Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning where we last saw him,--against the dining-room wall at the bottom of the staircase; and as he did so some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind, This thing that he was about to do, or to attempt,--was it in itself a good thing, and would it be good for her whom he pretended to love? What would be her future if she consented now to go with him, and to divide herself from her husband? Of his own future he thought not at all. He had never done so. Even when he had first found himself attracted by the reputation of her wealth, he cannot be said to have looked forward in any prudential way to coming years. His desire to put himself in possession of so magnificent a fortune had simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table. But now, during these moments, he did think a little of her. Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all women should cease to acknowledge her; when men would regard her as one degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her; when she would be driven to live loudly because the softness and graces of quiet life would be denied to her? Burgo knew well what must be the nature of such a woman's life in such circumstances. Would Glencora be happy with him while living such a life simply because he loved her? And, under such circumstances, was it likely that he would continue to love her? Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant of men, and the least trustworthy? Leaning thus against the wall at the bottom of the stairs he did ask himself all these questions with something of true feeling about his heart, and almost persuaded himself that he had better take his hat and wander forth anywhere into the streets. It mattered little what might become of himself. If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things that would be not altogether undesirable.
But then the remembrance of his aunt's two hundred pounds came upon him, which money he even now had about him on his person, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given to him. As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and, therefore, refunding the money--no such thought as that was possible to him! To give back two hundred pounds entire,--two hundred pounds which were already within his clutches, was not within the compass of Burgo's generosity. Remembering the cash, he told himself that hesitation was no longer possible to him. So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a sigh that was audible to all around him, and took himself up-stairs.
He looked in at his aunt's room, and then he saw her and was seen by her. "Well, Burgo," she said, with her sweetest smile, "have you been dancing?" He turned away from her without answering her, muttering something between his teeth about a cold-blooded Jezebel,--which, if she had heard it, would have made her think him the most ungrateful of men. But she did not hear him, and smiled still as he went away, saying something to Mrs. Conway Sparkes as to the great change for the better which had taken place in her nephew's conduct.
"There's no knowing who may not reform," said Mrs. Sparkes, with an emphasis which seemed to Lady Monk to be almost uncourteous.
Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was in progress, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop. Lord Hartletop was a man not much more given to conversation than his wife, and Lady Glencora seemed to go through her work with very little gratification either in the dancing or in the society of her partner. She was simply standing up to dance, because, as she had told Mr. Palliser, ladies of her age generally do stand up on such occasions. Burgo watched her as she crossed and re-crossed the room, and at last she was aware of his presence. It made no change in her, except that she became even somewhat less animated than she had been before. She would not seem to see him, nor would she allow herself to be driven into a pretence of a conversation with her partner because he was there. "I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz," Burgo said to himself, as soon as the last figure of the quadrille was in action. "Why should I not ask her as well as any other woman?" Then the music ceased, and after a minute's interval Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room. Burgo, who had been standing near the door, followed them at once. The crowd was great, so that he could not get near them or even keep them in sight, but he was aware of the way in which they were going.
It was five minutes after this when he again saw her, and then she was seated on a cane bench in the gallery, and an old woman was standing close to her, talking to her. It was Mrs. Marsham cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was telling that lady that she needed no such advice, in words almost as curt as those I have used. Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that, as far as that was concerned, he had done his duty for the night. Burgo knew nothing of Mrs. Marsham,--had never seen her before, and was quite unaware that she had any special connection with Mr. Palliser. It was impossible, he thought, to find Lady Glencora in a better position for his purpose, so he made his way up to her through the crowd, and muttering some slight inaudible word, offered her his hand.
"That will do very well thank you, Mrs. Marsham," Lady Glencora said at this moment. "Pray, do not trouble yourself," and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald. Mrs. Marsham, though unknown to him, knew with quite sufficient accuracy who he was, and all his history, as far as it concerned her friend's wife. She had learned the whole story of the loves of Burgo and Lady Glencora. Though Mr. Palliser had never mentioned that man's name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna would make it expedient that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him should he come near the sheepfold. And there he was, close to them, almost leaning over them, with the hand of his late lady love,--the hand of Mr. Palliser's wife,--within his own! How Lady Glencora might have carried herself at this moment had Mrs. Marsham not been there, it is bootless now to surmise; but it may be well understood that under Mrs. Marsham's immediate eye all her resolution would be in Burgo's favour. She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she uttered no articulate word, her countenance seemed to show that the meeting was not unpleasant to her.
