly. "May I not? And why not? They were happy days,--so happy! Were not you happy when you thought--? Ah, dear! I suppose it is best not even to think of them?"

"You must not talk of that," she said, very softly.
"May I not?" And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly. "May I not? Why not? They were happy days - so happy! Were not you happy when you thought Ah, dear! I suppose it is best not even to think of them?"


"Much the best."
"Only it is impossible. I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish."
In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came from his lips upon her ears as a thing of custom, causing no surprise. They were standing back, behind the circle, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew well how to speak at such moments so that his words should be audible to none but her whom he addressed.
"You should not have come to me at all," she said.
"And why not? Who has a better right to come to you? Who has ever loved you as I have done? Cora, did you get my letter?"

"Much the best."
"Only it is impossible. I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish."
In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came as no surprise. They were standing back, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew his words were audible to none but her whom he addressed.
"You should not have come to me at all," she said.
"And why not? Who has a better right to come to you? Who has ever loved you as I have done? Cora, did you get my letter?"


"Come and dance," she said; "I see a pair of eyes looking at us." The pair of eyes which Lady Glencora saw were in the possession of Mr. Bott, who was standing alone, leaning against the side of the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners as from a vantage ground. He was quite alone. Mrs. Marsham had left him, and had gotten herself away in Lady Glencora's own carriage to Park Lane, in order that she might find Mr. Palliser there, if by chance he should be at home.
"Won't it be making mischief?" Mrs. Marsham had said when Mr. Bott had suggested this line of conduct.
"There'll be worse mischief if you don't," Mr. Bott had answered. "He can come back, and then he can do as he likes. I'll keep my eyes upon them." And so he did keep his eyes upon them.

"Come and dance," she said; "I see a pair of eyes looking at us." The pair of eyes which she saw were Mr. Bott's. He was standing alone in the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners from above. Mrs. Marsham had left him, and had gone in Lady Glencora's own carriage to Park Lane, in order to look there for Mr. Palliser.
"Won't it be making mischief?" Mrs. Marsham had said when Mr. Bott had suggested this.
"There'll be worse mischief if you don't," Mr. Bott had answered. "He can come back, and then do as he likes. I'll keep my eyes upon them." And so he did.


Again they went round the room,--or that small portion of the room which the invading crowd had left to the dancers,--as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence. But there were others besides Mr. Bott who looked on and wondered. The Duchess of St. Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing,--for the Duchess was good at heart. Mrs. Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite,--as a thirsty man with a longing for wine will drink champagne,--for Mrs. Conway Sparkes was not good at heart. Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows. It was nothing to her. She liked to know what was going on, as such knowledge was sometimes useful; but, as for heart,--what she had was, in such a matter, neither good nor bad. Her blood circulated with its ordinary precision, and, in that respect, no woman ever had a better heart. Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow. "The fool!"

Again they went round the room as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence. But there were others besides Mr. Bott who looked on and wondered. The Duchess of St. Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing, for the Duchess was good at heart. Mrs. Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite; for Mrs. Conway Sparkes was not good at heart. Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows. It was nothing to her. She liked to know what was going on; but, as for her heart, what she had was neither good nor bad.
Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow. "The fool!"


she said to herself. She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing down the eyes of all her guests upon his attempt. In the meantime Mr. Bott stood there, mounting still higher on his toes, straightening his back against the wall.

she said to herself. She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing the eyes of all her guests.


"Did you get my letter?" Burgo said again, as soon as a moment's pause gave him breath to speak. She did not answer him. Perhaps her breath did not return to her as rapidly as his. But, of course, he knew that she had received it. She would have quickly signified to him that no letter from him had come to her hands had it not reached her. "Let us go out upon the stairs," he said, "for I must speak to you. Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade! Why did you not come?"
"I wish I had not come here," she said.

"Did you get my letter?" Burgo said again. Glencora did not answer. But, of course, he knew that she had received it. "Let us go out upon the stairs," he said, "for I must speak to you. Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade!"
"I wish I had not come here," she said.


"Because you have seen me? That, at any rate, is not kind of you."
They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room. All the world was now intent on food and drink, and they were only doing as others did. Lady Glencora was not thinking where she went, but, glancing upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, her eyes met those of Mr. Bott. "A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him." That was the thought that crossed her mind at the moment.
"I'll get you some champagne with water in it," said Burgo. "I know that is what you like."

