March came, and still the Chancellor of the Exchequer held his position. In the early days of March there was given in the House a certain parliamentary explanation on the subject, which, however, did not explain very much to any person. A statement was made which was declared by the persons making it to be altogether satisfactory, but nobody else seemed to find any satisfaction in it. The big wigs of the Cabinet had made an arrangement which, from the language used by them on this occasion, they must be supposed to have regarded as hardly less permanent than the stars; but everybody else protested that the Government was going to pieces; and Mr. Bott was heard to declare in clubs and lobbies, and wherever he could get a semi-public, political hearing, that this kind of thing wouldn't do. Lord Brock must either blow hot or cold. If he chose to lean upon Mr. Palliser, he might lean upon him, and Mr. Palliser would not be found wanting. In such case no opposition could touch Lord Brock or the Government. That was Mr. Bott's opinion. But if Lord Brock did not so choose, why, in that case, he must expect that Mr. Palliser, and Mr. Palliser's friends, would--. Mr. Bott did not say what they would do; but he was supposed by those who understood the matter to hint at an Opposition lobby, and adverse divisions, and to threaten Lord Brock with the open enmity of Mr. Palliser,--and of Mr. Palliser's great follower.
"This kind of thing won't do long, you know," repeated Mr. Bott for the second or third time, as he stood upon the rug before the fire at his club, with one or two of his young friends around him.
"I suppose not," said Calder Jones, the hunting Member of Parliament whom we once met at Roebury. "Planty Pall won't stand it, I should say."
"What can he do?" asked another, an unfledged Member who was not as yet quite settled as to the leadership under which he intended to work.
"What can he do?" said Mr. Bott, who on such an occasion as this could be very great,--who, for a moment, could almost feel that he might become a leader of a party for himself, and some day institute a Bott Ministry. "What can he do? You will very shortly see what he can do. He can make himself the master of the occasion. If Lord Brock doesn't look about him, he'll find that Mr. Palliser will be in the Cabinet without his help."
"You don't mean to say that the Queen will send for Planty Pall!" said the young Member.
"I mean to say that the Queen will send for any one that the House of Commons may direct her to call upon," said Mr. Bott, who conceived himself to have gauged the very depths of our glorious Constitution. "How hard it is to make any one understand that the Queen has really nothing to do with it!"
"Come, Bott, draw it mild," said Calder Jones, whose loyalty was shocked by the utter Manchesterialism of his political friend.
"Not if I know it," said Mr. Bott, with something of grandeur in his tone and countenance. "I never drew it mild yet, and I shan't begin now. All our political offences against civilization have come from men drawing it mild, as you call it. Why is it that Englishmen can't read and write as Americans do? Why can't they vote as they do even in Imperial France? Why are they serfs, less free than those whose chains were broken the other day in Russia? Why is the Spaniard more happy, and the Italian more contented? Because men in power have been drawing it mild!" And Mr. Bott made an action with his hand as though he were drawing up beer from a patent tap.
"But you can't set aside Her Majesty like that, you know," said the young Member, who had been presented, and whose mother's old-world notions about the throne still clung to him.
"I should be very sorry," said Mr. Bott; "I'm no republican." With all his constitutional love, Mr. Bott did not know what the word republican meant. "I mean no disrespect to the throne. The throne in its place is very well. But the power of governing this great nation does not rest with the throne. It is contained within the four walls of the House of Commons. That is the great truth which all young Members should learn, and take to their hearts."
"And you think Planty Pall will become Prime Minister?" said Calder Jones.
"I haven't said that; but there are more unlikely things. Among young men I know no man more likely. But I certainly think this,--that if Lord Brock doesn't take him into the Cabinet, Lord Brock won't long remain there himself."
In the meantime the election came on in the Chelsea districts, and the whole of the south-western part of the metropolis was covered with posters bearing George Vavasor's name. "Vote for Vavasor and the River Bank." That was the cry with which he went to the electors; and though it must be presumed that it was understood by some portion of the Chelsea electors, it was perfectly unintelligible to the majority of those who read it. His special acquaintances and his general enemies called him Viscount Riverbank, and he was pestered on all sides by questions as to Father Thames. It was Mr. Scruby who invented the legend, and who gave George Vavasor an infinity of trouble by the invention. There was a question in those days as to embanking the river from the Houses of Parliament up to the remote desolations of further Pimlico, and Mr. Scruby recommended the coming Member to pledge himself that he would have the work carried on even to Battersea Bridge. "You must have a subject," pleaded Mr. Scruby. "No young Member can do anything without a subject. And it should be local;--that is to say, if you have anything of a constituency. Such a subject as that, if it's well worked, may save you thousands of pounds--thousands of pounds at future elections."
"It won't save me anything at this one, I take it."
"But it may secure the seat, Mr. Vavasor, and afterwards make you the most popular metropolitan Member in the House; that is, with your own constituency. Only look at the money that would be spent in the districts if that were done! It would come to millions, sir!"
"But it never will be done."
"What matters that?" and Mr. Scruby almost became eloquent as he explained the nature of a good parliamentary subject. "You should work it up, so as to be able to discuss it at all points. Get the figures by heart, and then, as nobody else will do so, nobody can put you down. Of course it won't be done. If it were done, that would be an end of it, and your bread would be taken out of your mouth. But you can always promise it at the hustings, and can always demand it in the House. I've known men who've walked into as much as two thousand a year, permanent place, on the strength of a worse subject than that!"
Vavasor allowed Mr. Scruby to manage the matter for him, and took up the subject of the River Bank. "Vavasor and the River Bank" was carried about by an army of men with iron shoulder-straps, and huge pasteboard placards six feet high on the top of them. You would think, as you saw the long rows, that the men were being marshalled to their several routes; but they always kept together--four-and-twenty at the heels of each other. "One placard at a time would strike the eye," said Mr. Vavasor, counting the expense up to himself. "There's no doubt of it," said Mr. Scruby in reply. "One placard will do that, if it's big enough; but it takes four-and-twenty to touch the imagination." And then sides of houses were covered with that shibboleth--"Vavasor and the River Bank"--the same words repeated in columns down the whole sides of houses. Vavasor himself declared that he was ashamed to walk among his future constituents, so conspicuous had his name become. Grimes saw it, and was dismayed. At first, Grimes ridiculed the cry with all his publican's wit. "Unless he mean to drown hisself in the Reach, it's hard to say what he do mean by all that gammon about the River Bank," said Grimes, as he canvassed for the other Liberal candidate. But, after a while, Grimes was driven to confess that Mr. Scruby knew what he was about. "He is a sharp 'un, that he is," said Grimes in the inside bar of the "Handsome Man;" and he almost regretted that he had left the leadership of Mr. Scruby, although he knew that on this occasion he would not have gotten his odd money.
George Vavasor, with much labour, actually did get up the subject of the River Bank. He got himself introduced to men belonging to the Metropolitan Board, and went manfully into the matter of pounds, shillings, and pence. He was able even to work himself into an apparent heat when he was told that the thing was out of the question; and soon found that he had disciples who really believed in him. If he could have brought himself to believe in the thing,--if he could have been induced himself to care whether Chelsea was to be embanked or no, the work would not have been so difficult to him. In that case it would have done good to him, if to no one else. But such belief was beyond him. He had gone too far in life to be capable of believing in, or of caring for, such things. He was ambitious of having a hand in the government of his country, but he was not capable of caring even for that.
But he worked. He worked hard, and spoke vehemently, and promised the men of Chelsea, Pimlico, and Brompton that the path of London westwards had hardly commenced as yet. Sloane Street should be the new Cheapside. Squares should arise around the Chelsea barracks, with sides open to the water, for which Belgravia would be deserted. There should be palaces there for the rich, because the rich spend their riches; but no rich man's palace should interfere with the poor man's right to the River Bank. Three millions and a half should be spent on the noble street to be constructed, the grandest pathway that the world should ever yet have seen; three millions and a half to be drawn from,--to be drawn from anywhere except from Chelsea;--from the bloated money-bags of the City Corporation, Vavasor once ventured to declare, amidst the encouraging shouts of the men of Chelsea. Mr. Scruby was forced to own that his pupil worked the subject well. "Upon my word, that was uncommon good," he said, almost patting Vavasor on the back, after a speech in which he had vehemently asserted that his ambition to represent the Chelsea districts had all come of his long-fixed idea that the glory of future London would be brought about by the embankment of the river at Chelsea.
But armies of men carrying big boards, and public-houses open at every corner, and placards in which the letters are three feet long, cost money. Those few modest hundreds which Mr. Scruby had already received before the work began, had been paid on the supposition that the election would not take place till September. Mr. Scruby made an early request, a very early request, that a further sum of fifteen hundred pounds should be placed in his hands; and he did this in a tone which clearly signified that not a man would be sent about through the streets, or a poster put upon a wall, till this request had been conceded. Mr. Scruby was in possession of two very distinct manners of address. In his jovial moods, when he was instigating his clients to fight their battles well, it might almost be thought that he was doing it really for the love of the thing; and some clients, so thinking, had believed for a few hours that Scruby, in his jolly, passionate eagerness, would pour out his own money like dust, trusting implicitly to future days for its return. But such clients had soon encountered Mr. Scruby's other manner, and had perceived that they were mistaken.