"Will you waltz?" said Burgo,--asking it not at all as though it were a special favour,--asking it exactly as he might have done had they been in the habit of dancing with each other every other night for the last three months.
"I don't think Lady Glencora will waltz to-night," said Mrs. Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else the enormity of Burgo's proposition had struck her so forcibly as to take away from her all her presence of mind. Otherwise, she must have been aware that such an answer from her would surely drive her friend's wife into open hostility.
"And why not, Mrs. Marsham?" said Lady Glencora rising from her seat. "Why shouldn't I waltz to-night? I rather think I shall, the more especially as Mr. Fitzgerald waltzes very well." Thereupon she put her hand upon Burgo's arm.
Mrs. Marsham made still a little effort,--a little effort that was probably involuntary. She put out her hand, and laid it on Lady Glencora's left shoulder, looking into her face as she did so with all the severity of caution of which she was mistress. Lady Glencora shook her duenna off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into the hands of this man who was now touching her, or whether she would not, she had not as yet decided; but of this she was very sure, that nothing said or done by Mrs. Marsham should have any effect in restraining her.
What could Mrs. Marsham do? Mr. Palliser was gone. Some rumour of that proposed visit to Monkshade, and the way in which it had been prevented, had reached her ear. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love, as married, the woman whom he had loved before she was married. There was a rumour about that he still had some hope. Mrs. Marsham had never believed that Mr. Palliser's wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe as a positive elopement that she had taken upon herself the duty of duenna. Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr. Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs. Marsham thought that she could accomplish. It had not hitherto occurred to her that she might be required to guard Mr. Palliser from positive dishonour; but now--now she hardly knew what to think about it. What should she do? To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr. Bott looming large before her on the top of the staircase.
[Illustration: Mr. Bott on the watch.]
In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo's arm. "Who is that woman?" said Burgo. They were the first words he spoke to her, though since he had last seen her he had written to her that letter which even now she carried about her. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close, and questions such as that he had asked were common between them. And her answer was of the same nature. "Oh, such an odious woman!" she said. "Her name is Mrs. Marsham; she is my bte noire." And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said of that which was Burgo's settled purpose, and which at some moments was her settled purpose also.
Burgo waltzed excellently, and in old days, before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping to the intermediate door between her den and the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott standing together just inside the other door, near to the staircase, looked on also--in horror.
"He shouldn't have gone away and left her," said Mr. Bott, almost hoarsely.
"But who could have thought it?" said Mrs. Marsham. "I'm sure I didn't."
"I suppose you'd better tell him?" said Mr. Bott.
"But I don't know where to find him," said Mrs. Marsham.
"I didn't mean now at once," said Mr. Bott;--and then he added, "Do you think it is as bad as that?"
"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Marsham.
The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath. "I am so much out of practice," said Lady Glencora; "I didn't think--I should have been able--to dance at all." Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and stretched her nostrils,--as ladies do as well as horses when the running has been severe and they want air.
"You'll take another turn," said he.
"Presently," said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs. Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.
"Does it put you in mind of old days?" said he.
It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth. It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views. The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity. There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back. "Does it put you in mind of 'old days?'" he said.
The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs. Marsham; her own unsettled mind--quite unsettled whether it would be best for her to go or to stay! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke to her.
It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost,--so often that they who say it now, say it simply because others have said it before them, never thinking whether or no there be any truth in the proverb. But they who have said so, thinking of their words as they were uttered, have known but little of women. Women doubt every day, who solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so, some by fear, more by conscience, but most of them by that half-prudential, half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the cirumstances, which rarely deserts either men or women till they have brought themselves to the Burgo Fitzgerald state of recklessness. Men when they have fallen even to that, will still keep up some outward show towards the world; but women in this condition defy the world, and declare themselves to be children of perdition. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.
"Does it put you in mind of old days?" said Burgo.
She was driven to answer, and she knew that much would be decided by the way in which she might now speak. "You must not talk of that," she said, very softly.
