Kate Vavasor, in writing to her cousin Alice, felt some little difficulty in excusing herself for remaining in Norfolk with Mrs. Greenow. She had laughed at Mrs. Greenow before she went to Yarmouth, and had laughed at herself for going there. And in all her letters since, she had spoken of her aunt as a silly, vain, worldly woman, weeping crocodile tears, for an old husband whose death had released her from the tedium of his company, and spreading lures to catch new lovers. But yet she agreed to stay with her aunt, and remain with her in lodgings at Norwich for a month.
But Mrs. Greenow had about her something more than Kate had acknowledged when she first attempted to read her aunt's character. She was clever, and in her own way persuasive. She was very generous, and possessed a certain power of making herself pleasant to those around her. In asking Kate to stay with her she had so asked as to make it appear that Kate was to confer the favour. She had told her niece that she was all alone in the world. "I have money," she had said, with more appearance of true feeling than Kate had observed before. "I have money, but I have nothing else in the world. I have no home. Why should I not remain here in Norfolk, where I know a few people? If you'll say that you'll go anywhere else with me, I'll go to any place you'll name." Kate had believed this to be hardly true. She had felt sure that her aunt wished to remain in the neighbourhood of her seaside admirers; but, nevertheless, she had yielded, and at the end of October the two ladies, with Jeannette, settled themselves in comfortable lodgings within the precincts of the Close at Norwich.
Mr. Greenow at this time had been dead very nearly six months, but his widow made some mistakes in her dates and appeared to think that the interval had been longer. On the day of their arrival at Norwich it was evident that this error had confirmed itself in her mind. "Only think," she said, as she unpacked a little miniature of the departed one, and sat with it for a moment in her hands, as she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, "only think, that it is barely nine months since he was with me?"
"Six, you mean, aunt," said Kate, unadvisedly.
"Only nine months" repeated Mrs. Greenow, as though she had not heard her niece. "Only nine months!" After that Kate attempted to correct no more such errors. "It happened in May, Miss," Jeannette said afterwards to Miss Vavasor, "and that, as we reckons, it will be just a twelvemonth come Christmas." But Kate paid no attention to this.
And Jeannette was very ungrateful, and certainly should have indulged herself in no such sarcasms. When Mrs. Greenow made a slight change in her mourning, which she did on her arrival at Norwich, using a little lace among her crapes, Jeannette reaped a rich harvest in gifts of clothes. Mrs. Greenow knew well enough that she expected more from a servant than mere service;--that she wanted loyalty, discretion, and perhaps sometimes a little secrecy;--and as she paid for these things, she should have had them.
Kate undertook to stay a month with her aunt at Norwich, and Mrs. Greenow undertook that Mr. Cheesacre should declare himself as Kate's lover, before the expiration of the month. It was in vain that Kate protested that she wanted no such lover, and that she would certainly reject him if he came. "That's all very well, my dear," Aunt Greenow would say. "A girl must settle herself some day, you know;--and you'd have it all your own way at Oileymead."
But the offer certainly showed much generosity on the part of Aunt Greenow, inasmuch as Mr. Cheesacre's attentions were apparently paid to herself rather than to her niece. Mr. Cheesacre was very attentive. He had taken the lodgings in the Close, and had sent over fowls and cream from Oileymead, and had called on the morning after their arrival; but in all his attentions he distinguished the aunt more particularly than the niece. "I am all for Mr. Cheesacre, Miss," said Jeannette once. "The Captain is perhaps the nicerer-looking gentleman, and he ain't so podgy like; but what's good looks if a gentleman hasn't got nothing? I can't abide anything that's poor; neither can't Missus." From which it was evident that Jeannette gave Miss Vavasor no credit in having Mr. Cheesacre in her train.
Captain Bellfield was also at Norwich, having obtained some quasi-military employment there in the matter of drilling volunteers. Certain capacities in that line it may be supposed that he possessed, and, as his friend Cheesacre said of him, he was going to earn an honest penny once in his life. The Captain and Mr. Cheesacre had made up any little differences that had existed between them at Yarmouth, and were close allies again when they left that place. Some little compact on matters of business must have been arranged between them,--for the Captain was in funds again. He was in funds again through the liberality of his friend,--and no payment of former loans had been made, nor had there been any speech of such. Mr. Cheesacre had drawn his purse-strings liberally, and had declared that if all went well the hospitality of Oileymead should not be wanting during the winter. Captain Bellfield had nodded his head and declared that all should go well.
"You won't see much of the Captain, I suppose," said Mr. Cheesacre to Mrs. Greenow on the morning of the day after her arrival at Norwich. He had come across the whole way from Oileymead to ask her if she found herself comfortable,--and perhaps with an eye to the Norwich markets at the same time. He now wore a pair of black riding boots over his trousers, and a round topped hat, and looked much more at home than he had done by the seaside.
"Not much, I dare say," said the widow. "He tells me that he must be on duty ten or twelve hours a day. Poor fellow!"
"It's a deuced good thing for him, and he ought to be very much obliged to me for putting him in the way of getting it. But he told me to tell you that if he didn't call, you were not to be angry with him."
"Oh, no;--I shall remember, of course."
"You see, if he don't work now he must come to grief. He hasn't got a shilling that he can call his own."
"Hasn't he really?"
"Not a shilling, Mrs. Greenow;--and then he's awfully in debt. He isn't a bad fellow, you know, only there's no trusting him for anything." Then after a few further inquiries that were almost tender, and a promise of further supplies from the dairy, Mr. Cheesacre took his leave, almost forgetting to ask after Miss Vavasor.
But as he left the house he had a word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?" "We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in after leaving his military duties on the preceding evening.
The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work was performed, no doubt, at irregular intervals,--some days late and some days early,--for he might be seen about Norwich almost at all times, during the early part of that November;--and he might be very often seen going into the Close. In Norwich there are two weekly market-days, but on those days the Captain was no doubt kept more entirely to his military employment, for at such times he never was seen near the Close. Now Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so it happened that they did not meet. On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre always was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab,--for he would come into town by railway,--and he would deposit a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. It was in vain that Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts,--for she did protest and declared that if they were continued, they would be sent back. They were, however, continued, and Mrs. Greenow was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would not come up with them; but leaving them, would go about his business, and would return to see the ladies. On such occasions he would be very particular in getting his basket from Jeannette. As he did so he would generally ask some question about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him answers confidentially,--so that there was a strong friendship between these two.
"What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw on the table a small hamper lined with a clean cloth. "It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry."
"So it is, ma'am,--quite; and I'm strong in the arm, too, ma'am."
"What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature."
"And he do admire you both so much," said Jeannette.
"Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons," said the aunt, looking knowingly at her niece.
"I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon."
"Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one."
"Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me."
"Oh, Kate!"
"Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too."
"I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs."
"I wonder what there is in the basket." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey poult already."
"My!" said Jeannette. "A turkey poult! Why, that's worth ten and sixpence in the market if it's worth a penny."
"It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it," said Kate.
"Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I," said Mrs. Greenow.
"I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything."
"Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!"
"I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself."
"Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table.
"Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn; and which had, too, something of sadness in its tone. "Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself."
"And I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life."
"He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow.
"I dare say he does," said Kate.
"And about you, too, my dear."
"He doesn't come here with those big flowers in his button-hole for nothing," said Jeannette,--"not if I knows what a gentleman means."
"Of course he doesn't," said Mrs. Greenow.