The thing had come so suddenly upon George Vavasor that there was not time for him to carry on his further operations through his sister. Had he written to Kate,--let him have written in what language he would,--she would have first rejoined by a negative, and there would have been a correspondence before he had induced her to comply. He thought of sending for her by telegram, but even in that there would have been too much delay. He resolved, therefore, to make his application to Alice himself, and he wrote to her, explaining his condition. The election had come upon him quite suddenly, as she knew, he said. He wanted two thousand pounds instantly, and felt little scruple in asking her for it, as he was aware that the old Squire would be only too glad to saddle the property with a legacy to Alice for the repayment of this money, though he would not have advanced a shilling himself for the purpose of the election. Then he said a word or two as to his prolonged absence from Queen Anne Street. He had not been there because he had felt, from her manner when they last met, that she would for a while prefer to be left free from the unavoidable excitement of such interviews. But should he be triumphant in his present contest, he should go to her to share his triumph with her; or, should he fail, he should go to her to console him in his failure.
Within three days he heard from her, saying that the money would be at once placed to his credit. She sent him also her candid good wishes for success in his enterprise, but beyond this her letter said nothing. There was no word of love,--no word of welcome,--no expression of a desire to see him. Vavasor, as he perceived all this in the reading of her note, felt a triumph in the possession of her money. She was ill-using him by her coldness, and there was comfort in revenge. "It serves her right," he said to himself. "She should have married me at once when she said she would do so, and then it would have been my own."
When Mr. Tombe had communicated with John Grey on the matter of this increased demand,--this demand which Mr. Tombe began to regard as carrying a love-affair rather too far,--Grey had telegraphed back that Vavasor's demand for money, if made through Mr. John Vavasor, was to be honoured to the extent of five thousand pounds. Mr. Tombe raised his eyebrows, and reflected that some men were very foolish. But John Grey's money matters were of such a nature as to make Mr. Tombe know that he must do as he was bidden; and the money was paid to George Vavasor's account.
He told Kate nothing of this. Why should he trouble himself to do so? Indeed, at this time he wrote no letters to his sister, though she twice sent to him, knowing what his exigencies would be, and made further tenders of her own money. He could not reply to these offers without telling her that money had been forthcoming from that other quarter, and so he left them unanswered.
In the meantime the battle went on gloriously. Mr. Travers, the other Liberal candidate, spent his money freely,--or else some other person did so on his behalf. When Mr. Scruby mentioned this last alternative to George Vavasor, George cursed his own luck in that he had never found such backers. "I don't call a man half a Member when he's brought in like that," said Mr. Scruby, comforting him. "He can't do what he likes with his vote. He ain't independent. You never hear of those fellows getting anything good. Pay for the article yourself, Mr. Vavasor, and then it's your own. That's what I always say."
Mr. Grimes went to work strenuously, almost fiercely, in the opposite interest, telling all that he knew, and perhaps more than he knew, of Vavasor's circumstances. He was at work morning, noon, and night, not only in his own neighbourhood, but among those men on the river bank of whom he had spoken so much in his interview with Vavasor in Cecil Street. The entire Vavasorian army with its placards was entirely upset on more than one occasion, and was once absolutely driven ignominiously into the river mud. And all this was done under the direction of Mr. Grimes. Vavasor himself was pelted with offal from the sinking tide, so that the very name of the River Bank became odious to him. He was a man who did not like to have his person touched, and when they hustled him he became angry. "Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby, "that's nothing! I've had a candidate so mauled,--it was in the Hamlets, I think,--that there wasn't a spot on him that wasn't painted with rotten eggs. The smell was something quite awful. But I brought him in, through it all."
And Mr. Scruby at last did as much for George Vavasor as he had done for the hero of the Hamlets. At the close of the poll Vavasor's name stood at the head by a considerable majority, and Scruby comforted him by saying that Travers certainly wouldn't stand the expense of a petition, as the seat was to be held only for a few months.
"And you've done it very cheap, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby, "considering that the seat is metropolitan. I do say that you have done it cheap. Another thousand, or twelve hundred, will cover everything--say thirteen, perhaps, at the outside. And when you shall have fought the battle once again, you'll have paid your footing, and the fellows will let you in almost for nothing after that."
A further sum of thirteen hundred pounds was wanted at once, and then the whole thing was to be repeated over again in six months' time! This was not consolatory. But, nevertheless, there was a triumph in the thing itself which George Vavasor was man enough to enjoy. It would be something to have sat in the House of Commons, though it should only have been for half a session.

March came, and still the Chancellor of the Exchequer held his position. In early March there was given in the House a parliamentary explanation on the subject, which, however, did not explain very much. Everybody but the Cabinet protested that the Government was going to pieces; and Mr. Bott declared that this kind of thing wouldn't do. Lord Brock must decide. If he chose Mr. Palliser, Mr. Palliser would not be found wanting. But if Lord Brock did not so choose, he must expect that Mr. Palliser and his friends, would - Mr. Bott did not say what they would do; but he was assumed to hint at divisions, and to threaten Lord Brock with the open enmity of Mr. Palliser - and of Mr. Bott himself.
"This kind of thing won't do long, you know," repeated Mr. Bott, as he stood before the fire at his club, with one or two of his young friends around him.
"I suppose not," said Calder Jones, the hunting Member of Parliament whom we met at Roebury. "Planty Pall won't stand it, I should say."
"What can he do?" asked another, an unfledged Member who was not quite sure whom he should follow.
"What can he do?" said Mr. Bott - who, for a moment, could almost feel that he might become a leader of a party himself. "You will very shortly see what he can do. If Lord Brock doesn't look about him, he'll find that Mr. Palliser will be in the Cabinet without his help."
"You don't mean to say that the Queen will send for Planty Pall!" said the young Member.
"The Queen will send for anyone that the House of Commons may direct her to call upon," said Mr. Bott. "The Queen has really nothing to do with it."
"Come, Bott, tone it down," said Calder Jones, whose loyalty was shocked.
"I shan't," said Mr. Bott grandly. "All our political offences against civilization have come from that. Why can't Englishmen read and write as Americans do? Why can't they vote as they do even in Imperial France? Why are they less free than serfs in Russia? Because men in power have been toning it down!"
"But you can't set aside Her Majesty like that, you know," said the young Member.
"I'm no republican," said Mr. Bott, although he did not know what the word meant. "I mean no disrespect to the throne. But the power of governing this great nation does not rest with the throne. It is contained within the four walls of the House of Commons."
"And you think Planty Pall will become Prime Minister?" said Calder Jones.
"I haven't said that; but there are more unlikely things. But I certainly think that if Lord Brock doesn't take him into the Cabinet, Lord Brock won't remain there long himself."
In the meantime the election came on in the Chelsea districts, and south-western London was covered with posters bearing George Vavasor's name.
"Vote for Vavasor and the River Bank." That was the cry with which he went to the electors; and it was perfectly unintelligible to most of those who read it. He was called Viscount Riverbank by all sides, and was pestered by questions about Father Thames.
It was Mr. Scruby who invented the slogan. There was a call in those days to embank the river from the Houses of Parliament up to Pimlico, and Mr. Scruby recommended Vavasor to pledge that he would have the work carried out.
"You must have a subject," pleaded Mr. Scruby; "and it should be local. It may save you thousands of pounds at future elections."
"It won't save me anything at this one, I take it."
"But it may secure the seat, Mr. Vavasor, and make you the most popular metropolitan Member in the House. Only look at the money that would be spent in the districts if the embankment were done! It would be millions, sir!"
"But it never will be done."
"What does that matter?" said Mr. Scruby. "Get the figures by heart, and as nobody else will do so, nobody can argue with you. Of course it won't be done. But you can always promise it at the hustings, and can demand it in the House."
So Vavasor allowed Mr. Scruby to manage the matter for him, and huge placards saying "Vavasor and the River Bank" were carried about by an army of men. And sides of houses were covered with "Vavasor and the River Bank", until Vavasor declared that he was ashamed to walk down the streets, so conspicuous had his name become.
Grimes the publican ridiculed the cry at first, when he canvassed for the other Liberal candidate. But, after a while, he admitted that Mr. Scruby knew what he was doing.
"He's a sharp 'un, he is," said Grimes; and he almost regretted that he had left the leadership of Mr. Scruby.
George Vavasor actually did study the subject of the River Bank. He got himself introduced to men on the Metropolitan Board, and went manfully into the figures. He was able even to work himself into an apparent heat when told that the thing was out of the question; and soon found that he had disciples who really believed in him. If he could have brought himself to care about the matter, the work would not have been difficult to him. But that was beyond him. He had gone too far in life to be capable of believing in, or of caring for, such things. He was ambitious of having a hand in the government of his country, but he was not capable of caring even for that.
But he worked hard, and spoke vehemently, and promised the men of Chelsea that the path of London westwards had hardly commenced as yet. Squares should arise around the Chelsea barracks, while Belgravia would be deserted. Three and a half million should be spent on the noble street to be constructed; the money to be drawn from - anywhere except Chelsea.
Mr. Scruby was forced to own that his pupil worked the subject well.
"Upon my word, that was uncommon good," he said, almost patting Vavasor on the back after one speech about the future glory of the embankment.
But armies of men carrying placards cost money. Mr. Scruby asked for a further fifteen hundred pounds; and his tone clearly signified that not a placard would be sent through the streets, or a poster put upon a wall, till he had the money. His joviality was absent.
The request came so suddenly that there was no time for George to communicate with Alice through his sister. He resolved, therefore, to apply to Alice himself, and he wrote to her, explaining matters.
The election had come upon him quite suddenly, as she knew, he said. He wanted two thousand pounds instantly, and felt little scruple in asking her for it, as he was aware that the old Squire would readily leave her a legacy for the repayment of this money.