"May I not?" And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly. "May I not? And why not? They were happy days,--so happy! Were not you happy when you thought--? Ah, dear! I suppose it is best not even to think of them?"
"Much the best."
"Only it is impossible. I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish."
In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came from his lips upon her ears as a thing of custom, causing no surprise. They were standing back, behind the circle, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew well how to speak at such moments so that his words should be audible to none but her whom he addressed.
"You should not have come to me at all," she said.
"And why not? Who has a better right to come to you? Who has ever loved you as I have done? Cora, did you get my letter?"
"Come and dance," she said; "I see a pair of eyes looking at us." The pair of eyes which Lady Glencora saw were in the possession of Mr. Bott, who was standing alone, leaning against the side of the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners as from a vantage ground. He was quite alone. Mrs. Marsham had left him, and had gotten herself away in Lady Glencora's own carriage to Park Lane, in order that she might find Mr. Palliser there, if by chance he should be at home.
"Won't it be making mischief?" Mrs. Marsham had said when Mr. Bott had suggested this line of conduct.
"There'll be worse mischief if you don't," Mr. Bott had answered. "He can come back, and then he can do as he likes. I'll keep my eyes upon them." And so he did keep his eyes upon them.
Again they went round the room,--or that small portion of the room which the invading crowd had left to the dancers,--as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence. But there were others besides Mr. Bott who looked on and wondered. The Duchess of St. Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing,--for the Duchess was good at heart. Mrs. Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite,--as a thirsty man with a longing for wine will drink champagne,--for Mrs. Conway Sparkes was not good at heart. Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows. It was nothing to her. She liked to know what was going on, as such knowledge was sometimes useful; but, as for heart,--what she had was, in such a matter, neither good nor bad. Her blood circulated with its ordinary precision, and, in that respect, no woman ever had a better heart. Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow. "The fool!" she said to herself. She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing down the eyes of all her guests upon his attempt. In the meantime Mr. Bott stood there, mounting still higher on his toes, straightening his back against the wall.
"Did you get my letter?" Burgo said again, as soon as a moment's pause gave him breath to speak. She did not answer him. Perhaps her breath did not return to her as rapidly as his. But, of course, he knew that she had received it. She would have quickly signified to him that no letter from him had come to her hands had it not reached her. "Let us go out upon the stairs," he said, "for I must speak to you. Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade! Why did you not come?"
"I wish I had not come here," she said.
"Because you have seen me? That, at any rate, is not kind of you."
They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room. All the world was now intent on food and drink, and they were only doing as others did. Lady Glencora was not thinking where she went, but, glancing upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, her eyes met those of Mr. Bott. "A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him." That was the thought that crossed her mind at the moment.
"I'll get you some champagne with water in it," said Burgo. "I know that is what you like."
"Do not get me anything," she said. They had now got into the room, and had therefore escaped Mr. Bott's eyes for the moment. "Mr. Fitzgerald,"--and now her words had become a whisper in his ear,--"do what I ask you. For the sake of the old days of which you spoke, the dear old days which can never come again--"
"By G----! they can," said he. "They can come back, and they shall."
"Never. But you can still do me a kindness. Go away, and leave me. Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back. You are doing me an injury while you remain with me."
"Cora," he said,
But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream, but words and things bore to her again their proper meaning. "I will not have it, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, speaking almost passionately. "I will not have it. Do as I bid you. Go and leave me, and do not return. I tell you that we are watched." This was still true, for Mr. Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door. Whatever was the reward for which he was working, private secretaryship or what else, it must be owned that he worked hard for it. But there are labours which are labours of love.
"Who is watching us?" said Burgo; "and what does it matter? If you are minded to do as I have asked you--"
"But I am not so minded. Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?"
"Yes;--it is an insult, Cora,--unless such an offer be a joy to you. If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult."
"How can I be that?" Her face was not turned to him, and her words were half-pronounced, and in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.
"Come with me,--abroad, and you shall yet be my wife. You got my letter? Do what I asked you, then. Come with me--to-night."
The pressing instance of the suggestion, the fixing of a present hour, startled her back to her propriety. "Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, "I asked you to go and leave me. If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you. It will be much more difficult."
"And is that to be all?"