"If you don't object, aunt," said Kate, "I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once."
"What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre?" said Mrs. Greenow. "I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear."
On the present occasion Mrs. Greenow undertook that she would see the generous gentleman, and endeavour to stop the supplies from his farmyard. It was well understood that he would call about four o'clock, when his business in the town would be over; and that he would bring with him a little boy, who would carry away the basket. At that hour Kate of course was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket and cloth were there, in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained;--the turkey poult first, on a dish provided in the lodging-house, then a dozen fresh eggs in a soup plate, then the cream in a little tin can, which, for the last fortnight, had passed regularly between Oileymead and the house in the Close, and as to which Mr. Cheesacre was very pointed in his inquiries with Jeannette. Then behind the cream there were two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to the housekeeping of a lady living in a small way in lodgings.
Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the long sofa-table, knew that he was to prepare himself for some resistance; but that resistance would give him, he thought, an opportunity of saying a few words that he was desirous of speaking, and he did not altogether regret it. "I just called in," he said, "to see how you were."
"We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies from Oileymead.
"Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in," said Cheesacre. "She insisted on putting them up."
"But your old woman is by far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits."
Mr. Cheesacre had no wish that Miss Vavasor's name should be brought into play upon the occasion. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these."
"But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?"
"Return them, Mrs. Greenow!"
"Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed."
"And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?"
"You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now."
"When shall we talk of it?"
"If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself."
"Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me." Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette's step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. "You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come."
"But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her."
Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can.

Kate Vavasor, in writing to Alice, felt some difficulty in excusing herself for remaining in Norfolk with Mrs. Greenow. In all her letters, she had spoken of her aunt as a silly, vain, worldly woman, weeping crocodile tears for an old husband, and spreading lures to catch new lovers. Yet she agreed to stay with her aunt in Norwich for another month.
For Mrs. Greenow had more about her than Kate had acknowledged. She was clever and persuasive, and very generous. In asking Kate to stay, she had made it appear that Kate was to confer the favour.
"I have money," she had said, with more appearance of true feeling than Kate had seen before, "but I have nothing else in the world. I have no home. Why should I not remain here in Norfolk, where I know a few people? If you'll say that you'll go anywhere else with me, I'll go to any place you'll name." Kate had yielded, and at the end of October the two ladies, with Jeannette, settled in comfortable lodgings within the precincts of the Cathedral Close at Norwich.
Mr. Greenow had now been dead nearly six months, but his widow appeared to think that the interval had been longer. On the day of their arrival at Norwich, she unpacked a little miniature of the departed one, and sat with it for a moment in her hands, saying, as she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, "Only think, it is barely nine months since he was with me!"
"Six, you mean, aunt," said Kate, ill-advisedly.
"Only nine months," repeated Mrs. Greenow, as though she had not heard her niece. After that Kate attempted to correct no more such errors.
"It happened in May, Miss," Jeannette said afterwards to Miss Vavasor, "and that, as we reckons, it will be just a twelvemonth come Christmas." But Jeannette was very ungrateful to indulge in such sarcasms. When Mrs. Greenow made a slight change in her mourning garments, adding a little lace to her crapes, Jeannette reaped a rich harvest in gifts of clothes.
Kate promised to stay a month with her aunt at Norwich; and Mrs. Greenow promised that Mr. Cheesacre should declare himself as Kate's lover before the end of that month. It was in vain that Kate protested that she wanted no such lover.
"That's all very well, my dear," Aunt Greenow would say. "A girl must settle herself some day, you know; and you'd have it all your own way at Oileymead."
But the offer certainly showed much generosity on Aunt Greenow's part, considering that Mr. Cheesacre's attentions were paid to herself rather than to her niece. Mr. Cheesacre was very attentive. He had found their lodgings in the Close for them, and had sent over fowls and cream from Oileymead, and called on then the morning after their arrival; but in all his attentions he distinguished the aunt more than the niece.
"I am all for Mr. Cheesacre, Miss," said Jeannette. "The Captain is nicer-looking, and he ain't so podgy like; but what's good looks if a gentleman hasn't got nothing?"
Captain Bellfield was also at Norwich, having obtained some quasi-military employment in drilling volunteers. As his friend Cheesacre said, he was going to earn an honest penny for once in his life. The Captain and Mr. Cheesacre had made up any differences that had existed between them at Yarmouth, and were close allies again. Some little business arrangement must have been made, for the Captain was in funds, thanks to his friend. Mr. Cheesacre had been generous, and had declared that if all went well the hospitality of Oileymead should not be lacking during the winter. Captain Bellfield had nodded and declared that all should go well.
"You won't see much of the Captain, I suppose," said Mr. Cheesacre to Mrs. Greenow on the morning after her arrival at Norwich. He had come the whole way from Oileymead to see her. He wore a pair of black riding boots, and a round topped hat, and looked much more at home than he had done by the seaside.
"Not much, I dare say," said the widow. "He tells me that he must be on duty ten or twelve hours a day. Poor fellow!"
"It's a deuced good thing for him, and he ought to be very much obliged to me for putting him in the way of getting it. But he told me to tell you that if he didn't call, you were not to be angry with him."
"Oh, no; of course not."
"You see, if he don't work now he must come to grief. He hasn't got a shilling to call his own, Mrs. Greenow; and he's awfully in debt. He isn't a bad fellow, you know, only there's no trusting him for anything." Then after a few further tender inquiries, Mr. Cheesacre took his leave, almost forgetting to ask after Miss Vavasor.
But as he left the house he had a word to say to Jeannette. "He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?"
"We haven't seen him yet, sir, and I have thought it a little odd." Then Mr. Cheesacre gave the girl half-a-crown, and went his way. Jeannette, I think, must have forgotten that the Captain had looked in on the previous evening.
The Captain's ten or twelve hours of daily work must have been performed at irregular times, for he might be seen about Norwich at all times of day, very often going to the Close. On Norwich's two weekly market-days, however, the Captain kept to his military employment. Mr. Cheesacre's visits to the town were generally made on market-days, and so they did not meet.
On such occasions Mr. Cheesacre came by train and was driven to Mrs. Greenow's door in a cab, with a basket bearing the rich produce of his dairy. In vain Mrs. Greenow protested against these gifts, saying she would send them back; but they continued, and she was at her wits' end about them. Cheesacre would come to get his basket from Jeannette, and would ask about the Captain, and Jeannette would give him confidential answers.
"What am I to do about it?" said Mrs. Greenow, as Kate came into the sitting-room one morning, and saw a small hamper on the table. "He is such a good creature. I don't want to offend him."
"If I were you, aunt, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon."
"Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that he can't carry on in this way? Perhaps you could tell him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to taking this one."
"Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me."
"Oh, Kate!"
"I won't have you say so, aunt; in front of Jeannette, too."
"I think it's for both of you, ma'am," said Jeanette.
"I wonder what is in it." And the widow lifted up the corner of the cloth. "I declare if there isn't a turkey!"
"My!" said Jeannette. "Why, that's worth ten and sixpence."
"It's out of the question that I should say anything to him about it," said Kate.
"I don't see why you shouldn't," said Mrs. Greenow.
"I'll tell you what, ma'am," said Jeannette: "let me just ask him who they're for."
"Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette," said Kate. "Of course they're brought for you, aunt."
"I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me."
"Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them outside the front door, for him to find." And Kate proceeded to lift the basket off the table.