Then he said a word or two about his long absence from Queen Anne Street. He had not visited because he had felt that she would prefer to be left free from the excitement of such interviews. But if he should he be triumphant in the election, he should go to her to share his triumph; or, should he fail, he would go to her to console him in his failure.
Within three days he heard from her, saying that the money would be at once placed to his credit. She sent him also her candid good wishes for success, but beyond this her letter said nothing. There was no word of love or welcome, no expression of a desire to see him. Vavasor, as he perceived this, felt a triumph in the possession of her money. She was ill-using him by her coldness, and there was comfort in revenge.
"It serves her right," he said to himself. "She should have married me at once, and then the money would have been mine."
When Mr. Tombe had communicated with John Grey about this increased demand - which Mr. Tombe regarded as going too far - Grey had telegraphed back that Vavasor's demand, if made through Mr. John Vavasor, was to be honoured to the extent of five thousand pounds. Mr. Tombe raised his eyebrows, and reflected that some men were very foolish. But he did as he was asked; and the money was paid to George Vavasor's account.
George told Kate nothing of this. Why should he? He wrote no letters to his sister, though she twice wrote to him offering her own money. He could not reply to these offers without telling her that money had been obtained from Alice, and so he left them unanswered.
In the meantime the battle went on gloriously. Mr. Travers, the other Liberal candidate, spent his money freely, and George cursed his own luck in having no rich backers.
"I don't call a man a Member when he's elected like that," said Mr. Scruby, comforting him. "He can't do what he likes with his vote. He ain't independent. Pay for it yourself, Mr. Vavasor, and then it's your own. That's what I say."
Mr. Grimes went to work strenuously in the opposite interest, telling all that he knew, and perhaps more, of Vavasor's circumstances. He was at work not only in his own neighbourhood, but among the men on the river bank. The entire Vavasorian army with its placards was entirely upset on more than one occasion, and was once driven into the river mud under the direction of Mr. Grimes. Vavasor himself was pelted with dirt from the sinking tide, and he became angry.
"Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby, "that's nothing! I've had a candidate covered with rotten eggs. The smell was something awful. But I brought him in."
And Mr. Scruby at last did as much for George. At the close of the poll, Vavasor's name stood at the head by a considerable majority.
"You've done it very cheap, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby. "Another thousand, or twelve hundred, will cover everything - say thirteen, perhaps. And when you've fought the battle once again, you'll have paid your footing, and the fellows will let you in almost for nothing after that."
A further thirteen hundred pounds was wanted at once, and then the whole thing was to be repeated in six months' time! This was not a comfort. But, nevertheless, it was a triumph which George Vavasor was man enough to enjoy. It would be something to have sat in the House of Commons, even if only for half a session.

Chapter 44: The Election for the Chelsea Districts


We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London during this summer, so that the reader may understand Mr. Grey's position when he reached Lucerne. He had undergone another quarrel with George Vavasor, and something of the circumstances of that quarrel must be told.
It has been already said that George Vavasor lost his election for the Chelsea Districts, after all the money which he had spent,--money which he had been so ill able to spend, and on which he had laid his hands in a manner so disreputable! He had received two thousand pounds from the bills which Alice had executed on his behalf,--or rather, had received the full value of three out of the four bills, and a part of the value of the fourth, on which he had been driven to raise what immediate money he had wanted by means of a Jew bill-discounter. One thousand pounds he had paid over at once into the hands of Mr. Scruby, his Parliamentary election agent, towards the expenses of his election; and when the day of polling arrived had exactly in his hands the sum of five hundred pounds. Where he was to get more when this was gone he did not know. If he were successful,--if the enlightened constituents of the Chelsea Districts, contented with his efforts on behalf of the River Bank, should again send him to Parliament, he thought that he might still carry on the war. A sum of ready money he would have in hand; and, as to his debts, he would be grandly indifferent to any consideration of them. Then there might be pickings in the way of a Member of Parliament of his calibre. Companies,--mercantile companies,--would be glad to have him as a director, paying him a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour's attendance. Railways in want of vice-chairmen might bid for his services; and in the City he might turn that "M.P." which belonged to him to good account in various ways. With such a knowledge of the City world as he possessed, he thought that he could pick up a living in London, if only he could retain his seat in Parliament.
But what was he to do if he could not retain it? No sooner had Mr. Scruby got the thousand pounds into his clutches than he pressed for still more money. George Vavasor, with some show of justice on his side, pointed out to this all-devouring agent that the sum demanded had already been paid. This Mr. Scruby admitted, declaring that he was quite prepared to go on without any further immediate remittance, although by doing so might subject himself to considerable risk. But another five hundred pounds, paid at once, would add greatly to the safety of the seat; whereas eight hundred judiciously thrown in at the present moment would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasor swore to himself that he would not part with another shilling. Never had he felt such love for money as he did for that five hundred pounds which he now held in his pocket. "It's no use," he said to Mr. Scruby. "I have done what you asked, and would have done more had you asked for more at that time. As it is, I cannot make another payment before the election." Mr. Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and said that he would do his best. But George Vavasor soon knew that the man was not doing his best,--that the man had, in truth, abandoned his cause. The landlord of the "Handsome Man" jeered him when he went there canvassing. "Laws, Mr. Vavasor!" said the landlord of the "Handsome Man," "you're not at all the fellow for us chaps along the river,--you ain't. You're afraid to come down with the stumpy,--that's what you are." George put his hand upon his purse, and acknowledged to himself that he had been afraid to come down with the stumpy.
For the last five days of the affair George Vavasor knew that his chance was gone. Mr. Scruby's face, manner, and words, told the result of the election as plainly as any subsequent figures could do. He would be absent when Vavasor called, or the clerk would say that he was absent. He would answer in very few words, constantly shrugging his shoulders. He would even go away and leave the anxious candidate while he was in the middle of some discussion as to his plans. It was easy to see that Mr. Scruby no longer regarded him as a successful man, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr. Scruby had been.
George Vavasor was rejected, but he still had his five hundred pounds in his pocket. Of course he was subject to that mortification which a man feels when he reflects that some little additional outlay would have secured his object. Whether it might have been so, or not, who can say? But there he was, with the gateway between the lamps barred against him, ex-Member of Parliament for the Chelsea Districts, with five hundred pounds in his pocket, and little or nothing else that he could call his own. What was he to do with himself?
After trying to make himself heard upon the hustings when he was rejected, and pledging himself to stand again at the next election, he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and endeavoured to consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost his inheritance. He had abandoned one profession after another, and was now beyond the pale of another chance in that direction. His ambition had betrayed him, and there were no longer possible to him any hopes of political activity. He had estranged from himself every friend that he had ever possessed. He had driven from him with violence the devotion even of his sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intended to marry of her money, and had so insulted her that no feeling of amity between them was any longer possible. He had nothing now but himself and that five hundred pounds, which he still held in his pocket. What should he do with himself and his money? He thought over it all with outer calmness for awhile, as he sat there in his arm-chair.
From the moment in which he had first become convinced that the election would go against him, and that he was therefore ruined on all sides, he had resolved that he would be calm amidst his ruin. Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing at his own position. Mr. Bott's day of rejection had come before his own, and he had written to Mr. Bott a drolling note of consolation and mock sympathy. He had shaken hands with Mr. Scruby, and had poked his fun at the agent, bidding him be sure to send in his little bill soon. To all who accosted him, he replied in a subrisive tone; and he bantered Calder Jones, whose seat was quite sure, till Calder Jones began to have fears that were quite unnecessary. And now, as he sat himself down, intending to come to some final decision as to what he would do, he maintained the same calmness. He smiled in the same way, though there was no one there to see the smile. He laughed even audibly once or twice, as he vainly endeavoured to persuade himself that he was able to regard the world and all that belonged to it as a bubble.
There came to him a moment in which he laughed out very audibly. "Ha! ha!" he shouted, rising up from his chair, and he walked about the room, holding a large paper-knife in his hand. "Ha! ha!" Then he threw the knife away from him, and thrusting his hands into his trousers-pockets, laughed again--"Ha! ha!" He stood still in the centre of the room, and the laughter was very plainly visible on his face, had there been anybody there to see it.
But suddenly there was a change upon his face, as he stood there all alone, and his eyes became fierce, and the cicatrice that marred his countenance grew to be red and ghastly, and he grinned with his teeth, and he clenched his fists as he still held them within his pockets. "Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and for ever!" He had broken down in his calmness, when he thought of that old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at his death. "May all the evils which the dead can feel cling to him for ever and ever!" His laughter was all gone, and his assumed tranquillity had deserted him. Walking across the room, he struck his foot against a chair; upon this, he took the chair in his hands, and threw it across the room. But he hardly arrested the torrent of his maledictions as he did so. What good was it that he should lie to himself by that mock tranquillity, or that false laughter? He lied to himself no longer, but uttered a song of despair that was true enough. What should he do? Where should he go? From what fountain should he attempt to draw such small draughts of the water of comfort as might support him at the present moment? Unless a man have some such fountain to which he can turn, the burden of life cannot be borne. For the moment, Vavasor tried to find such fountain in a bottle of brandy which stood near him. He half filled a tumbler, and then, dashing some water on it, swallowed it greedily. "By ----!" he said, "I believe it is the best thing a man can do."