"All;--at any rate, now." Oh, Glencora! how could you be so weak? Why did you add that word, "now"? In truth, she added it then, at that moment, simply feeling that she could thus best secure an immediate compliance with her request.
"I will not go," he said, looking at her sternly, and leaning before her, with earnest face, with utter indifference as to the eyes of any that might see them. "I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again."
"I will," she said in that low, all-but-unuttered whisper.
"When,--when,--when?" he asked.
Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr. Bott's eyes, she saw the face of Mr. Palliser as he entered the room. Mr. Bott had also seen him, and had tried to clutch him by the arm; but Mr. Palliser had shaken him off, apparently with indifference,--had got rid of him, as it were, without noticing him. Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage. She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done. For the matter of that, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper such a word to Burgo himself. Mr. Bott's eyes were odious to her as they watched her; but her husband's glance she could meet without quailing before it. "Here is Mr. Palliser," said she, speaking again in her ordinary clear-toned voice. Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.
Mr. Palliser made his way as best he could through the crowd up to his wife. He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret. There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor was there any untoward hurry in his movement. Burgo stood aside as he came up, and Lady Glencora was the first to speak. "I thought you were gone home hours ago," she said.
"I did go home," he answered, "but I thought I might as well come back for you."
"What a model of a husband! Well; I am ready. Only, what shall we do about Jane? Mr. Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt's room,--a little black and yellow scarf,--would you mind getting it for me?"
"I will fetch it," said Mr. Palliser; "and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her."
"If you will allow me--" said Burgo.
"I will do it," said Mr. Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress up through the crowd, ordering his carriage as he passed through the hall, and leaving Mr. Bott still watching at the door.
Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone. There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them again together, which so far conquered her. He might have bade her leave the scarf, and come at once. She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr. Bott, and was thankful to him also for that. Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance for that time was over. "I will say good-night," he said. "Good-night, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, giving him her hand. He pressed it for a moment, and then turned and went. When Mr. Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.
Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door when her husband returned, standing close to Mr. Bott. Mr. Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply. He spoke again, but her face remained as immovable as though she had been deaf. "And what shall we do about Mrs. Marsham?" she said, quite out loud, as soon as she put her hand on her husband's arm. "I had forgotten her."
"Mrs. Marsham has gone home," he replied.
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes."
"When did you see her?"
"She came to Park Lane."
"What made her do that?"
These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage. She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not find it necessary to answer it. But that would not serve her turn. "What made Mrs. Marsham go to you at Park Lane after she left Lady Monk's?" she asked again. Mr. Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject. "I suppose she went," continued Lady Glencora, "to tell you that I was dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald. Was that it?"
"I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now."
"I don't mean to discuss it now, or ever. If you did not wish me to see Mr. Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk's. But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs. Marsham or Mr. Bott."
Mr. Palliser absolutely declined to say anything on the subject on that occasion, and the evening of Lady Monk's party in this way came to an end.

Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning against the wall at the bottom of the staircase; and some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind.
This thing that he was about to attempt - was it good, and would it be good for Glencora? What would her future be if she consented to go with him, and to leave her husband? Of his own future he thought not at all. He had never done so. Even when he had first found himself attracted by her wealth, it simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table. But now he did think a little of her. Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all regarded her as degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her?
And, under such circumstances, would he continue to love her? Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant and untrustworthy of men? He asked himself these questions with something of true feeling, and almost persuaded himself that he had better wander forth into the streets. If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things.
But then he remembered his aunt's two hundred pounds, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given. As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and refunding the money - that was impossible! He could not give back two hundred pounds. So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a deep sigh, and took himself upstairs.
He looked in at his aunt's room.
"Well, Burgo," she said, with her sweetest smile, "have you been dancing?" He turned away, muttering something about a cold-blooded Jezebel. But she did not hear, and smiled as he went.
Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop. Lady Glencora seemed to enjoy neither the dancing nor the society of her partner. She was simply standing up to dance because it was the correct thing to do. Burgo watched her, and at last she became aware of his presence. It made no change in her, except that she became even less animated than before. She would not seem to see him.
"I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz," Burgo said to himself. Then the music ceased, and Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room. Burgo followed them. The crowd was so great that he could not get near them, but he knew which way they were going.