"Leave it alone, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow, with a voice that was rather solemn and sad. "I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself."
"I do hope you won't mention my name. It's the most absurd thing in the world. The man never spoke two dozen words to me in his life."
"He speaks to me, though," said Mrs. Greenow. "And about you, my dear."
However, Mrs. Greenow promised to see the gentleman, and try to stop the supplies from his farmyard. He would generally call about four o'clock, after his business in the town, bringing a little boy to carry away the basket.
At that hour Kate was absent, and the widow received Mr. Cheesacre alone. The basket was in the sitting-room, and on the table were laid out the rich things which it had contained; the turkey, a dozen fresh eggs, cream in a little tin can, two or three heads of broccoli, and a stick of celery as thick as a man's wrist. Altogether the tribute was a very comfortable assistance to a lady living in a small way in lodgings.
Mr. Cheesacre, when he saw the array on the table, prepared himself for some resistance; but he thought it would give him an opportunity of saying a few words.
"I just called in," he said, "to see how you were."
"We are not likely to starve," said Mrs. Greenow, pointing to the delicacies.
"Just a few trifles my old housekeeper asked me to bring."
"But she is far too magnificent," said Mrs. Greenow. "She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits."
Mr. Cheesacre had no wish to bring Miss Vavasor's name into the conversation. "Dear Mrs. Greenow," said he, "there is no cause for you to be alarmed. Mere trifles, you know. I don't think anything of them."
"But Kate and I think a great deal of them. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether we would return them to Oileymead?"
"Return them, Mrs. Greenow!"
"Yes, indeed: consider our circumstances. When gentlemen are too liberal, their liberality must be repressed."
"Have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?"
"We won't talk of that now, Mr. Cheesacre."
"When shall we talk of it?"
"If you really have anything to say, you had better speak to Kate herself."
"Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me."
The widow called her maid, who did not hear her; but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came.
"You may take these things down, Jeannette," she said. "Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come."
"But I haven't promised," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"You will oblige me and Kate, I know. And, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her."
Then Mr. Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words this time; so he departed, followed by the little boy carrying the basket.


But Lady Glencora was not brought to repentance by her husband's last words. It seemed to her to be so intolerably cruel, this demand of his, that she should be made to pass the whole of her first evening in town with an old woman for whom it was impossible that she should entertain the slightest regard, that she resolved upon rebellion. Had he positively ordered Mrs. Marsham, she would have sent for that lady, and have contented herself with enduring her presence in disdainful silence; but Mr. Palliser had not given any order. He had made a request, and a request, from its very nature, admits of no obedience. The compliance with a request must be voluntary, and she would not send for Mrs. Marsham, except upon compulsion. Had not she also made a request to him, and had not he refused it? It was his prerogative, undoubtedly, to command; but in that matter of requests she had a right to expect that her voice should be as potent as his own. She wrote a line, therefore, to Alice before she went to bed, begging her cousin to come to her early on the following day, so that they might go out together, and then afterwards dine in company with Mr. Bott.
"I know that will be an inducement to you," Lady Glencora said, "because your generous heart will feel of what service you may be to me. Nobody else will be here,--unless, indeed, Mrs. Marsham should be asked, unknown to myself."
Then she sat herself down to think,--to think especially about the cruelty of husbands. She had been told over and over again, in the days before her marriage, that Burgo would ill-use her if he became her husband. The Marquis of Auld Reekie had gone so far as to suggest that Burgo might probably beat her. But what hard treatment, even what beating, could be so unendurable as this total want of sympathy, as this deadness in life, which her present lot entailed upon her? As for that matter of beating, she ridiculed the idea in her very soul. She sat smiling at the absurdity of the thing as she thought of the beauty of Burgo's eyes, of the softness of his touch, of the loving, almost worshipping, tones of his voice. Would it not even be better to be beaten by him than to have politics explained to her at one o'clock at night by such a husband as Plantagenet Palliser? The British Constitution, indeed! Had she married Burgo they would have been in sunny Italy, and he would have told her some other tale than that as they sat together under the pale moonlight. She had a little water-coloured drawing called Raphael and Fornarina, and she was infantine enough to tell herself that the so-called Raphael was like her Burgo--no, not her Burgo, but the Burgo that was not hers. At any rate, all the romance of the picture she might have enjoyed had they allowed her to dispose as she had wished of her own hand. She might have sat in marble balconies, while the vines clustered over her head, and he would have been at her knee, hardly speaking to her, but making his presence felt by the halo of its divinity. He would have called upon her for no hard replies. With him near her she would have enjoyed the soft air, and would have sat happy, without trouble, lapped in the delight of loving. It was thus that Fornarina sat. And why should not such a lot have been hers? Her Raphael would have loved her, let them say what they would about his cruelty.
Poor, wretched, overburthened child, to whom the commonest lessons of life had not yet been taught, and who had now fallen into the hands of one who was so ill-fitted to teach them! Who would not pity her? Who could say that the fault was hers? The world had laden her with wealth till she had had no limb free for its ordinary uses, and then had turned her loose to run her race!
"Have you written to your cousin?" her husband asked her the next morning. His voice, as he spoke, clearly showed that his anger was either over or suppressed.
"Yes; I have asked her to come and drive, and then to stay for dinner. I shall send the carriage for her if she can come. The man is to wait for an answer."
"Very well," said Mr. Palliser, mildly. And then, after a short pause, he added, "As that is settled, perhaps you would have no objection to ask Mrs. Marsham also?"
"Won't she probably be engaged?"
"No; I think not," said Mr. Palliser. And then he added, being ashamed of the tinge of falsehood of which he would otherwise have been guilty, "I know she is not engaged."
"She expects to come, then?" said Lady Glencora.
"I have not asked her, if you mean that, Glencora. Had I done so, I should have said so. I told her that I did not know what your engagements were."
"I will write to her, if you please," said the wife, who felt that she could hardly refuse any longer.
"Do, my dear!" said the husband. So Lady Glencora did write to Mrs. Marsham, who promised to come,--as did also Alice Vavasor.
Lady Glencora would, at any rate, have Alice to herself for some hours before dinner. At first she took comfort in that reflection; but after a while she bethought herself that she would not know what to tell Alice, or what not to tell. Did she mean to show that letter to her cousin? If she did show it, then,--so she argued with herself,--she must bring herself to endure the wretchedness of her present lot, and must give up for ever all her dreams about Raphael and Fornarina. If she did not show it,--or, at any rate, tell of it,--then it would come to pass that she would leave her husband under the protection of another man, and she would become--what she did not dare to name even to herself. She declared that so it must be. She knew that she would go with Burgo, should he ever come to her with the means of going at his and her instant command. But should she bring herself to let Alice know that such a letter had been conveyed to her, Burgo would never have such power.
I remember the story of a case of abduction in which a man was tried for his life, and was acquitted, because the lady had acquiesced in the carrying away while it was in progress. She had, as she herself declared, armed herself with a sure and certain charm or talisman against such dangers, which she kept suspended round her neck; but whilst she was in the post-chaise she opened the window and threw the charm from her, no longer desiring, as the learned counsel for the defence efficiently alleged, to be kept under the bonds of such protection. Lady Glencora's state of mind was, in its nature, nearly the same as that of the lady in the post-chaise. Whether or no she would use her charm, she had not yet decided, but the power of doing so was still hers.