But where was he to go? to whom was he to turn himself? He went to a high desk which stood in one corner of the room, and unlocking it, took out a revolving pistol, and for a while carried it about with him in his hand. He turned it up, and looked at it, and tried the lock, and snapped it without caps, to see that the barrel went round fairly. "It's a beggarly thing to do," he said, and then he turned the pistol down again; "and if I do do it, I'll use it first for another purpose." Then he poured out for himself more brandy-and-water, and having drunk it, he threw himself upon the sofa, and seemed to sleep.
But he did not sleep, and by-and-by there came a slight single knock at the door, which he instantly answered. But he did not answer it in the usual way by bidding the comer to come in. "Who's there?" he said. Then the comer attempted to enter, turning the handle of the door. But the door had been locked, and the key was on Vavasor's side. "Who's there?" he asked again, speaking out loudly, but in an angry voice. "It is I," said a woman's voice. "D----ation!" said George Vavasor.
The woman heard him, but she made no sign of having heard him. She simply remained standing where she was till something further should be done within. She knew the man well, and knew that she must bide his time. She was very patient,--and for the time was meek, though it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor, when he had heard her voice, and knew who was there, had again thrown himself on the sofa. There flashed across his mind another thought or two as to his future career,--another idea about the pistol, which still lay upon the table. Why should he let the intruder in, and undergo the nuisance of a disagreeable interview, if the end of all things might come in time to save him from such trouble? There he lay for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard again. He jumped upon his feet, and his eyes were full of fire. He knew that it was useless to bid her go and leave him. She would sit there, if it were through the whole night. Should he open the door and strangle her, and pass out over her with the pistol in his hand, so that he might make that other reckoning which he desired to accomplish, and then never come back any more?
He took a turn through the room, and then walked gently up to the door, and undid the lock. He did not open the door, nor did he bid his visitor enter, but having made the way easy for her if she chose to come in, he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again. As he did so, he passed his hand across the table so as to bring the pistol near to himself at the place where he would be lying. She paused a moment after she had heard the sound of the key, and then she made her way into the room. He did not at first speak to her. She closed the door very gently, and then, looking around, came up to the foot of the sofa. She paused a moment, waiting for him to address her; but as he said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she was the first to speak. "George," she said, "what am I to do?"
She was a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed poorly, in old garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at feminine prettiness. There were flowers in the bonnet on her head, though the bonnet had that unmistakable look of age which is quite as distressing to bonnets as it is to women, and the flowers themselves were battered and faded. She had long black ringlets on each cheek, hanging down much below her face, and brought forward so as to hide in some degree the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness, but now they left on those who looked at her cursorily no special impression as to their colour. They had been blue,--that dark violet blue, which is so rare, but is sometimes so lovely. Her forehead was narrow, her mouth was small, and her lips were thin; but her nose was perfect in its shape, and, by the delicacy of its modelling, had given a peculiar grace to her face in the days when things had gone well with her, when her cheeks had been full with youth and good living, and had been dimpled by the softness of love and mirth. There were no dimples there now, and all the softness which still remained was that softness which sorrow and continual melancholy give to suffering women. On her shoulders she wore a light shawl, which was fastened to her bosom with a large clasp brooch. Her faded dress was supported by a wide crinoline, but the under garment had lost all the grace of its ancient shape, and now told that woman's tale of poverty and taste for dress which is to be read in the outward garb of so many of Eve's daughters. The whole story was told so that those who ran might read it. When she had left her home this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that something of the charm of apparel might be left to her; but she had known of her own failure at every twist that she had given to her gown, and at every jerk with which she had settled her shawl. She had despaired at every push she had given to her old flowers, vainly striving to bring them back to their old forms; but still she had persevered. With long tedious care she had mended the old gloves which would hardly hold her fingers. She had carefully hidden the rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a separate grief to her that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists;--and yet she knew that no cuffs could have availed her anything. Nothing could avail her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come forth anxiously, and would have waited there throughout the whole night had access to his room been debarred to her. "George," she said, standing at the bottom of the sofa, "what am I to do?"
As he lay there with his face turned towards her, the windows were at her back, and he could see her very plainly. He saw and appreciated the little struggles she had made to create by her appearance some reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel, the price of which would now have been important to him. He saw it all, and lay there for a while, silently reading it.
"Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."
"I don't want you to stand there," he said.
"That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to stand here. I know you don't want to see me ever again."
"Never."
"I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"
"That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink, and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all."
"It was only for your sake,--because you liked it."
"Well;--I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all my other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you. What good do you do yourself by coming here to annoy me? Have I not told you over and over again that you were never to look for me here? Is it likely that I should give you money now, simply because you have disobeyed me!"
"Where else was I to find you?"
"Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. I shall give you nothing;--not a penny. You know very well that we've had all that out before. When I put you into business I told you that we were to see no more of each other."
"Business!" she said. "I never could make enough out of the shop to feed a bird."
"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to take the place."
"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my other home away from me."
"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you;--and more than most men would have done, when all things are considered." Then he got up from the sofa, and stood himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the fireplace. "At any rate, you may be sure of this, Jane;--that I shall do nothing more. You have come here to torment me, but you shall get nothing by it."
"I have come here because I am starving."
"I have nothing for you. Now go;" and he pointed to the door. Nevertheless, for more than three years of his life this woman had been his closest companion, his nearest friend, the being with whom he was most familiar. He had loved her according to his fashion of loving, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he said repeating the word very angrily. "Do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for you."
"Will you give me a sovereign?"
"No;--I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to me here, and I will not pay for you coming."
"Then I will not go;" and the woman sat down upon a chair at the foot of the table. "I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. You may put me out of the room if you can, but I will lie at the door of the stairs. And if you get me out of the house, I will sit upon the door-step."
"If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you."
"Let them. It has come to that with me, that I care for nothing. Out of this I will not go till you give me money--unless I am put out."
And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending her gloves, and darning her little fragments of finery! He stood looking at her, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets,--looking at her and thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence. If he even quite resolved to take that little final journey of which we have spoken, with the pistol in his hand, why should he not go and leave her there? Or, for the matter of that, why should he not make her his heir to all remainder of his wealth? What he still had left was sufficient to place her in a seventh heaven of the earth. He cared but little for her, and was at this moment angry with her; but there was no one for whom he cared more, and no friend with whom he was less angry. But then his mind was not quite made up as to that final journey. Therefore he desired to rid himself and his room of the nuisance of her presence.
"Jane," he said, looking at her again with that assumed tranquillity of which I have spoken, "you talk of starving and of being ruined,--"
"I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world."
"Perhaps it may be a comfort to you in your troubles to know that I am, at any rate, as badly off as you are? I won't say that I am starving, because I could get food to eat at this moment if I wanted it; but I am utterly ruined. My property,--what should have been mine,--has been left away from me. I have lost the trumpery seat in Parliament for which I have paid so much. All my relations have turned their backs upon me--"
"Are you not going to be married?" she said, rising quickly from her chair and coming close to him.
"Married! No;--but I am going to blow my brains out. Look at that pistol, my girl. Of course you won't think that I am in earnest,--but I am."
She looked up into his face piteously. "Oh! George," she said, "you won't do that?"
[Illustration: "Oh! George," she said, "you won't do that?"]
"But I shall do that. There is nothing else left for me to do. You talk to me about starving. I tell you that I should have no objection to be starved, and so be put an end to in that way. It's not so bad as some other ways when it comes gradually. You and I, Jane, have not played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we've been beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd better go somewhere else and begin a new game."
"Go where?" said she.
"Ah!--that's just what I can't tell you."
"George," she said, "I'll go anywhere with you. If what you say is true,--if you're not going to be married, and will let me come to you, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I'm poorly looking now--"
"My girl, where I'm going, I shall not want any slave; and as for your looks--when you go there too,--they'll be of no matter, as far as I am able to judge."
"But, George, where are you going?"
"Wherever people do go when their brains are knocked out of them; or, rather, when they have knocked out their own brains,--if that makes any difference."
"George,"--she came up to him now, and took hold of him by the front of his coat, and for the moment he allowed her to do so,--"George, you frighten me. Do not do that. Say that you will not do that!"
"But I am just saying that I shall."
"Are you not afraid of God's anger? You and I have been very wicked."
"I have, my poor girl. I don't know much about your wickedness. I've been like Topsy;--indeed I am a kind of second Topsy myself. But what's the good of whimpering when it's over?"
"It isn't over; it isn't over,--at any rate for you."
"I wish I knew how I could begin again. But all this is nonsense, Jane, and you must go."
"You must tell me, first, that you are not going to--kill yourself."
"I don't suppose I shall do it to-night,--or, perhaps, not to-morrow. Very probably I may allow myself a week, so that your staying here can do no good. I merely wanted to make you understand that you are not the only person who has come to grief."
"And you are not going to be married?"
"No; I'm not going to be married, certainly."
"And I must go now?"
"Yes; I think you'd better go now." Then she rose and went, and he let her leave the room without giving her a shilling! His bantering tone, in speaking of his own position, had been successful. It had caused her to take herself off quietly. She knew enough of his usual manner to be aware that his threats of self destruction were probably unreal; but, nevertheless, what he had said had created some feeling in her heart which had induced her to yield to him, and go away in peace.

We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London during the summer, before Mr. Grey went to Lucerne. He had another quarrel with George Vavasor.
Vavasor lost his election for the Chelsea Districts despite all the money he had spent. Out of the bills which Alice had signed, he had paid one thousand pounds at once to Mr. Scruby, towards the expenses of his election; and when the polling day arrived he had in his hands five hundred pounds. Where he was to get more when this was gone, he did not know. If he were successful, then he would be grandly indifferent to any debts. There might be pickings in the way of a Member of Parliament of his calibre. Companies would be glad to have him as a director, paying a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour's attendance; and in the City he might turn that "M.P." to good account in various ways.