"Because you have seen me? That is not kind of you."
They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room; for all the world was now intent on food and drink. Lady Glencora glanced upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, and her eyes met those of Mr. Bott.
"A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him." That was the thought that crossed her mind.
"I'll get you some champagne with water in it," said Burgo. "I know that is what you like."


"Do not get me anything," she said. They had now got into the room, and had therefore escaped Mr. Bott's eyes for the moment. "Mr. Fitzgerald,"--and now her words had become a whisper in his ear,--"do what I ask you. For the sake of the old days of which you spoke, the dear old days which can never come again--"
"By G----! they can," said he. "They can come back, and they shall."

"Do not get me anything," she said. They had now got into the supper-room, and had escaped Mr. Bott's eyes for the moment. "Mr. Fitzgerald," - and now she whispered - "do what I ask you. For the sake of the old days which can never come again-"
"By G--! they can," said he.


"Never. But you can still do me a kindness. Go away, and leave me. Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back. You are doing me an injury while you remain with me."
"Cora," he said,

"Never. But you can still do me a kindness. Go away, and leave me. Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back. You are doing me an injury while you remain with me."
"Cora," he said.


But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream, but words and things bore to her again their proper meaning. "I will not have it, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, speaking almost passionately. "I will not have it. Do as I bid you. Go and leave me, and do not return. I tell you that we are watched." This was still true, for Mr. Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door. Whatever was the reward for which he was working, private secretaryship or what else, it must be owned that he worked hard for it. But there are labours which are labours of love.

But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream. "I will not have it, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, speaking almost passionately. "I will not have it. Do as I bid you. Go and leave me, and do not return. I tell you that we are watched." This was still true, for Mr. Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door.


"Who is watching us?" said Burgo; "and what does it matter? If you are minded to do as I have asked you--"
"But I am not so minded. Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?"
"Yes;--it is an insult, Cora,--unless such an offer be a joy to you. If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult."
"How can I be that?" Her face was not turned to him, and her words were half-pronounced, and in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.

"Who is watching us?" said Burgo; "and what does it matter? If you are minded to do as I have asked you-"
"But I am not so minded. Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?"
"If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult."
"How can I be that?" Her face was not turned to him, and her words were in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.


"Come with me,--abroad, and you shall yet be my wife. You got my letter? Do what I asked you, then. Come with me--to-night."
The pressing instance of the suggestion, the fixing of a present hour, startled her back to her propriety. "Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, "I asked you to go and leave me. If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you. It will be much more difficult."
"And is that to be all?"

"Come with me, abroad, and you shall be my wife. You got my letter? Do what I asked you, then. Come with me - tonight."
"Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, "I asked you to go and leave me. If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you. It will be much more difficult."
"And is that to be all?"


"All;--at any rate, now." Oh, Glencora! how could you be so weak? Why did you add that word, "now"? In truth, she added it then, at that moment, simply feeling that she could thus best secure an immediate compliance with her request.
"I will not go," he said, looking at her sternly, and leaning before her, with earnest face, with utter indifference as to the eyes of any that might see them. "I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again."
"I will," she said in that low, all-but-unuttered whisper.
"When,--when,--when?" he asked.

"All; at any rate, now." Oh, Glencora! how could you be so weak? Why did you add that word, "now"? In truth, she added it simply feeling that it was the best way to make him obey.
"I will not go," he said, looking at her sternly and earnestly, utterly indifferent to any watching eyes. "I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again."
"I will," she said in that low whisper.
"When - when?"


Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr. Bott's eyes, she saw the face of Mr. Palliser as he entered the room. Mr. Bott had also seen him, and had tried to clutch him by the arm; but Mr. Palliser had shaken him off, apparently with indifference,--had got rid of him, as it were, without noticing him. Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage. She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done. For the matter of that, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper such a word to Burgo himself. Mr. Bott's eyes were odious to her as they watched her; but her husband's glance she could meet without quailing before it. "Here is Mr. Palliser," said she, speaking again in her ordinary clear-toned voice. Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.

Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr. Bott's eyes, she saw the face of Mr. Palliser as he entered the room. Mr. Bott had tried to clutch his arm; but Mr. Palliser had shaken him off, apparently without noticing him.
Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage. She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done. For that matter, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper it to Burgo himself. Mr. Bott's eyes were odious to her; but her husband's glance she could meet without quailing.
"Here is Mr. Palliser," said she, speaking in her ordinary clear-toned voice. Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.