Alice came, and the greeting between the cousins was very affectionate. Lady Glencora received her as though they had been playmates from early childhood; and Alice, though such impulsive love was not natural to her as to the other, could not bring herself to be cold to one who was so warm to her. Indeed, had she not promised her love in that meeting at Matching Priory in which her cousin had told her of all her wretchedness? "I will love you!" Alice had said; and though there was much in Lady Glencora that she could not approve,--much even that she could not bring herself to like,--still she would not allow her heart to contradict her words.
They sat so long over the fire in the drawing-room that at last they agreed that the driving should be abandoned.
"What's the use of it?" said Lady Glencora. "There's nothing to see, and the wind is as cold as charity. We are much more comfortable here; are we not?" Alice quite acquiesced in this, having no great desire to be driven through the parks in the gloom of a February afternoon.
"If I had Dandy and Flirt up here, there would be some fun in it; but Mr. Palliser doesn't wish me to drive in London."
"I suppose it would be dangerous?"
"Not in the least. I don't think it's that he minds; but he has an idea that it looks fast."
"So it does. If I were a man, I'm sure I shouldn't like my wife to drive horses about London."
"And why not? Just because you'd be a tyrant,--like other husbands? What's the harm of looking fast, if one doesn't do anything improper? Poor Dandy, and dear Flirt! I'm sure they'd like it."
"Perhaps Mr. Palliser doesn't care for that?"
"I can tell you something else he doesn't care for. He doesn't care whether Dandy's mistress likes it."
"Don't say that, Glencora."
"Why not say it,--to you?"
"Don't teach yourself to think it. That's what I mean. I believe he would consent to anything that he didn't think wrong."
"Such as lectures about the British Constitution! But never mind about that, Alice. Of course the British Constitution is everything to him, and I wish I knew more about it;--that's all. But I haven't told you whom you are to meet at dinner."
"Yes, you have--Mr. Bott."
"But there's another guest, a Mrs. Marsham. I thought I'd got rid of her for to-day, when I wrote to you; but I hadn't. She's coming."
"She won't hurt me at all," said Alice.
"She will hurt me very much. She'll destroy the pleasure of our whole evening. I do believe that she hates you, and that she thinks you instigate me to all manner of iniquity. What fools they all are!"
"Who are they all, Glencora?"
"She and that man, and--. Never mind. It makes me sick when I think that they should be so blind. Alice, I hardly know how much I owe to you; I don't, indeed. Everything, I believe." Lady Glencora, as she spoke, put her hand into her pocket, and grasped the letter which lay there.
"That's nonsense," said Alice.
"No; it's not nonsense. Who do you think came to Matching when I was there?"
"What;--to the house?" said Alice, feeling almost certain that Mr. Fitzgerald was the person to whom Lady Glencora was alluding.
"No; not to the house."
"If it is the person of whom I am thinking," said Alice, solemnly, "let me implore you not to speak of him."
"And why should I not speak of him? Did I not speak of him before to you, and was it not for good? How are you to be my friend, if I may not speak to you of everything?"
"But you should not think of him."
"What nonsense you talk, Alice! Not think of him! How is one to help one's thoughts? Look here."
Her hand was on the letter, and it would have been out in a moment, and thrown upon Alice's lap, had not the servant opened the door and announced Mrs. Marsham.
"Oh, how I do wish we had gone to drive!" said Lady Glencora, in a voice which the servant certainly heard, and which Mrs. Marsham would have heard had she not been a little hard of hearing,--in her bonnet.
"How do, my dear?" said Mrs. Marsham. "I thought I'd just come across from Norfolk Street and see you, though I am coming to dinner in the evening. It's only just a step, you know. How d'ye do, Miss Vavasor?" and she made a salutation to Alice which was nearly as cold as it could be.
Mrs. Marsham was a woman who had many good points. She was poor, and bore her poverty without complaint She was connected by blood and friendship with people rich and titled; but she paid to none of them egregious respect on account of their wealth or titles. She was staunch in her friendships, and staunch in her enmities. She was no fool, and knew well what was going on in the world. She could talk about the last novel, or--if need be--about the Constitution. She had been a true wife, though sometimes too strong-minded, and a painstaking mother, whose children, however, had never loved her as most mothers like to be loved.
The catalogue of her faults must be quite as long as that of her virtues. She was one of those women who are ambitious of power, and not very scrupulous as to the manner in which they obtain it. She was hardhearted, and capable of pursuing an object without much regard to the injury she might do. She would not flatter wealth or fawn before a title, but she was not above any artifice by which she might ingratiate herself with those whom it suited her purpose to conciliate. She thought evil rather than good. She was herself untrue in action, if not absolutely in word. I do not say that she would coin lies, but she would willingly leave false impressions. She had been the bosom friend, and in many things the guide in life, of Mr. Palliser's mother; and she took a special interest in Mr. Palliser's welfare. When he married, she heard the story of the loves of Burgo and Lady Glencora; and though she thought well of the money, she was not disposed to think very well of the bride. She made up her mind that the young lady would want watching, and she was of opinion that no one would be so well able to watch Lady Glencora as herself. She had not plainly opened her mind on this matter to Mr. Palliser; she had not made any distinct suggestion to him that she would act as Argus to his wife. Mr. Palliser would have rejected any such suggestion, and Mrs. Marsham knew that he would do so; but she had let a word or two drop, hinting that Lady Glencora was very young,--hinting that Lady Glencora's manners were charming in their childlike simplicity; but hinting also that precaution was, for that reason, the more necessary. Mr. Palliser, who suspected nothing as to Burgo or as to any other special peril, whose whole disposition was void of suspicion, whose dry nature realized neither the delights nor the dangers of love, acknowledged that Glencora was young. He especially wished that she should be discreet and matronly; he feared no lovers, but he feared that she might do silly things,--that she would catch cold,--and not know how to live a life becoming the wife of a Chancellor of the Exchequer. Therefore he submitted Glencora,--and, to a certain extent, himself,--into the hands of Mrs. Marsham.
Lady Glencora had not been twenty-four hours in the house with this lady before she recognized in her a duenna. In all such matters no one could be quicker than Lady Glencora. She might be very ignorant about the British Constitution, and, alas! very ignorant also as to the real elements of right and wrong in a woman's conduct, but she was no fool. She had an eye that could see, and an ear that could understand, and an abundance of that feminine instinct which teaches a woman to know her friend or her enemy at a glance, at a touch, at a word. In many things Lady Glencora was much quicker, much more clever, than her husband, though he was to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and though she did know nothing of the Constitution. She knew, too, that he was easily to be deceived,--that though his intelligence was keen, his instincts were dull,--that he was gifted with no fineness of touch, with no subtle appreciation of the characters of men and women; and, to a certain extent, she looked down upon him for his obtusity. He should have been aware that Burgo was a danger to be avoided; and he should have been aware also that Mrs. Marsham was a duenna not to be employed. When a woman knows that she is guarded by a watch-dog, she is bound to deceive her Cerberus, if it be possible, and is usually not ill-disposed to deceive also the owner of Cerberus. Lady Glencora felt that Mrs. Marsham was her Cerberus, and she was heartily resolved that if she was to be kept in the proper line at all, she would not be so kept by Mrs. Marsham.