But what was he to do if he lost the election? No sooner had Mr. Scruby got the thousand pounds than he pressed for still more money, insisting that eight hundred would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasor swore to himself that he would not part with another shilling.
"It's no use," he said to Mr. Scruby. "I cannot make another payment before the election." Mr. Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and said that he would do his best. But George Vavasor soon knew that the man was not doing his best - that the man had, in truth, abandoned his cause. The landlord of the Handsome Man jeered when he went there canvassing, and Vavasor knew that his chance was gone. Mr. Scruby would be absent when he called. It was easy to see that Mr. Scruby no longer regarded him as a successful man, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr. Scruby had been.
George Vavasor was rejected, but he still had his five hundred pounds in his pocket, if little or nothing else that he could call his own. What was he to do with himself?
After pledging to stand again at the next election, he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and tried to consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost his inheritance. He had abandoned one profession after another. His ambition had betrayed him, and he had no more hopes of politics. He had estranged from himself every friend that he possessed. He had driven from him with violence even his devoted sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intended to marry, and had so insulted her that affection between them was impossible. He thought over it all with outer calmness, as he sat there in his arm-chair.
From the moment in which he had first realised that the election would go against him, he had resolved that he would be calm amidst his ruin. Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing at his own position. Mr. Bott's day of rejection had come before his own, and he had written Mr. Bott a droll note of consolation and mock sympathy. To all who accosted him, he replied in a bantering tone.
And now, as he sat down to consider his future, he smiled in the same way, though there was no one there to see the smile. He even jumped up and laughed audibly, as he tried to persuade himself that he regarded the world and all that belonged to it as a bubble.
But suddenly there was a change, and his eyes became fierce, and the scar that marred his face grew red and ghastly. He showed his teeth and clenched his fists within his pockets.
"Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and for ever!" He was thinking of that old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at his death. His assumed tranquillity deserted him. He kicked a chair; then he took the chair in his hands, and threw it across the room. What should he do? Where should he go? From where might he find comfort to support him?
Vavasor turned to a bottle of brandy which stood near, half filled a tumbler, and swallowed it greedily. "By --!" he said, "I believe it is the best thing a man can do."
Then he went to a high desk in one corner of the room, and unlocking it, took out a revolver. He turned it over, and tried the lock, and snapped it without caps, to see that the barrel went round fairly.
"It's a beggarly thing to do," he said, and put the pistol down again. "If I do it, I'll use it first for another purpose." Then he poured himself more brandy-and-water, and having drunk it, he threw himself upon the sofa, and seemed to sleep.
But he did not sleep, and by-and-by there came a slight knock at the door.
"Who's there?" he said. Then the door handle turned. But the door had been locked. "Who's there?" he asked again, in a loud, angry voice.
"It is I," said a woman's voice.
"D--ation!" said George Vavasor.
The woman heard him, but she simply remained standing where she was. She knew the man well, and knew that she must wait. She was very patient - and for the time was meek, though it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor, lying on the sofa, had another idea flash across his mind about the pistol. Why should he let the intruder in, and have a disagreeable interview, if the end of all things might save him from such trouble?
There he lay for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard again. He jumped to his feet, with his eyes full of fire. He knew that it was useless to bid her go. She would sit there all night. Should he open the door and strangle her, and go out with the pistol and never come back any more?
He walked gently up to the door, and undid the lock. Then he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again. As he did so, he passed his hand across the table to pull the pistol nearer.
The woman paused a moment, and then she made her way into the room. He did not speak. She closed the door very gently, and came up to the foot of the sofa. As he still said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she was the first to speak.
"George," she said, "what am I to do?"
She was a woman of about thirty, dressed poorly in old garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at prettiness. There were faded flowers in her bonnet. She had long black ringlets on each cheek, which to some degree hid the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness, and her face was delicate; and in the days when things had gone well with her, she had possessed a soft and mirthful grace. All the softness which remained was that softness which continual sadness gives to suffering women.
She wore a light shawl over her shabby dress. When she had left her home this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that some charm might be left to her; but she had known her own failure at every point. With long tedious care she had mended her old gloves. She had carefully hidden the rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a grief to her that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists; and yet she knew that cuffs could not have helped her. Nothing could help her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come forth anxiously.
"George," she said, "what am I to do?"
As he lay there, he saw and appreciated the little struggles she had made to create some reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel. He saw it all and lay there for a while, silently reading it.
"Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."
"I don't want you to stand there," he said.
"I know that. I know you don't want to see me ever again."
"Never."
"Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"
"I would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and drink, and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all."
"It was only for your sake - because you liked it."
"Well; I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all my other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you. What good do you do by coming here to annoy me? Have I not told you over and over again never to come here?"
"Where else was I to find you?"
"I don't want you to find me. I shall not give you a penny. When I put you into business I told you that we were to see no more of each other."
"Business!" she said. "I could never make enough out of the shop to feed a bird."
"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to it."
"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my home away from me."
"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you; and more than most men would have done." Then he got up from the sofa, and stood on the hearthrug. "At any rate, Jane, I shall do nothing more. You shall get nothing by coming here."
"I have come here because I am starving."
"I have nothing for you. Now go." He pointed to the door. For more than three years of his life this woman had been his closest companion and his nearest friend. He had loved her according to his fashion, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he repeated angrily, "or it will be the worse for you."
"Will you give me a sovereign?"
"I will give you nothing."
"Then I will not go." She down upon a chair. "I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. If you put me out of the room, I will lie at the top of the stairs. And if you put me out of the house, I will sit upon the door-step."
"If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you."
"Let them. I care nothing for that. I will not go till you give me money."
And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending her gloves, and darning her little fragments of finery! He stood looking at her, and thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence. If he quite resolved to take his final journey with the pistol's aid, why should he not go out and leave her here? Or, for that matter, why not give her the remainder of his wealth? What he still had left was enough to place her in a seventh heaven. He cared little for her, and was angry with her; but there was no one for whom he cared more, and no friend with whom he was less angry.
But his mind was not quite made up as to that final journey. So he wanted to get rid of her.
"Jane," he said, with that assumed tranquillity, "you talk of starving and of being ruined."
"I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world."
"I am as badly off as you are. I won't say that I am starving; but I am utterly ruined. My property - what should have been mine - has been left away from me. I have lost the trumpery seat in Parliament for which I paid so much. All my relations have turned their backs upon me-"
"Are you not going to be married?" she said.
"Married! No - but I am going to blow my brains out. Look at that pistol, my girl. I am in earnest."
"Oh! George, you won't do that?"
"There is nothing else left for me to do. You and I, Jane, have not played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we've been beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd better go somewhere else and begin a new game."
"Go where?"
"Ah! - I can't tell you."
"George," she said, "I'll go anywhere with you. If you're not going to be married, and will let me come to you, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I'm poorly looking now-"
"My girl, where I'm going, I shall not want any slave."
"But, George, where are you going?"
"Wherever people go when they have knocked out their own brains."
"George," - she came up to him, and took hold of the front of his coat - "George, say that you will not do that!"
"But I am saying that I shall."
"Are you not afraid of God's anger? You and I have been very wicked."
"I have, my poor girl. I don't know much about your wickedness. But what's the good of whimpering when it's over?"
"It isn't over; at any rate for you."
"I wish I knew how I could begin again. But all this is nonsense, Jane, and you must go."
"You must tell me, first, that you are not going to kill yourself."
"I don't suppose I shall do it tonight. I may allow myself a week, so your staying here can do no good."
"And you are not going to be married?"
"No."
"And I must go now?"
"Yes."
Then she rose and went. His bantering manner had worked. She felt that his threats of self-destruction were probably unreal; and she was persuaded to go away in peace.

Chapter 71: Showing How George Vavasor Received a Visit


As they came in at the billiard-room door, Mr. Palliser was there to meet them. "You must be very cold," he said to Glencora, who entered first. "No, indeed," said Glencora;--but her teeth were chattering, and her whole appearance gave the lie to her words. "Jeffrey," said Mr. Palliser, turning to his cousin, "I am angry with you. You, at least, should have known better than to have allowed her to remain so long." Then Mr. Palliser turned away, and walked his wife off, taking no notice whatsoever of Miss Vavasor.
Alice felt the slight, and understood it all. He had told her plainly enough, though not in words, that he had trusted his wife with her, and that she had betrayed the trust. She might have brought Glencora in within five or six minutes, instead of allowing her to remain out there in the freezing night air for nearly three-quarters of an hour. That was the accusation which Mr. Palliser made against her, and he made it with the utmost severity. He asked no question of her whether she were cold. He spoke no word to her, nor did he even look at her. She might get herself away to her bedroom as she pleased. Alice understood all this completely, and though she knew that she had not deserved such severity, she was not inclined to resent it. There was so much in Mr. Palliser's position that was to be pitied, that Alice could not find it in her heart to be angry with him.
"He is provoked with us, now," said Jeffrey Palliser, standing with her for a moment in the billiard-room, as he handed her a candle.
"He is afraid that she will have caught cold."
"Yes; and he thinks it wrong that she should remain out at night so long. You can easily understand, Miss Vavasor, that he has not much sympathy for romance."
"I dare say he is right," said Alice, not exactly knowing what to say, and not being able to forget what had been said about herself and Jeffrey Palliser when they first left the house. "Romance usually means nonsense, I believe."