Five minutes later he again saw her, seated on a cane bench in the gallery, with an old woman standing close to her, talking to her. It was Mrs. Marsham, cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was curtly telling that lady that she needed no such advice. Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that he had done his duty for the night.
Burgo knew nothing of Mrs. Marsham, and was quite unaware that she had any connection with Mr. Palliser. So he made his way up to Lady Glencora through the crowd, and muttering some inaudible word, offered her his hand.
"That will do very well, thank you, Mrs. Marsham," Lady Glencora said. "Pray, do not trouble yourself," and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald.
Mrs. Marsham knew who he was, and all his history. Though Mr. Palliser had never mentioned his name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna meant that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him.
And there he was, leaning over them, taking the hand of Mr. Palliser's wife! How Lady Glencora might have behaved at this moment if Mrs. Marsham not been there, it is pointless to guess; but under Mrs. Marsham's eye, all her resolution was in Burgo's favour. She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she said nothing, her face seemed to show pleasure.
"Will you waltz?" said Burgo, asking as though it were a commonplace event.
"I don't think Lady Glencora will waltz tonight," said Mrs. Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else she would have been aware that this answer would drive her friend's wife into open hostility.
"And why not, Mrs. Marsham?" said Lady Glencora, rising from her seat. "Why shouldn't I waltz tonight? I rather think I shall, especially as Mr. Fitzgerald waltzes very well." She put her hand upon Burgo's arm.
Mrs. Marsham laid a hand on Lady Glencora's left shoulder, looking into her face with all the severity of caution of which she was capable. Lady Glencora shook her off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into Burgo's hands, she had not yet decided; but she was very sure that Mrs. Marsham should not restrain her.
What could Mrs. Marsham do? Mr. Palliser was gone home. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love Lady Glencora. Mrs. Marsham had never believed that Mr. Palliser's wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe that she had taken on the duty of duenna: it was merely to mould her into a form appropriate for the wife of Mr. Palliser. It had not occurred to her that she might need to guard Mr. Palliser from positive dishonour; but now she hardly knew what to think. What should she do? To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr. Bott at the top of the staircase.
In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo's arm.
"Who is that woman?" said Burgo. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close.
"Oh, such an odious woman!" she said. "Her name is Mrs. Marsham; she is my bte noire." And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said about Burgo's purpose.
Burgo waltzed excellently, and before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping from her den to the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott, standing together just inside the other door, looked on also - in horror.
"He shouldn't have gone away and left her," said Mr. Bott, almost hoarsely.
"But who could have thought it?" said Mrs. Marsham. "I'm sure I didn't."
"I suppose you'd better tell him?" said Mr. Bott.
"But I don't know where to find him," said Mrs. Marsham.
"I didn't mean now, at once," said Mr. Bott. "Do you think it is as bad as that?"
"I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Marsham.
The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath.
"I am so much out of practice," said Lady Glencora; "I didn't think I should have been able - to dance at all." Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and breathed deep.
"You'll take another turn," said he.
"Presently," said she, beginning to wonder whether Mrs. Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice, knowing that he must use this opportunity.
"Does it remind you of old days?"
The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice so that she might be guarded from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger about Mrs. Marsham! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke.
It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost. But they who have said so have known little of women. Women doubt every day, and many solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so by fear, or conscience, but mostly by that half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the circumstances. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.
"Does it remind you of old days?" said Burgo.
"You must not talk of that," she said, very softly.
"May I not?" And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly. "May I not? Why not? They were happy days - so happy! Were not you happy when you thought Ah, dear! I suppose it is best not even to think of them?"
"Much the best."
"Only it is impossible. I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish."
In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came as no surprise. They were standing back, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew his words were audible to none but her whom he addressed.
"You should not have come to me at all," she said.
"And why not? Who has a better right to come to you? Who has ever loved you as I have done? Cora, did you get my letter?"
"Come and dance," she said; "I see a pair of eyes looking at us." The pair of eyes which she saw were Mr. Bott's. He was standing alone in the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners from above. Mrs. Marsham had left him, and had gone in Lady Glencora's own carriage to Park Lane, in order to look there for Mr. Palliser.