Alice rose and accepted Mrs. Marsham's salutation quite as coldly as it had been given, and from that time forward those two ladies were enemies. Mrs. Marsham, groping quite in the dark, partly guessed that Alice had in some way interfered to prevent Lady Glencora's visit to Monkshade, and, though such prevention was, no doubt, good in that lady's eyes, she resented the interference. She had made up her mind that Alice was not the sort of friend that Lady Glencora should have about her. Alice recognized and accepted the feud.
"I thought I might find you at home," said Mrs. Marsham, "as I know you are lazy about going out in the cold,--unless it be for a foolish midnight ramble," and Mrs. Marsham shook her head. She was a little woman, with sharp small eyes, with a permanent colour in her face, and two short, crisp, grey curls at each side of her face; always well dressed, always in good health, and, as Lady Glencora believed, altogether incapable of fatigue.
"The ramble you speak of was very wise, I think," said Lady Glencora; "but I never could see the use of driving about in London in the middle of winter."
"One ought to go out of the house every day," said Mrs. Marsham.
"I hate all those rules. Don't you, Alice?" Alice did not hate them, therefore she said nothing.
"My dear Glencora, one must live by rules in this life. You might as well say that you hated sitting down to dinner."
"So I do, very often; almost always when there's company."
"You'll get over that feeling after another season in town," said Mrs. Marsham, pretending to suppose that Lady Glencora alluded to some remaining timidity in receiving her own guests.
"Upon my word I don't think I shall. It's a thing that seems always to be getting more grievous, instead of less so. Mr. Bott is coming to dine here to-night."
There was no mistaking the meaning of this. There was no pretending even to mistake it. Now, Mrs. Marsham had accepted the right hand of fellowship from Mr. Bott,--not because she especially liked him, but in compliance with the apparent necessities of Mr. Palliser's position. Mr. Bott had made good his ground about Mr. Palliser; and Mrs. Marsham, as she was not strong enough to turn him off from it, had given him the right hand of fellowship.
"Mr. Bott is a Member of Parliament, and a very serviceable friend of Mr. Palliser's," said Mrs. Marsham.
"All the same; we do not like Mr. Bott--do we, Alice? He is Doctor Fell to us; only I think we could tell why."
"I certainly do not like him," said Alice.
"It can be but of small matter to you, Miss Vavasor," said Mrs. Marsham, "as you will not probably have to see much of him."
"Of the very smallest moment," said Alice. "He did annoy me once, but will never, I dare say, have an opportunity of doing so again."
"I don't know what the annoyance may have been."
"Of course you don't, Mrs. Marsham."
"But I shouldn't have thought it likely that a person so fully employed as Mr. Bott, and employed, too, on matters of such vast importance, would have gone out of his way to annoy a young lady whom he chanced to meet for a day or two in a country-house."
"I don't think that Alice means that he attempted to flirt with her," said Lady Glencora, laughing. "Fancy Mr. Bott's flirtation!"
"Perhaps he did not attempt," said Mrs. Marsham; and the words, the tone, and the innuendo together were more than Alice was able to bear with equanimity.
"Glencora," said she, rising from her chair, "I think I'll leave you alone with Mrs. Marsham. I'm not disposed to discuss Mr. Bott's character, and certainly not to hear his name mentioned in disagreeable connection with my own."
But Lady Glencora would not let her go. "Nonsense, Alice," she said. "If you and I can't fight our little battles against Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham without running away, it is odd. There is a warfare in which they who run away never live to fight another day."
"I hope, Glencora, you do not count me as your enemy?" said Mrs. Marsham, drawing herself up.
"But I shall,--certainly, if you attack Alice. Love me, love my dog. I beg your pardon, Alice; but what I meant was this, Mrs. Marsham; Love me, love the best friend I have in the world."
"I did not mean to offend Miss Vavasor," said Mrs. Marsham, looking at her very grimly. Alice merely bowed her head. She had been offended, and she would not deny it. After that, Mrs. Marsham took herself off, saying that she would be back to dinner. She was angry, but not unhappy. She thought that she could put down Miss Vavasor, and she was prepared to bear a good deal from Lady Glencora--for Mr. Palliser's sake, as she said to herself, with some attempt at a sentimental remembrance of her old friend.
"She's a nasty old cat," said Lady Glencora, as soon as the door was closed; and she said these words with so droll a voice, with such a childlike shaking of her head, with so much comedy in her grimace, that Alice could not but laugh. "She is," said Lady Glencora. "I know her, and you'll have to know her, too, before you've done with her. It won't at all do for you to run away when she spits at you. You must hold your ground, and show your claws,--and make her know that if she spits, you can scratch."
"But I don't want to be a cat myself."
"She'll find I'm of the genus, but of the tiger kind, if she persecutes me. Alice, there's one thing I have made up my mind about. I will not be persecuted. If my husband tells me to do anything, as long as he is my husband I'll do it; but I won't be persecuted."
"You should remember that she was a very old friend of Mr. Palliser's mother."
"I do remember; and that may be a very good reason why she should come here occasionally, or go to Matching, or to any place in which we may be living. It's a bore, of course; but it's a natural bore, and one that ought to be borne."
"And that will be the beginning and the end of it."
"I'm afraid not, my dear. It may perhaps be the end of it, but I fear it won't be the beginning. I won't be persecuted. If she gives me advice, I shall tell her to her face that it's not wanted; and if she insults any friend of mine, as she did you, I shall tell her that she had better stay away. She'll go and tell him, of course; but I can't help that. I've made up my mind that I won't be persecuted."
After that, Lady Glencora felt no further inclination to show Burgo's letter to Alice on that occasion. They sat over the drawing-room fire, talking chiefly of Alice's affairs, till it was time for them to dress. But Alice, though she spoke much of Mr. Grey, said no word as to her engagement with George Vavasor. How could she speak of it, inasmuch as she had already resolved,--already almost resolved,--that that engagement also should be broken?
Alice, when she came down to the drawing-room, before dinner, found Mr. Bott there alone. She had dressed more quickly than her friend, and Mr. Palliser had not yet made his appearance.
"I did not expect the pleasure of meeting Miss Vavasor to-day," he said, as he came up, offering his hand. She gave him her hand, and then sat down, merely muttering some word of reply.
"We spent a very pleasant month down at Matching together;--didn't you think so?"
"I spent a pleasant month there certainly."
"You left, if I remember, the morning after that late walk out among the ruins? That was unfortunate, was it not? Poor Lady Glencora! it made her very ill; so much so, that she could not go to Monkshade, as she particularly wished. It was very sad. Lady Glencora is very delicate,--very delicate, indeed. We, who have the privilege of being near her, ought always to remember that."
"I don't think she is at all delicate."
"Oh! don't you? I'm afraid that's your mistake, Miss Vavasor."
"I believe she has very good health, which is the greatest blessing in the world. By delicate I suppose you mean weak and infirm."
"Oh, dear, no,--not in the least,--not infirm certainly! I should be very sorry to be supposed to have said that Lady Glencora is infirm. What I mean is, not robust, Miss Vavasor. Her general organization, if you understand me, is exquisitely delicate. One can see that, I think, in every glance of her eye."
Alice was going to protest that she had never seen it at all, when Mr. Palliser entered the room along with Mrs. Marsham.