"That is not Glencora's doctrine."
"No; but she is younger than I am. My feet are very cold, Mr. Palliser, and I think I will go up to my room."
"Good night," said Jeffrey, offering her his hand. "I think it so hard that you should have incurred his displeasure."
"It will not hurt me," said Alice, smiling.
"No;--but he does not forget."
"Even that will not hurt me. Good night, Mr. Palliser."
"As it is the last night, may I say good night, Alice? I shall be away to-morrow before you are up."
He still held her hand; but it had not been in his for half a minute, and she had thought nothing of that, nor did she draw it away even now suddenly. "No," said she, "Glencora was very wrong there,--doing an injury without meaning it to both of us. There can be no possible reason why you should call me otherwise than is customary."
"Can there never be a reason?"
"No, Mr. Palliser. Good night;--and if I am not to see you to-morrow morning, good-bye."
"You will certainly not see me to-morrow morning."
"Good-bye. Had it not been for this folly of Glencora's, our acquaintance would have been very pleasant."
"To me it has been very pleasant. Good night."
Then she left him, and went up alone to her own room. Whether or no other guests were still left in the drawing-room she did not know; but she had seen that Mr. Palliser took his wife up-stairs, and therefore she considered herself right in presuming that the party was broken up for the night. Mr. Palliser,--Plantagenet Palliser, according to all rules of courtesy should have said a word to her as he went; but, as I have said before, Alice was disposed to overlook his want of civility on this occasion. So she went up alone to her room, and was very glad to find herself able to get close to a good fire. She was, in truth, very cold--cold to her bones, in spite of what Lady Glencora had said on behalf of the moonlight. They two had been standing all but still during the greater part of the time that they had been talking, and Alice, as she sat herself down, found that her feet were numbed with the damp that had penetrated through her boots. Certainly Mr. Palliser had reason to be angry that his wife should have remained out in the night air so long,--though perhaps not with Alice.
And then she began to think of what had been told her; and to try to think of what, under such circumstances, it behoved her to do. She could not doubt that Lady Glencora had intended to declare that, if opportunity offered itself, she would leave her husband, and put herself under the protection of Mr. Fitzgerald; and Alice, moreover, had become painfully conscious that the poor deluded unreasoning creature had taught herself to think that she might excuse herself for this sin to her own conscience by the fact that she was childless, and that she might thus give to the man who had married her an opportunity of seeking another wife who might give him an heir. Alice well knew how insufficient such an excuse would be even to the wretched woman who had framed it for herself. But still it would operate,--manifestly had already operated, on her mind, teaching her to hope that good might come out of evil. Alice, who was perfectly clearsighted as regarded her cousin, however much impaired her vision might have been with reference to herself, saw nothing but absolute ruin, ruin of the worst and most intolerable description, in the plan which Lady Glencora seemed to have formed. To her it was black in the depths of hell; and she knew that to Glencora also it was black. "I loathe myself," Glencora had said, "and the thing that I am thinking of."
What was Alice to do under these circumstances? Mr. Palliser, she was aware, had quarrelled with her; for in his silent way he had first shown that he had trusted her as his wife's friend; and then, on this evening, he had shown that he had ceased to trust her. But she cared little for this. If she told him that she wished to speak to him, he would listen, let his opinion of her be what it might; and having listened he would surely act in some way that would serve to save his wife. What Mr. Palliser might think of herself, Alice cared but little.
But then there came to her an idea that was in every respect feminine,--that in such a matter she had no right to betray her friend. When one woman tells the story of her love to another woman, the confidant always feels that she will be a traitor if she reveals the secret. Had Lady Glencora made Alice believe that she meditated murder, or robbery, Alice would have had no difficulty in telling the tale, and thus preventing the crime. But now she hesitated, feeling that she would disgrace herself by betraying her friend. And, after all, was it not more than probable that Glencora had no intention of carrying out a threat the very thought of which must be terrible to herself?
As she was thinking of all this, sitting in her dressing-gown close over the fire, there came a loud knock at the door, which, as she had turned the key, she was forced to answer in person. She opened the door, and there was Iphigenia Palliser, Jeffrey's cousin, and Mr. Palliser's cousin. "Miss Vavasor," she said, "I know that I am taking a great liberty, but may I come into your room for a few minutes? I so much wish to speak to you!" Alice of course bade her enter, and placed a chair for her by the fire.
Alice Vavasor had made very little intimacy with either of the two Miss Pallisers. It had seemed to herself as though there had been two parties in the house, and that she had belonged to the one which was headed by the wife, whereas the Miss Pallisers had been naturally attached to that of the husband. These ladies, as she had already seen, almost idolized their cousin; and though Plantagenet Palliser had till lately treated Alice with the greatest personal courtesy, there had been no intimacy of friendship between them, and consequently none between her and his special adherents. Nor was either of these ladies prone to sudden friendship with such a one as Alice Vavasor. A sudden friendship, with a snuffy president of a foreign learned society, with some personally unknown lady employed on female emigration, was very much in their way. But Alice had not shown herself to be useful or learned, and her special intimacy with Lady Glencora had marked her out as in some sort separated from them and their ways.
"I know that I am intruding," said Miss Palliser, as though she were almost afraid of Alice.
"Oh dear, no," said Alice. "If I can do anything for you I shall be very happy."
"You are going to-morrow, and if I did not speak to you now I should have no other opportunity. Glencora seems to be very much attached to you, and we all thought it so good a thing that she should have such a friend."
"I hope you have not all changed your minds," said Alice, with a faint smile, thinking as she spoke that the "all" must have been specially intended to include the master of the house.
"Oh, no;--by no means. I did not mean that. My cousin, Mr. Palliser, I mean, liked you so much when you came."
"And he does not like me quite so much now, because I went out in the moonlight with his wife. Isn't that it?"
"Well;--no, Miss Vavasor. I had not intended to mention that at all. I had not indeed. I have seen him certainly since you came in,--just for a minute, and he is vexed. But it is not about that that I would speak to you."
"I saw plainly enough that he was angry with me."
"He thought you would have brought her in earlier."
"And why should he think that I can manage his wife? She was the mistress out there as she is in here. Mr. Palliser has been unreasonable. Not that it signifies."
"I don't think he has been unreasonable; I don't, indeed, Miss Vavasor. He has certainly been vexed. Sometimes he has much to vex him. You see, Glencora is very young."
Mr. Bott also had declared that Lady Glencora was very young. It was probable, therefore, that that special phrase had been used in some discussion among Mr. Palliser's party as to Glencora's foibles. So thought Alice as the remembrance of the word came upon her.
"She is not younger than when Mr. Palliser married her," Alice said.
"You mean that if a man marries a young wife he must put up with the trouble. That is a matter of course. But their ages, in truth, are very suitable. My cousin himself is not yet thirty. When I say that Glencora is young--"
"You mean that she is younger in spirit, and perhaps in conduct, than he had expected to find her."
"But you are not to suppose that he complains, Miss Vavasor. He is much too proud for that."
"I should hope so," said Alice, thinking of Mr. Bott.
"I hardly know how to explain to you what I wish to say, or how far I may be justified in supposing that you will believe me to be acting solely on Glencora's behalf. I think you have some influence with her;--and I know no one else that has any."
"My friendship with her is not of very long date, Miss Palliser."
"I know it, but still there is the fact. Am I not right in supposing--"
"In supposing what?"
"In supposing that you had heard the name of Mr. Fitzgerald as connected with Glencora's before her marriage with my cousin?"
Alice paused a moment before she answered.
"Yes, I had," she then said.
"And I think you were agreed, with her other relations, that such a marriage would have been very dreadful."
"I never spoke of the matter in the presence of any relatives of Glencora's. You must understand, Miss Palliser, that though I am her far-away cousin, I do not even know her nearest connections. I never saw Lady Midlothian till she came here the other day."
"But you advised her to abandon Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Never!"
"I know she was much with you, just at that time."
"I used to see her, certainly."
Then there was a pause, and Miss Palliser, in truth, scarcely knew how to go on. There had been a hardness about Alice which her visitor had not expected,--an unwillingness to speak or even to listen, which made Miss Palliser almost wish that she were out of the room. She had, however, mentioned Burgo Fitzgerald's name, and out of the room now she could not go without explaining why she had done so. But at this point Alice came suddenly to her assistance.
"Just then she was often with me," said Alice, continuing her reply; "and there was much talk between us about Mr. Fitzgerald. What was my advice then can be of little matter; but in this we shall be both agreed, Miss Palliser, that Glencora now should certainly not be called upon to be in his company."
"She has told you, then?"
"Yes;--she has told me."
"That he is to be at Lady Monk's?"
"She has told me that Mr. Palliser expects her to meet him at the place to which they are going when they leave the Duke's, and that she thinks it hard that she should be subjected to such a trial."
"It should be no trial, Miss Vavasor."
"How can it be otherwise? Come, Miss Palliser; if you are her friend, be fair to her."
"I am her friend;--but I am, above everything, my cousin's friend. He has told me that she has complained of having to meet this man. He declares that it should be nothing to her, and that the fear is an idle folly. It should be nothing to her, but still the fear may not be idle. Is there any reason,--any real reason,--why she should not go? Miss Vavasor, I conjure you to tell me,--even though in doing so you must cast so deep reproach upon her name! Anything will be better than utter disgrace and sin!"
"I conceive that I cast no reproach upon her in saying that there is great reason why she should not go to Monkshade."
"You think there is absolute grounds for interference? I must tell him, you know, openly what he would have to fear."