"Won't it be making mischief?" Mrs. Marsham had said when Mr. Bott had suggested this.
"There'll be worse mischief if you don't," Mr. Bott had answered. "He can come back, and then do as he likes. I'll keep my eyes upon them." And so he did.
Again they went round the room as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence. But there were others besides Mr. Bott who looked on and wondered. The Duchess of St. Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing, for the Duchess was good at heart. Mrs. Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite; for Mrs. Conway Sparkes was not good at heart. Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows. It was nothing to her. She liked to know what was going on; but, as for her heart, what she had was neither good nor bad.
Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow. "The fool!" she said to herself. She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing the eyes of all her guests.
"Did you get my letter?" Burgo said again. Glencora did not answer. But, of course, he knew that she had received it. "Let us go out upon the stairs," he said, "for I must speak to you. Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade!"
"I wish I had not come here," she said.
"Because you have seen me? That is not kind of you."
They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room; for all the world was now intent on food and drink. Lady Glencora glanced upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, and her eyes met those of Mr. Bott.
"A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him." That was the thought that crossed her mind.
"I'll get you some champagne with water in it," said Burgo. "I know that is what you like."
"Do not get me anything," she said. They had now got into the supper-room, and had escaped Mr. Bott's eyes for the moment. "Mr. Fitzgerald," - and now she whispered - "do what I ask you. For the sake of the old days which can never come again-"
"By G--! they can," said he.
"Never. But you can still do me a kindness. Go away, and leave me. Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back. You are doing me an injury while you remain with me."
"Cora," he said.
But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream. "I will not have it, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, speaking almost passionately. "I will not have it. Do as I bid you. Go and leave me, and do not return. I tell you that we are watched." This was still true, for Mr. Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door.
"Who is watching us?" said Burgo; "and what does it matter? If you are minded to do as I have asked you-"
"But I am not so minded. Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?"
"If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult."
"How can I be that?" Her face was not turned to him, and her words were in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.
"Come with me, abroad, and you shall be my wife. You got my letter? Do what I asked you, then. Come with me - tonight."
"Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, "I asked you to go and leave me. If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you. It will be much more difficult."
"And is that to be all?"
"All; at any rate, now." Oh, Glencora! how could you be so weak? Why did you add that word, "now"? In truth, she added it simply feeling that it was the best way to make him obey.
"I will not go," he said, looking at her sternly and earnestly, utterly indifferent to any watching eyes. "I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again."
"I will," she said in that low whisper.
"When - when?"
Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr. Bott's eyes, she saw the face of Mr. Palliser as he entered the room. Mr. Bott had tried to clutch his arm; but Mr. Palliser had shaken him off, apparently without noticing him.
Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage. She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done. For that matter, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper it to Burgo himself. Mr. Bott's eyes were odious to her; but her husband's glance she could meet without quailing.
"Here is Mr. Palliser," said she, speaking in her ordinary clear-toned voice. Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.
Mr. Palliser made his way through the crowd up to his wife. He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret. There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor untoward hurry in his movement. Burgo stood aside as he came up.
Lady Glencora said, "I thought you were gone home hours ago."
"I did go home," he answered, "but I thought I might as well come back for you."
"What a model of a husband! Well; I am ready. Only what shall we do about Jane? Mr. Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt's room - a little black and yellow scarf - would you mind getting it for me?"
"I will fetch it," said Mr. Palliser; "and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her."
"If you will allow me-" said Burgo.
"I will do it," said Mr. Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress through the crowd, leaving Mr. Bott still watching at the door.
Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone. There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them together. He might have ordered her to leave the scarf behind, and come at once. She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr. Bott, and was thankful to him also for that.
Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance was over, for the moment.
"I will say good-night," he said.
"Good-night, Mr. Fitzgerald," she answered, giving him her hand. He pressed it, and then turned and went. When Mr. Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.
Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door, near Mr. Bott, when her husband returned. Mr. Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply
"And what shall we do about Mrs. Marsham?" she said, out loud, as she put her hand on her husband's arm. "I had forgotten her."
"Mrs. Marsham has gone home," he replied.
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes."
"When did you see her?"
"She came to Park Lane."
"What made her do that?"
These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage. She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not answer.