The two gentlemen shook hands, and then Mr. Palliser turned to Alice. She perceived at once by his face that she was unwelcome, and wished herself away from his house. It might be all very well for Lady Glencora to fight with Mrs. Marsham,--and with her husband, too, in regard to the Marsham persecution,--but there could be no reason why she should do so. He just touched her hand, barely closing his thumb upon her fingers, and asked her how she was. Then he turned away from her side of the fire, and began talking to Mrs. Marsham on the other. There was that in his face and in his manner which was positively offensive to her. He made no allusion to his former acquaintance with her,--spoke no word about Matching, no word about his wife, as he would naturally have done to his wife's friend. Alice felt the blood mount into her face, and regretted greatly that she had ever come among these people. Had she not long since made up her mind that she would avoid her great relations, and did not all this prove that it would have been well for her to have clung to that resolution? What was Lady Glencora to her that she should submit herself to be treated as though she were a poor companion,--a dependent, who received a salary for her attendance,--an indigent cousin, hanging on to the bounty of her rich connection? Alice was proud to a fault. She had nursed her pride till it was very faulty. All her troubles and sorrows in life had come from an overfed craving for independence. Why, then, should she submit to be treated with open want of courtesy by any man; but, of all men, why should she submit to it from such a one as Mr. Palliser,--the heir of a ducal house, rolling in wealth, and magnificent with all the magnificence of British pomp and pride? No; she would make Lady Glencora understand that the close intimacies of daily life were not possible to them!
"I declare I'm very much ashamed," said Lady Glencora, as she entered the room. "I shan't apologize to you, Alice, for it was you who kept me talking; but I do beg Mrs. Marsham's pardon."
Mrs. Marsham was all smiles and forgiveness, and hoped that Lady Glencora would not make a stranger of her. Then dinner was announced, and Alice had to walk down stairs by herself. She did not care a doit for that, but there had been a disagreeable little contest when the moment came. Lady Glencora had wished to give up Mr. Bott to her cousin, but Mr. Bott had stuck manfully to Lady Glencora's side. He hoped to take Lady Glencora down to dinner very often, and was not at all disposed to abate his privilege.
During dinner-time Alice said very little, nor was there given to her opportunity of saying much. She could not but think of the day of her first arrival at Matching Priory, when she had sat between the Duke of St. Bungay and Jeffrey Palliser, and when everybody had been so civil to her! She now occupied one side of the table by herself, away from the fire, where she felt cold and desolate in the gloom of the large half-lighted room. Mr. Palliser occupied himself with Mrs. Marsham, who talked politics to him; and Mr. Bott never lost a moment in his endeavours to say some civil word to Lady Glencora. Lady Glencora gave him no encouragement; but she hardly dared to snub him openly in her husband's immediate presence. Twenty times during dinner she said some little word to Alice, attempting at first to make the time pleasant, and then, when the matter was too far gone for that, attempting to give some relief. But it was of no avail. There are moments in which conversation seems to be impossible,--in which the very gods interfere to put a seal upon the lips of the unfortunate one. It was such a moment now with Alice. She had never as yet been used to snubbing. Whatever position she had hitherto held, in that she had always stood foremost,--much more so than had been good for her. When she had gone to Matching, she had trembled for her position; but there all had gone well with her; there Lady Glencora's kindness had at first been able to secure for her a reception that had been flattering, and almost better than flattering. Jeffrey Palliser had been her friend, and would, had she so willed it, have been more than her friend. But now she felt that the halls of the Pallisers were too cold for her, and that the sooner she escaped from their gloom and hard discourtesy the better for her.
Mrs. Marsham, when the three ladies had returned to the drawing-room together, was a little triumphant. She felt that she had put Alice down; and with the energetic prudence of a good general who knows that he should follow up a victory, let the cost of doing so be what it may, she determined to keep her down. Alice had resolved that she would come as seldom as might be to Mr. Palliser's house in Park Lane. That resolution on her part was in close accordance with Mrs. Marsham's own views.
"Is Miss Vavasor going to walk home?" she asked.
"Walk home;--all along Oxford Street! Good gracious! no. Why should she walk? The carriage will take her."
"Or a cab," said Alice. "I am quite used to go about London in a cab by myself."
"I don't think they are nice for young ladies after dark," said Mrs. Marsham. "I was going to offer my servant to walk with her. She is an elderly woman, and would not mind it."
"I'm sure Alice is very much obliged," said Lady. Glencora; "but she will have the carriage."
"You are very good-natured," said Mrs. Marsham; "but gentlemen do so dislike having their horses out at night."
"No gentleman's horses will be out," said Lady Glencora, savagely; "and as for mine, it's what they are there for." It was not often that Lady Glencora made any allusion to her own property, or allowed any one near her to suppose that she remembered the fact that her husband's great wealth was, in truth, her wealth. As to many matters her mind was wrong. In some things her taste was not delicate as should be that of a woman. But, as regarded her money, no woman could have behaved with greater reticence, or a purer delicacy. But now, when she was twitted by her husband's special friend with ill-usage to her husband's horses, because she chose to send her own friend home in her own carriage, she did find it hard to bear.
"I dare say it's all right," said Mrs. Marsham.
"It is all right," said Lady Glencora. "Mr. Palliser has given me my horses for my own use, to do as I like with them; and if he thinks I take them out when they ought to be left at home, he can tell me so. Nobody else has a right to do it." Lady Glencora, by this time, was almost in a passion, and showed that she was so.
"My dear Lady Glencora, you have mistaken me," said Mrs. Marsham; "I did not mean anything of that kind."
"I am so sorry," said Alice. "And it is such a pity, as I am quite used to going about in cabs."
"Of course you are," said Lady Glencora. "Why shouldn't you? I'd go home in a wheelbarrow if I couldn't walk, and had no other conveyance. That's not the question. Mrs. Marsham understands that."
"Upon my word, I don't understand anything," said that lady.
"I understand this," said Lady Glencora; "that in all such matters as that, I intend to follow my own pleasure. Come, Alice, let us have some coffee,"--and she rang the bell. "What a fuss we have made about a stupid old carriage!"
The gentlemen did not return to the drawing-room that evening, having, no doubt, joint work to do in arranging the great financial calculations of the nation; and, at an early hour, Alice was taken home in Lady Glencora's brougham, leaving her cousin still in the hands of Mrs. Marsham.

But Lady Glencora was not brought to repentance by her husband's words. It seemed to her to be intolerably cruel, this demand that she should pass her first evening in town with an old woman whom she disliked.
She resolved upon rebellion. He had not ordered that she invite Mrs. Marsham, merely requested, and a request does not demand obedience. She would not send for Mrs. Marsham unless he forced her to. Had she not also made a request to him, and had he not refused it? She wrote a line, therefore, to Alice before she went to bed, begging her cousin to come to her early on the following day, so that they might go out together, and then afterwards dine in company with Mr. Bott.
"I know that will be an inducement to you," Lady Glencora said, "because your generous heart will feel how that will help me. Nobody else will be here - unless, indeed, Mrs. Marsham should be asked, unknown to me."
Then she sat down to think about the cruelty of husbands. She had been told in the days before her marriage that Burgo would ill-use her if he became her husband. The Marquis of Auld Reekie had gone so far as to suggest that Burgo might beat her. But what hard treatment could be so unendurable as this total lack of sympathy on her husband's part? As for that matter of beating, she ridiculed the idea. She sat smiling at the absurdity of the thing as she thought of the beauty of Burgo's eyes, of the softness of his touch, of his loving voice. Would it not even be better to be beaten by him than to have politics explained to her at one o'clock at night by Plantagenet Palliser? The British Constitution, indeed!