"I think,--nay, Miss Palliser, I know,--that there is ample reason why you should save her from being taken to Monkshade, if you have the power to do so."
"I can only do it, or attempt to do it, by telling him just what you tell me."
"Then tell him. You must have thought of that, I suppose, before you came to me."
"Yes;--yes, Miss Vavasor. I had thought of it. No doubt I had thought of it. But I had believed all through that you would assure me that there was no danger. I believed that you would have said that she was innocent."
"And she is innocent," said Alice, rising from her chair, as though she might thus give emphasis to words which she hardly dared to speak above a whisper. "She is innocent. Who accuses her of guilt? You ask me a question on his behalf--"
"On hers--and on his, Miss Vavasor."
"A question which I feel myself bound to answer truly,--to answer with reference to the welfare of them both; but I will not have it said that I accuse her. She had been attached to Mr. Fitzgerald when your cousin married her. He knew that this had been the case. She told him the whole truth. In a worldly point of view her marriage with Mr. Fitzgerald would probably have been very imprudent."
"It would have been utterly ruinous."
"Perhaps so; I say nothing about that. But as it turned out, she gave up her own wishes and married your cousin."
"I don't know about her own wishes, Miss Vavasor."
"It is what she did. She would have married Mr. Fitzgerald, had she not been hindered by the advice of those around her. It cannot be supposed that she has forgotten him in so short a time. There can be no guilt in her remembrance."
"There is guilt in loving any other than her husband."
"Then, Miss Palliser, it was her marriage that was guilty, and not her love. But all that is done and past. It should be your cousin's object to teach her to forget Mr. Fitzgerald, and he will not do that by taking her to a house where that gentleman is staying."
"She has said so much to you herself?"
"I do not know that I need declare to you what she has said herself. You have asked me a question, and I have answered it, and I am thankful to you for having asked it. What object can either of us have but to assist her in her position?"
"And to save him from dishonour. I had so hoped that this was simply a childish dread on her part."
"It is not so. It is no childish dread. If you have the power to prevent her going to Lady Monk's, I implore you to use it. Indeed, I will ask you to promise me that you will do so."
"After what you have said, I have no alternative."
"Exactly. There is no alternative. Either for his sake or for hers, there is none."
Thereupon Miss Palliser got up, and wishing her companion good night, took her departure. Throughout the interview there had been no cordiality of feeling between them. There was no pretence of friendship, even as they were parting. They acknowledged that their objects were different. That of Alice was to save Lady Glencora from ruin. That of Miss Palliser was to save her cousin from disgrace,--with perhaps some further honest desire to prevent sorrow and sin. One loved Lady Glencora, and the other clearly did not love her. But, nevertheless, Alice felt that Miss Palliser, in coming to her, had acted well, and that to herself this coming had afforded immense relief. Some step would now be taken to prevent that meeting which she had so deprecated, and it would be taken without any great violation of confidence on her part. She had said nothing as to which Lady Glencora could feel herself aggrieved.
On the next morning she was down in the breakfast-room soon after nine, and had not been in the room many minutes before Mr. Palliser entered. "The carriage is ordered for you at a quarter before ten," he said, "and I have come down to give you your breakfast." There was a smile on his face as he spoke, and Alice could see that he intended to make himself pleasant.
"Will you allow me to give you yours instead?" said she. But as it happened, no giving on either side was needed, as Alice's breakfast was brought to her separately.
"Glencora bids me say that she will be down immediately," said Mr. Palliser.
Alice then made some inquiry with reference to the effects of last night's imprudence, which received only a half-pronounced reply. Mr. Palliser was willing to be gracious, but did not intend to be understood as having forgiven the offence. The Miss Pallisers then came in together, and after them Mr. Bott, closely followed by Mrs. Marsham, and all of them made inquiries after Lady Glencora, as though it was to be supposed that she might probably be in a perilous state after what she had undergone on the previous evening. Mr. Bott was particularly anxious. "The frost was so uncommonly severe," said he, "that any delicate person like Lady Glencora must have suffered in remaining out so long."
The insinuation that Alice was not a delicate person and that, as regarded her, the severity of the frost was of no moment, was very open, and was duly appreciated. Mr. Bott was aware that his great patron had in some sort changed his opinion about Miss Vavasor, and he was of course disposed to change his own. A fortnight since Alice might have been as delicate as she pleased in Mr. Bott's estimation.
"I hope you do not consider Lady Glencora delicate," said Alice to Mr. Palliser.
"She is not robust," said the husband.
"By no means," said Mrs. Marsham.
"Indeed, no," said Mr. Bott.
Alice knew that she was being accused of being robust herself; but she bore it in silence. Ploughboys and milkmaids are robust, and the accusation was a heavy one. Alice, however, thought that she would not have minded it, if she could have allowed herself to reply; but this at the moment of her going away she could not do.
"I think she is as strong as the rest of us," said Iphigenia Palliser, who felt that after last night she owed something to Miss Vavasor.
"As some of us," said Mr. Bott, determined to persevere in his accusation.
At this moment Lady Glencora entered, and encountered the eager inquiries of her two duennas. These, however, she quickly put aside, and made her way up to Alice. "The last morning has come, then," she said.
"Yes, indeed," said Alice. "Mr. Palliser must have thought that I was never going."
"On the other hand," said he, "I have felt much obliged to you for staying." But he said it coldly; and Alice began to wish that she had never seen Matching Priory.
"Obliged!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "I can't tell you how much obliged I am. Oh, Alice, I wish you were going to stay with us!"
"We are leaving this in a week's time," said Mr. Palliser.
"Of course we are," said Lady Glencora. "With all my heart I wish we were not. Dear Alice! I suppose we shall not meet till we are all in town."
"You will let me know when you come up," said Alice.
"I will send to you instantly; and, Alice, I will write to you from Gatherum,--or from Monkshade."
Alice could not help looking around and catching Miss Palliser's eye. Miss Palliser was standing with her foot on the fender, but was so placed that she could see Alice. She made a slight sign with her head, as much as to say that Lady Glencora must have no opportunity of writing from the latter place; but she said nothing.
Then the carriage was announced, and Mr. Palliser took Alice out on his arm. "Don't come to the door, Glencora," he said. "I especially wish you not to do so." The two cousins then kissed each other, and Alice went away to the carriage.
"Good-bye, Miss Vavasor," said Mr. Palliser; but he expressed no wish that he might see her again as his guest at Matching Priory.
Alice, as she was driven in solitary grandeur to the railway station, could not but wish that she had never gone there.

As they came in, Mr. Palliser was there to meet them.
"You must be very cold," he said to Glencora.
"No, indeed," said Glencora; but her teeth were chattering.
"Jeffrey," said Mr. Palliser, turning to his cousin, "I am angry with you. You should have known better than to have allowed her to remain so long." Then Mr. Palliser led his wife off, taking no notice whatsoever of Miss Vavasor.
Alice felt the slight, and understood: it told her that he had trusted his wife with her, and that she had betrayed the trust. She might have brought Glencora in within five or six minutes, instead of allowing her to remain out there in the freezing night air for nearly three-quarters of an hour. Therefore Mr. Palliser did not ask whether she were cold. He spoke no word to her, nor did he even look at her. Although Alice knew that she had not deserved such severity, she did not resent it. There was so much in Mr. Palliser's position to be pitied, that Alice could not find it in her heart to be angry with him.
"He is provoked with us, now," said Jeffrey Palliser, handing her a candle.
"He is afraid that she will have caught cold."
"Yes. You can easily understand, Miss Vavasor, that he has not much sympathy for romance."
"I dare say he is right," said Alice, not exactly knowing what to say. "Romance usually means nonsense, I believe."
"That is not Glencora's doctrine."
"No; but she is younger than I am. My feet are very cold, Mr. Palliser, and I think I will go up to my room."
"Good night," said Jeffrey, offering her his hand. "I think it hard that you should have incurred his displeasure."
"It will not hurt me," said Alice, smiling.
"No; but he does not forget."
"Even that will not hurt me. Good night, Mr. Palliser."
"As it is the last night, may I say good night, Alice? I shall be away tomorrow before you are up."
He still held her hand; but she did not draw it away suddenly.
"No," said she, "Glencora was very wrong there. There can be no possible reason why you should call me other than Miss Vavasor."
"Can there never be a reason?"
"No, Mr. Palliser. Good night; and good-bye. Had it not been for this folly of Glencora's, our acquaintance would have been very pleasant."
"To me it has been very pleasant. Good night."
Then she left him, and went up alone to her own room, where she was very glad to get close to a good fire. She was, in truth, cold to her bones, and her feet were numbed with the damp. Certainly Mr. Palliser had reason to be angry that his wife should have remained out in the night air so long.
And then she began to think of what had been told her; and to try to think of what she ought to do. She could not doubt that Lady Glencora had intended to declare that, if opportunity offered itself, she would leave her husband for Burgo Fitzgerald. Alice knew that the poor unreasoning creature had taught herself to think that she might excuse herself for this sin by the fact that she was childless, and that she might thus give her husband an chance to seek another wife to give him an heir. Alice, who was perfectly clear-sighted about her cousin, however impaired her vision might have been about herself, saw nothing but absolute ruin in Lady Glencora's plan. To her it was black as the depths of hell; and she knew that to Glencora also it was black.
"I loathe myself," Glencora had said, "and the thing that I am thinking of."
What was Alice to do? Mr. Palliser had quarrelled with her in his silent way. But if she told him that she wished to speak to him, he would listen; and then he would surely act in some way that would save his wife. What Mr. Palliser might think of herself, Alice cared little.