But she repeated, "What made Mrs. Marsham go to you at Park Lane?" Mr. Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject. "I suppose she went," continued Lady Glencora, "to tell you that I was dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald. Was that it?"
"I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now."
"I don't mean to discuss it now, or ever. If you did not wish me to see Mr. Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk's. But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs. Marsham or Mr. Bott."
Mr. Palliser did not reply. Thus the evening of Lady Monk's party came to an end.

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


Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall with her grandfather. The journey was not a pleasant one. Mr. Vavasor knew that it was his duty to do something,--to take some steps with the view of preventing the marriage which his daughter meditated; but he did not know what that something should be, and he did know that, whatever it might be, the doing of it would be thoroughly disagreeable. When they started from Vavasor he had as yet hardly spoken to her a word upon the subject. "I cannot congratulate you," he had simply said. "I hope the time may come, papa, when you will," Alice had answered; and that had been all.
The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson, if Alice's father would express himself satisfied with the proposed marriage. John Vavasor had certainly expressed nothing of the kind. "I think so badly of him," he had said, speaking to the old man of George, "that I would rather know that almost any other calamity was to befall her, than that she should be united to him." Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had taken up the cudgels on behalf of his grandson; and had tried to prove that the match after all would not be so bad in its results as his son seemed to expect. "It would do very well for the property," he said. "I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform as well as another." John Vavasor had then declared that George was thoroughly bad, that he was an adventurer; that he believed him to be a ruined man, and that he would never reform. The squire upon this had waxed angry, and in this way George obtained aid and assistance down at the old house, which he certainly had no right to expect. When Alice wished her grandfather good-bye the old man gave her a message to his grandson. "You may tell him," said he, "that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his personal bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon his child and yours. I shall always be glad to see you, my dear; and for your sake, I will see him if he will humble himself to me." There was no word spoken then about her father's consent; and Alice, when she left Vavasor, felt that the squire was rather her friend than her enemy in regard to this thing which she contemplated. That her father was and would be an uncompromising enemy to her,--uncompromising though probably not energetical,--she was well aware; and, therefore, the journey up to London was not comfortable.
Alice had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience. "There cannot be obedience on one side," she said to herself, "without protection and support on the other." Now it was quite true that John Vavasor had done little in the way of supporting or protecting his daughter. Early in life, before she had resided under the same roof with him in London, he had, as it were, washed his hands of all solicitude regarding her; and having no other ties of family, had fallen into habits of life which made it almost impossible for him to live with her as any other father would live with his child. Then, when there first sprang up between them that manner of sharing the same house without any joining together of their habits of life, he had excused himself to himself by saying that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection. Her fortune was her own, and at her own disposal. Her character was such that she showed no inclination to throw the burden of such disposal on her father's shoulders. She was steady, too, and given to no pursuits which made it necessary that he should watch closely over her. She was a girl, he thought, who could do as well without surveillance as with it,--as well, or perhaps better. So it had come to pass that Alice had been the free mistress of her own actions, and had been left to make the most she could of her own hours. It cannot be supposed that she had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month, without telling herself that her father was neglecting her. She could not perceive that he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, without feeling that the tie between her and him was not the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child. She was well aware that she had been ill-used in being thus left desolate in her home. She had uttered no word of complaint; but she had learned, without being aware that she was doing so, to entertain a firm resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life. In that affair of John Grey they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had believed that his theory with reference to Alice had been quite correct. She had been left to herself, and was going to dispose of herself in a way than which nothing could be more eligible. But evil days were now coming, and Mr. Vavasor, as he travelled up to London, with his daughter seated opposite to him in the railway carriage, felt that now, at last, he must interfere. In part of the journey they had the carriage to themselves, and Mr. Vavasor thought that he would begin what he had to say; but he put it off till others joined them, and then there was no further opportunity for such conversation as that which would be necessary between them. They reached home about eight in the evening, having dined on the road. "She will be tired to-night," he said to himself, as he went off to his club, "and I will speak to her to-morrow." Alice specially felt his going on this evening. When two persons had together the tedium of such a journey as that from Westmoreland up to London, there should be some feeling between them to bind them together while enjoying the comfort of the evening. Had he stayed and sat with her at her tea-table, Alice would at any rate have endeavoured to be soft with him in any discussion that might have been raised; but he went away from her at once, leaving her to think alone over the perils of the life before her. "I want to speak to you after breakfast to-morrow," he said as he went out. Alice answered that she should be there,--as a matter of course. She scorned to tell him that she was always there,--always alone at home. She had never uttered a word of complaint, and she would not begin now.