If she had married Burgo they would have been in sunny Italy, sitting together under the pale moonlight. She might have sat on marble balconies, while the vines clustered over her head, and he would have been at her knee, hardly speaking to her, but making her happy, lapped in the delight of loving.
Poor, wretched, overburdened child, to whom the commonest lessons of life had not yet been taught, and who was now in the hands of one so ill-fitted to teach them! Who would not pity her? Who could say that the fault was hers? The world had laden her with wealth till she could barely move, then turned her loose to run her race!
"Have you written to your cousin?" her husband asked her the next morning, with no anger in his voice.
"Yes; I have asked her to come and drive, and then to stay for dinner."
"Very well," said Mr. Palliser, mildly. After a short pause, he added, "As that is settled, perhaps you would have no objection to ask Mrs. Marsham also?"
"Won't she be engaged?"
"No; I think not," said Mr. Palliser. And then he added, so as to avoid a falsehood, "I know she is not engaged."
"She expects to come, then?" said Lady Glencora.
"I have not asked her. If I had, I should have said so."
"I will write to her, if you wish," said the wife, who felt that she could hardly refuse any longer.
"Do, my dear!" said the husband. So Lady Glencora did write to Mrs. Marsham, who promised to come - as did Alice.
Lady Glencora would, at any rate, have Alice to herself for some hours before dinner. She took comfort in that reflection; but after a while she realised that she would not know how much to tell Alice. Did she mean to show that letter to her cousin? If she did show it, then - she told herself - she must give up for ever all her dreams about life with Burgo. If she did not show it, then she would leave her husband, and would become - something she did not dare to name even to herself. She declared that so it must be. She knew that she would go with Burgo if he found a way. But if she let Alice know about his letter, Burgo would never have such power.
Alice came, and the greeting between the cousins was very affectionate. Lady Glencora received her as though they had been playmates from early childhood; and Alice, though such impulsive love was not as natural to her, responded to Glencora's warmth. Indeed, had she not promised to love her, at Matching Priory? Although there was much in Lady Glencora that she could not approve - much even that she could not like - still she would keep to her promise.
They sat so long over the fire in the drawing-room that at last they agreed that their drive should be abandoned.
"What's the use of it?" said Lady Glencora. "There's nothing to see, and the wind is as cold as charity. We are much more comfortable here; are we not?"
Alice agreed, having no great desire to be driven through the park on a gloomy February afternoon.
"If I had Dandy and Flirt up here, there would be some fun in it; but Mr. Palliser doesn't wish me to drive in London. He thinks it is unladylike."
"So it is. If I were a man, I wouldn't like my wife to drive horses about London."
"Why not? Just because you'd be a tyrant, like other husbands? But Mr. Palliser doesn't care about what I want."
"Don't say that, Glencora. I believe he would consent to anything that he didn't think wrong."
"Such as lectures about the British Constitution! But never mind about that. I haven't told you whom you are to meet at dinner."
"Mr. Bott, you said."
"But there's another guest, a Mrs. Marsham. I thought I'd got rid of her when I wrote to you; but she's coming."
"She won't hurt me," said Alice.
"She'll destroy the pleasure of our evening. I do believe that she hates you, and that she thinks you instigate me to all kinds of wickedness. What fools they all are! It makes me sick when I think that they should be so blind. Alice, I hardly know how much I owe to you; everything, I believe." Lady Glencora, as she spoke, put her hand into her pocket, and grasped the letter which lay there.
"That's nonsense," said Alice.
"No; it's not nonsense. Who do you think came to Matching when I was there?"
"If it is the person of whom I am thinking," said Alice solemnly, "let me implore you not to speak of him."
"Why should I not speak of him? How are you to be my friend, if I may not speak to you of everything?"
"But you should not think of him."
"What nonsense! How is one to help one's thoughts? Look here."
Her hand was on the letter, and it would have been out in a moment, and thrown upon Alice's lap, had not the servant opened the door and announced Mrs. Marsham.
"How do, my dear?" said Mrs. Marsham. "I thought I'd just come across from Norfolk Street and see you, though I am coming to dinner in the evening. It's only just a step, you know. How d'ye do, Miss Vavasor?" and she made a cold salutation to Alice.
Mrs. Marsham was a woman who had many good points. She was poor, and bore her poverty without complaint. She was connected with rich and titled people; but she was no flatterer. She was staunch in her friendships, and staunch in her enmities. She knew well what was going on in the world. She could talk about the last novel, or - if need be - about the Constitution. She had been a true wife, though sometimes too strong-minded, and a painstaking mother, whose children, however, had never loved her as most mothers like to be loved.
The catalogue of her faults was as long as that of her virtues. She was ambitious of power, hardhearted, and unscrupulous. She would not fawn before a title, but she was not above ingratiating herself with those whom she wished to conciliate. She thought evil rather than good. Although she would not invent lies, she would willingly leave false impressions.
She had been a close friend of Mr. Palliser's mother; and she took a special interest in Mr. Palliser's welfare. When he married, she heard the story of Burgo and Lady Glencora, and she was not disposed to think well of the bride. She made up her mind that the young lady would want watching, and felt that no one could so this so well as herself.
She had not openly suggested this to Mr. Palliser; but she had let a word or two drop, hinting that Lady Glencora was very young, and that precaution was, for that reason, more necessary. Mr. Palliser, whose nature was devoid of suspicion, and who knew nothing of the delights and dangers of love, acknowledged that Glencora was young. He especially wished that she should be discreet and matronly; he feared no lovers, but he feared that she might do silly things, not befitting the wife of a Chancellor of the Exchequer. Therefore he submitted Glencora - and, to a certain extent, himself - into the hands of Mrs. Marsham.
Lady Glencora had not been twenty-four hours with this lady before she recognized her as a duenna. She might be very ignorant about some things, but she was no fool. In many things Lady Glencora was much quicker and cleverer than her husband. Though his intelligence was keen, his instincts were dull; he had no understanding of character. He should have been aware that Burgo was a danger; and he should have been aware also that Mrs. Marsham was a duenna not to be employed. When a woman knows that she is guarded by a watch-dog, she is bound to deceive it, if possible.
Alice accepted Mrs. Marsham's greeting as coldly as it had been given, and from that time those two ladies were enemies. Mrs. Marsham partly guessed that Alice had in some way interfered to prevent Lady Glencora's visit to Monkshade, and she resented the interference. She had made up her mind that Alice was not the sort of friend that Lady Glencora should have. Alice recognized and accepted the feud.
"I thought I might find you at home," said Mrs. Marsham, "as I know you are lazy about going out in the cold - unless it be for a foolish midnight ramble," and Mrs. Marsham shook her head.
"The ramble you speak of was very wise, I think," said Lady Glencora; "but I never could see the use of driving about in London in the middle of winter."
"One ought to go out of the house every day," said Mrs. Marsham.
"I hate all those rules. Don't you, Alice?" Alice said nothing.
"My dear Glencora, one must live by rules in this life. You might as well say that you hated sitting down to dinner."
"So I do, very often; almost always when there's company."
"You'll get over that feeling after another season in town," said Mrs. Marsham.
"I don't think I shall. It seems to get worse instead of better. Mr. Bott is coming to dine here tonight."
There was no mistaking the meaning of this. Mrs. Marsham had accepted the hand of fellowship from Mr. Bott, not because she especially liked him, but because they both supported Mr. Palliser's position.