But then there came to her the feminine idea that she had no right to betray her friend. If Lady Glencora had told Alice that she meditated murder, or robbery, Alice would have had no difficulty in telling the tale. But now she hesitated. After all, was Glencora really intending to carry out a threat, the very thought of which must be terrible to herself?
As Alice was thinking of all this, sitting in her dressing-gown by the fire, there came a loud knock at the door. It was Iphigenia Palliser, Mr. Palliser's cousin.
"Miss Vavasor," she said, "I know that I am taking a great liberty, but may I come in for a few minutes? I so much wish to speak to you!" Alice of course bade her enter.
Alice Vavasor had formed very little intimacy with either of the two Miss Pallisers. It had seemed to her as though there had been two parties in the house, and that she had belonged to the one headed by the wife, whereas the Miss Pallisers had been naturally attached to that of the husband. Alice's friendship with Lady Glencora had marked her out as somehow separated from them.
"I know that I am intruding," said Miss Palliser, as though she were almost afraid of Alice.
"Oh dear, no," said Alice.
"You are going tomorrow, and if I did not speak to you now I should have no other opportunity. Glencora seems to be very much attached to you, and we all thought it so good a thing that she should have such a friend."
"I hope you have not changed your minds," said Alice, with a faint smile.
"Oh, no. I did not mean that. My cousin, Mr. Palliser, I mean, liked you so much when you came."
"And he does not like me quite so much now, because I went out in the moonlight with his wife. Isn't that it?"
"Well; no, Miss Vavasor. I had not intended to mention that. He was a little vexed, but it is not about that that I would speak to you."
"I saw plainly enough that he was angry with me."
"He thought you would have brought her in earlier."
"Why should he think that I can manage his wife? Mr. Palliser has been unreasonable. Not that it signifies."
"I don't think he has been unreasonable; I don't, indeed, Miss Vavasor. He has certainly been vexed. Sometimes he has much to vex him. You see, Glencora is very young."
Mr. Bott also had declared that Lady Glencora was very young. It was probable, therefore, that that special phrase had been used in some discussion among Mr. Palliser's party about Glencora's foibles.
"She is not younger than when Mr. Palliser married her," Alice said.
"You mean that if a man marries a young wife he must put up with the trouble. But when I say that Glencora is young-"
"You mean that she is younger in spirit, and perhaps in conduct, than he had expected to find her."
"But he does not complain, Miss Vavasor. He is much too proud for that."
"I should hope so," said Alice, thinking of Mr. Bott.
"I hardly know how to explain what I wish to say, or whether you will believe me to be acting solely on Glencora's behalf. I think you have some influence with her; and I know no one else that has any."
"My friendship with her is not of very long date, Miss Palliser."
"I know it, but still there is the fact. Am I not right in supposing - that you had heard the name of Mr. Fitzgerald connected with Glencora's before her marriage?"
Alice paused a moment. "Yes, I had," she said.
"And I think you were agreed, with her other relations, that such a marriage would have been very dreadful."
"I never spoke of the matter to any relatives of Glencora's. You must understand, Miss Palliser, that though I am her distant cousin, I do not even know her nearest relations. I never saw Lady Midlothian till she came here the other day."
"But you advised her to abandon Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Never!"
"I know she was much with you, just at that time."
"I used to see her, certainly."
Then there was a pause, and Miss Palliser, in truth, scarcely knew how to go on. There had been a hardness about Alice which her visitor had not expected. But at this point Alice came suddenly to her assistance.
"She was often with me," said Alice, "and there was much talk between us about Mr. Fitzgerald. What was my advice then can be of little matter; but in this we shall be both agreed, Miss Palliser, that Glencora now should certainly not be called upon to be in his company."
"She has told you, then, that he is to be at Lady Monk's?"
"She has told me that Mr. Palliser expects her to meet him, and that she thinks it hard that she should be subjected to such a trial."
"It should be no trial, Miss Vavasor."
"How can it be otherwise? Come, Miss Palliser; if you are her friend, be fair to her."
"I am her friend; but I am, above everything, my cousin's friend. He has told me that she has complained of having to meet this man. He declares that it should be nothing to her, and that the fear is an idle folly. Is there any real reason why she should not go? Miss Vavasor, please tell me - even if in doing so you must cast deep reproach upon her name! Anything will be better than utter disgrace and sin!"
"I cast no reproach upon her in saying that there is great reason why she should not go to Monkshade."
"You think there is absolute grounds for interference? I must tell him, you know, openly."
"I think - nay, Miss Palliser, I know - that there is great reason why you should save her from being taken to Monkshade, if you can."
"I can only do it by telling him just what you tell me."
"Then tell him."
"Yes - yes, Miss Vavasor. But I believed that you would have said that she was innocent."
"And she is innocent," said Alice, rising from her chair. "She is innocent. Who accuses her of guilt? You ask me a question on his behalf-"
"On hers - and on his, Miss Vavasor."
"A question which I feel myself bound to answer truly; but I will not have it said that I accuse her. She had been attached to Mr. Fitzgerald when your cousin married her. He knew that this had been the case. She told him the whole truth. In a worldly point of view her marriage with Mr. Fitzgerald would probably have been very imprudent."
"It would have been utterly ruinous."
"Perhaps so. But as it turned out, she gave up her own wishes and married your cousin."
"I don't know about her own wishes, Miss Vavasor."
"She would have married Mr. Fitzgerald, had she not been hindered by the advice of those around her. It cannot be supposed that she has forgotten him in so short a time. There can be no guilt in her remembrance."
"There is guilt in loving any other than her husband."
"Then, Miss Palliser, it was her marriage that was guilty, and not her love. But all that is done and past. It should be your cousin's object to teach her to forget Mr. Fitzgerald, and he will not do that by taking her to a house where that gentleman is staying."
"She has said so much to you herself?"
"I do not need to tell you what she said. You have asked me a question, and I have answered it, and I am thankful to you for having asked it. What object can either of us have but to help her?"
"And to save him from dishonour. I had so hoped that this was simply a childish dread on her part."
"It is not so. It is no childish dread. If you have the power to prevent her going to Lady Monk's, I implore you to use it. Indeed, I will ask you to promise me that you will do so."
"After what you have said, I have no alternative."
"Exactly. There is no alternative. Either for his sake or for hers, there is none."
Thereupon Miss Palliser got up, and wishing her companion good night, she left the room. There was no pretence of friendship, even as they were parting. They acknowledged that their objects were different. That of Alice was to save Lady Glencora from ruin. That of Miss Palliser was to save her cousin from disgrace. One loved Lady Glencora, and the other clearly did not.
Nevertheless, Alice felt that Miss Palliser, in coming to her, had acted well, and she felt immense relief. Some step would now be taken to prevent that meeting, and she had said nothing about which Lady Glencora could feel aggrieved.
On the next morning she was down in the breakfast-room soon after nine, and in a few minutes Mr. Palliser entered.
"The carriage is ordered for you at a quarter to ten," he said, "and I have come down to give you your breakfast." There was a smile on his face, and Alice could see that he intended to make himself pleasant. "Glencora bids me say that she will be down immediately."
Alice inquired about the effects of last night's imprudence, which received only a half-reply. Mr. Palliser was willing to be gracious, but did not intend to be understood as having forgiven the offence.
The Miss Pallisers then came in together, and Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham, and all of them inquired after Lady Glencora, as though she might be in a perilous state.
"The frost was so uncommonly severe," said Mr. Bott, "that any delicate person like Lady Glencora must have suffered in remaining out so long."
The insinuation that Alice was not a delicate person was very open, and was duly appreciated. Mr. Bott was aware that his great patron had changed his opinion about Miss Vavasor, and he was of course disposed to change his own.
"I hope you do not consider Lady Glencora delicate," said Alice to Mr. Palliser.
"She is not robust," said the husband.
"By no means," said Mrs. Marsham.
"Indeed, no," said Mr. Bott.
Alice knew that she was being accused of being robust herself; but she bore it in silence. Ploughboys and milkmaids are robust, and the accusation was a heavy one.
"I think she is as strong as the rest of us," said Iphigenia Palliser, who felt that after last night she owed something to Miss Vavasor.
"As some of us," said Mr. Bott, determined to persevere in his accusation.
At this moment Lady Glencora entered, and encountered eager inquiries. These, however, she quickly put aside, and made her way to Alice. "The last morning has come, then," she said.
"Yes, indeed," said Alice. "Mr. Palliser must have thought that I was never going."
"On the other hand," said he, "I have felt much obliged to you for staying." But he said it coldly.
"Obliged!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "I can't tell you how much obliged I am. Oh, Alice, I wish you were going to stay with us!"
"We are leaving in a week's time," said Mr. Palliser.
"Of course we are," said Lady Glencora. "With all my heart I wish we were not. Dear Alice! I suppose we shall not meet till we are all in town."
"You will let me know when you are there," said Alice.
"I will write to you instantly; and, Alice, I will write to you from Gatherum - or from Monkshade."
Alice could not help looking around and catching Miss Palliser's eye. Miss Palliser made a slight sign with her head; but she said nothing.
Then the carriage was announced, and Mr. Palliser took Alice to it. "Don't come to the door, Glencora," he said. The two cousins kissed each other, and Alice went.
"Good-bye, Miss Vavasor," said Mr. Palliser; but he expressed no wish that he might see her again as his guest at Matching. Alice, as she was driven away in solitary grandeur, could only wish that she had never gone there.