Mr. Palliser made his way as best he could through the crowd up to his wife. He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret. There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor was there any untoward hurry in his movement. Burgo stood aside as he came up, and Lady Glencora was the first to speak. "I thought you were gone home hours ago," she said.
"I did go home," he answered, "but I thought I might as well come back for you."
"What a model of a husband! Well; I am ready. Only, what shall we do about Jane? Mr. Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt's room,--a little black and yellow scarf,--would you mind getting it for me?"

Mr. Palliser made his way through the crowd up to his wife. He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret. There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor untoward hurry in his movement. Burgo stood aside as he came up.
Lady Glencora said, "I thought you were gone home hours ago."
"I did go home," he answered, "but I thought I might as well come back for you."
"What a model of a husband! Well; I am ready. Only what shall we do about Jane? Mr. Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt's room - a little black and yellow scarf - would you mind getting it for me?"


"I will fetch it," said Mr. Palliser; "and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her."
"If you will allow me--" said Burgo.
"I will do it," said Mr. Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress up through the crowd, ordering his carriage as he passed through the hall, and leaving Mr. Bott still watching at the door.

"I will fetch it," said Mr. Palliser; "and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her."
"If you will allow me-" said Burgo.
"I will do it," said Mr. Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress through the crowd, leaving Mr. Bott still watching at the door.


Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone. There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them again together, which so far conquered her. He might have bade her leave the scarf, and come at once. She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr. Bott, and was thankful to him also for that. Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance for that time was over. "I will say good-night," he said. "Good-night, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, giving him her hand. He pressed it for a moment, and then turned and went. When Mr. Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.

Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone. There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them together. He might have ordered her to leave the scarf behind, and come at once. She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr. Bott, and was thankful to him also for that.
Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance was over, for the moment.
"I will say good-night," he said.
"Good-night, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, giving him her hand. He pressed it, and then turned and went. When Mr. Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.


Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door when her husband returned, standing close to Mr. Bott. Mr. Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply. He spoke again, but her face remained as immovable as though she had been deaf. "And what shall we do about Mrs. Marsham?" she said, quite out loud, as soon as she put her hand on her husband's arm. "I had forgotten her."
"Mrs. Marsham has gone home," he replied.
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes."
"When did you see her?"

Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door, near Mr. Bott, when her husband returned. Mr. Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply
"And what shall we do about Mrs. Marsham?" she said, out loud, as she put her hand on her husband's arm. "I had forgotten her."
"Mrs. Marsham has gone home," he replied.
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes."
"When did you see her?"


"She came to Park Lane."
"What made her do that?"
These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage. She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not find it necessary to answer it. But that would not serve her turn. "What made Mrs. Marsham go to you at Park Lane after she left Lady Monk's?" she asked again. Mr. Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject. "I suppose she went," continued Lady Glencora, "to tell you that I was dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald. Was that it?"

"She came to Park Lane."
"What made her do that?"
These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage. She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not answer.
But she repeated, "What made Mrs. Marsham go to you at Park Lane?" Mr. Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject. "I suppose she went," continued Lady Glencora, "to tell you that I was dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald. Was that it?"


"I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now."
"I don't mean to discuss it now, or ever. If you did not wish me to see Mr. Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk's. But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs. Marsham or Mr. Bott."
Mr. Palliser absolutely declined to say anything on the subject on that occasion, and the evening of Lady Monk's party in this way came to an end.

"I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now."
"I don't mean to discuss it now, or ever. If you did not wish me to see Mr. Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk's. But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs. Marsham or Mr. Bott."
Mr. Palliser did not reply. Thus the evening of Lady Monk's party came to an end.


Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall with her grandfather. The journey was not a pleasant one. Mr. Vavasor knew that it was his duty to do something,--to take some steps with the view of preventing the marriage which his daughter meditated; but he did not know what that something should be, and he did know that, whatever it might be, the doing of it would be thoroughly disagreeable. When they started from Vavasor he had as yet hardly spoken to her a word upon the subject. "I cannot congratulate you," he had simply said. "I hope the time may come, papa, when you will," Alice had answered; and that had been all.

Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall. The journey was not a pleasant one. Mr. Vavasor knew that he ought to do something to prevent his daughter marrying George Vavasor; but he did not know what that something should be, although he did know that doing it would be thoroughly disagreeable.