"Mr. Bott is a Member of Parliament, and a very useful friend of Mr. Palliser's," said Mrs. Marsham.
"All the same; we do not like Mr. Bott - do we, Alice? "
"I certainly do not like him," said Alice. "He did annoy me once, but I dare say, will never have an opportunity of doing so again."
"I don't know what the annoyance may have been."
"Of course you don't, Mrs. Marsham."
"I shouldn't have thought it likely that a person so busy as Mr. Bott, and employed on matters of such vast importance, would have gone out of his way to annoy a young lady whom he chanced to meet for a day or two in a country-house."
"I don't think that Alice means that he attempted to flirt with her," said Lady Glencora, laughing. "Fancy Mr. Bott's flirtation!"
"Perhaps he did not attempt," said Mrs. Marsham; and her tone was more than Alice was able to bear with equanimity.
"Glencora," said she, rising, "I think I'll leave you alone with Mrs. Marsham. I'm not disposed to discuss Mr. Bott's character, nor to hear his name mentioned in disagreeable connection with my own."
But Lady Glencora would not let her go. "Nonsense, Alice," she said. "If you and I can't fight our little battles against Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham without running away, it is odd."
"I hope, Glencora, you do not count me as your enemy?" said Mrs. Marsham, drawing herself up.
"But I shall, certainly, if you attack Alice, who is the best friend I have in the world."
"I did not mean to offend Miss Vavasor," said Mrs. Marsham, looking at her very grimly. Alice merely bowed her head. After that, Mrs. Marsham took herself off, saying that she would be back to dinner. She was angry, but not unhappy. She thought that she could put down Miss Vavasor, and she was prepared to bear a good deal from Lady Glencora - for Mr. Palliser's sake, as she said to herself.
"She's a nasty old cat," said Lady Glencora, as soon as the door was closed; and she said this with so droll a voice and with so much comedy in her grimace, that Alice could only laugh. "It won't do for you to run away when she spits at you. You must hold your ground, and show your claws."
"But I don't want to be a cat myself."
"She'll find I'm of the tiger kind, if she persecutes me. Alice, I have made up my mind not to be persecuted. If my husband tells me to do anything, I'll do it; but I won't be persecuted."
"You should remember that she was an old friend of Mr. Palliser's mother."
"I do remember. But I won't be persecuted. If she gives me advice, I shall tell her that it's not wanted; and if she insults any friend of mine, I shall tell her to stay away."
After that, Lady Glencora felt no further inclination to show Burgo's letter to Alice. They sat over the drawing-room fire, talking chiefly of Alice's affairs, till it was time for them to dress. But Alice said no word about her engagement with George Vavasor. How could she speak of it, seeing that she had already almost resolved that the engagement should be broken?
When Alice came down to the drawing-room before dinner, she found Mr. Bott there alone.
"I did not expect the pleasure of meeting Miss Vavasor today," he said, offering his hand. She gave him hers, and then sat down, muttering some word of reply.
"We spent a very pleasant month at Matching together; didn't you think so?"
"I spent a pleasant month there certainly."
"You left, if I remember, the morning after that late walk out among the ruins? That was unfortunate, was it not? Poor Lady Glencora! it made her very ill; so that she could not go to Monkshade, as she particularly wished. It was very sad. Lady Glencora is very delicate indeed. We ought always to remember that."
"I don't think she is at all delicate. I believe she has very good health. But by delicate I suppose you mean weak and infirm."
"Oh, dear, no, not in the least - not infirm certainly! What I mean is, not robust, Miss Vavasor."
Alice was going to protest, when Mr. Palliser entered the room along with Mrs. Marsham.
The two gentlemen shook hands, and then Mr. Palliser turned to Alice. She perceived at once by his face that she was unwelcome, and wished herself away from his house. He just touched her hand, and asked her how she was. Then he turned away, and began talking to Mrs. Marsham on the other side. He spoke no word about Matching, no word about his wife, as he would naturally have done to his wife's friend.
Alice felt the blood mount into her face, and regretted greatly that she had ever come here. She should have avoided her great relations. What was Lady Glencora to her that she should be treated like a poor companion, dependent on the bounty of her rich connection? Alice was proud. She had nursed her pride till it was very faulty. Why, then, should she submit to such an open lack of courtesy by such a one as Mr. Palliser, who was rolling in wealth and magnificence? She would make Lady Glencora understand that a close friendship was not possible.
"I declare I'm very much ashamed," said Lady Glencora, as she entered the room late. "I do beg Mrs. Marsham's pardon."
Mrs. Marsham was all smiles and forgiveness. Then dinner was announced, and Alice had to walk downstairs by herself, because Mr. Bott stuck manfully to Lady Glencora's side.
During dinner-time Alice said very little, nor did she have the opportunity of saying much. She thought of her first day at Matching Priory, when she had sat between the Duke of St. Bungay and Jeffrey Palliser, and when everybody had been so civil to her!
Now she had one side of the table to herself, away from the fire, where she felt cold and desolate in the gloom of the large half-lit room. Mr. Palliser occupied himself with Mrs. Marsham, who talked politics to him; and Mr. Bott was constantly trying to make conversation with Lady Glencora, who gave him no encouragement, but did not dare to snub him openly. She frequently said some little word to Alice; but it was of no avail. Alice was dumb. She was not used to being snubbed. But now she felt that the halls of the Pallisers were too cold for her, and that the sooner she escaped from their gloom and discourtesy the better.
Mrs. Marsham, when the three ladies returned to the drawing-room together, was a little triumphant. She felt that she had put Alice down; and with the energetic prudence of a good general, she determined to keep her down.
"Is Miss Vavasor going to walk home?" she asked.
"Walk home - along Oxford Street! Good gracious! no. The carriage will take her."
"Or a cab," said Alice. "I am quite used to go about London in a cab by myself."
"I don't think they are nice for young ladies after dark," said Mrs. Marsham. "I was going to offer my servant to walk with her."
"I'm sure Alice is very much obliged," said Lady Glencora; "but she will have the carriage."
"But gentlemen do so dislike having their horses out at night."
"No gentleman's horses will be out," said Lady Glencora, savagely; "and as for mine, it's what they are there for." It was not often that Lady Glencora made any allusion to her own property; there she behaved with great reticence and delicacy. But now, when she was twitted by her husband's friend about her husband's horses, because she chose to send her own friend home in her own carriage, she did find it hard to bear.
"I dare say it's all right," said Mrs. Marsham.
"It is all right," said Lady Glencora. "Mr. Palliser has given me my horses for my own use, to do as I like with them; and if he thinks I take them out when I ought not, he can tell me so. Nobody else has a right to do it." Lady Glencora, by this time, was almost in a passion, and showed it.
"My dear Lady Glencora, you have mistaken me," said Mrs. Marsham. "I did not mean anything of that kind."
"I am so sorry," said Alice. "And it is such a pity, as I am quite used to going about in cabs."
"Of course you are," said Lady Glencora. "Why shouldn't you? That's not the question. Mrs. Marsham understands that."
"Upon my word, I don't understand anything," said that lady.
"I understand this," said Lady Glencora; "that in all such matters as that, I intend to follow my own pleasure. Come, Alice, let us have some coffee," and she rang the bell. "What a fuss we have made about a stupid old carriage!"
So Alice was taken home, leaving her cousin still in the hands of Mrs. Marsham.