Chapter 34: Mr. Vavasor Speaks to His Daughter


The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson, if Alice's father would express himself satisfied with the proposed marriage. John Vavasor had certainly expressed nothing of the kind. "I think so badly of him," he had said, speaking to the old man of George, "that I would rather know that almost any other calamity was to befall her, than that she should be united to him." Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had taken up the cudgels on behalf of his grandson; and had tried to prove that the match after all would not be so bad in its results as his son seemed to expect. "It would do very well for the property," he said. "I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform as well as another." John Vavasor had then declared that George was thoroughly bad, that he was an adventurer; that he believed him to be a ruined man, and that he would never reform. The squire upon this had waxed angry, and in this way George obtained aid and assistance down at the old house, which he certainly had no right to expect. When Alice wished her grandfather good-bye the old man gave her a message to his grandson. "You may tell him," said he, "that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his personal bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon his child and yours.

The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson, if Alice's father would say he was satisfied with the marriage. But John Vavasor had said nothing of the kind.
"I think so badly of George," he had said, "that I would rather almost any other calamity happened to her, than that she should marry him." Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had argued on his grandson's side.
"It would do very well for the property," he said. "I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform."
John Vavasor had declared that George was thoroughly bad, and would never reform. The squire had grown angry. When Alice wished him goodbye, the old man gave her a message to his grandson.
"You may tell him," said he, "that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon your child.


I shall always be glad to see you, my dear; and for your sake, I will see him if he will humble himself to me." There was no word spoken then about her father's consent; and Alice, when she left Vavasor, felt that the squire was rather her friend than her enemy in regard to this thing which she contemplated. That her father was and would be an uncompromising enemy to her,--uncompromising though probably not energetical,--she was well aware; and, therefore, the journey up to London was not comfortable.

I shall always be glad to see you, my dear."
Alice felt that the squire was her friend rather than her enemy in the matter. However she was well aware that her father was an uncompromising enemy, so the journey up to London was not comfortable.


Alice had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience. "There cannot be obedience on one side," she said to herself, "without protection and support on the other." Now it was quite true that John Vavasor had done little in the way of supporting or protecting his daughter. Early in life, before she had resided under the same roof with him in London, he had, as it were, washed his hands of all solicitude regarding her; and having no other ties of family, had fallen into habits of life which made it almost impossible for him to live with her as any other father would live with his child. Then, when there first sprang up between them that manner of sharing the same house without any joining together of their habits of life, he had excused himself to himself by saying that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection. Her fortune was her own, and at her own disposal. Her character was such that she showed no inclination to throw the burden of such disposal on her father's shoulders. She was steady, too, and given to no pursuits which made it necessary that he should watch closely over her. She was a girl, he thought, who could do as well without surveillance as with it,--as well, or perhaps better. So it had come to pass that Alice had been the free mistress of her own actions, and had been left to make the most she could of her own hours.

She had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience.
"There cannot be obedience on one side," she said to herself, "without protection and support on the other." It was quite true that John Vavasor had done little to support or protect his daughter. Early in life, before she had come to live with him, he had, as it were, washed his hands of her upbringing. Then, when they first shared the same house, he did not attempt to change his bachelor ways, telling himself that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection. She was steady and independently minded, and he thought she needed no surveillance.
So Alice had been left to make the most she could of her own hours.


It cannot be supposed that she had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month, without telling herself that her father was neglecting her. She could not perceive that he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, without feeling that the tie between her and him was not the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child. She was well aware that she had been ill-used in being thus left desolate in her home. She had uttered no word of complaint; but she had learned, without being aware that she was doing so, to entertain a firm resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life. In that affair of John Grey they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had believed that his theory with reference to Alice had been quite correct. She had been left to herself, and was going to dispose of herself in a way than which nothing could be more eligible. But evil days were now coming, and Mr. Vavasor, as he travelled up to London, with his daughter seated opposite to him in the railway carriage, felt that now, at last, he must interfere. In part of the journey they had the carriage to themselves, and Mr. Vavasor thought that he would begin what he had to say; but he put it off till others joined them, and then there was no further opportunity for such conversation as that which would be necessary between them. They reached home about eight in the evening, having dined on the road. "She will be tired to-night," he said to himself, as he went off to his club, "and I will speak to her to-morrow."

She had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month; and when he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, she could not help feeling that she lacked the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child. She had uttered no word of complaint; but she had learned to resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life.
In that affair of John Grey they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had been content to leave her alone. But now, as he sat opposite his daughter in the railway carriage, he felt that he must interfere. However, he put off speaking, and then others joined them in the carriage, and he could not say what he felt necessary. They reached home about eight in the evening, having dined on the road.
"She will be tired tonight," he said to himself, as he went off to his club, "and I will speak to her tomorrow."