The discussion after breakfast the next day was commenced with formal and almost ceremonial preparation. The father and daughter breakfasted together, with the knowledge that the discussion was coming. It did not give to either of them a good appetite, and very little was said at table.
"Will you come up-stairs?" said Alice, when she perceived that her father had finished his tea.
"Perhaps that will be best," said he. Then he followed her into the drawing-room in which the fire had just been lit.
"Alice," said he, "I must speak to you about this engagement of yours."
"Won't you sit down, papa? It does look so dreadful, your standing up over one in that way." He had placed himself on the rug with his back to the incipient fire, but now, at her request, he sat himself down opposite to her.
"I was greatly grieved when I heard of this at Vavasor."
"I am sorry that you should be grieved, papa."
"I was grieved. I must confess that I never could understand why you treated Mr. Grey as you have done."
"Oh, papa, that's done and past. Pray let that be among the bygones."
"Does he know yet of your engagement with your cousin?"
"He will know it by this time to-morrow."
"Then I beg of you, as a great favour, to postpone your letter to him." To this Alice made no answer. "I have not troubled you with many such requests, Alice. Will you tell me that this one shall be granted?"
"I think that I owe it to him as an imperative duty to let him know the truth."
"But you may change your mind again." Alice found that this was hard to bear and hard to answer; but there was a certain amount of truth in the grievous reproach conveyed in her father's words, which made her bow her neck to it. "I have no right to say that it is impossible," she replied, in words that were barely audible.
"No;--exactly so," said her father. "And therefore it will be better that you should postpone any such communication."
"For how long do you mean?"
"Till you and I shall have agreed together that he should be told."
"No, papa; I will not consent to that. I consider myself bound to let him know the truth without delay. I have done him a great injury, and I must put an end to that as soon as possible."
"You have done him an injury certainly, my dear;--a very great injury," said Mr. Vavasor, going away from his object about the proposed letter; "and I believe he will feel it as such to the last day of his life, if this goes on."
"I hope not. I believe that it will not be so. I feel sure that it will not be so."
"But of course what I am thinking of now is your welfare,--not his. When you simply told me that you intended to--." Alice winced, for she feared to hear from her father that odious word which her grandfather had used to her; and indeed the word had been on her father's lips, but he had refrained and spared her--"that you intended to break your engagement with Mr. Grey," he continued, "I said little or nothing to you. I would not ask you to marry any man, even though you had yourself promised to marry him. But when you tell me that you are engaged to your cousin George, the matter is very different. I do not think well of your cousin. Indeed I think anything but well of him. It is my duty to tell you that the world speaks very ill of him." He paused, but Alice remained silent. "When you were about to travel with him," he continued, "I ought perhaps to have told you the same. But I did not wish to pain you or his sister; and, moreover, I have heard worse of him since then,--much worse than I had heard before."
"As you did not tell me before, I think you might spare me now," said Alice.
"No, my dear; I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself without telling you that you are doing so. If it were not for your money he would never think of marrying you."
"Of that I am well aware," said Alice. "He has told me so himself very plainly."
"And yet you will marry him?"
"Certainly I will. It seems to me, papa, that there is a great deal of false feeling about this matter of money in marriage,--or rather, perhaps, a great deal of pretended feeling. Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get that for which every man is struggling? At this point of George's career the use of money is essential to him. He could not marry without it."
"You had better then give him your money without yourself," said her father, speaking in irony.
"That is just what I mean to do, papa," said Alice.
"What!" said Mr. Vavasor, jumping up from his seat. "You mean to give him your money before you marry him?"
"Certainly I do;--if he should want it;--or, I should rather say, as much as he may want of it."
"Heavens and earth!" exclaimed Mr. Vavasor. "Alice, you must be mad."
"To part with my money to my friend?" said she. "It is a kind of madness of which I need not at any rate be ashamed."
"Tell me this, Alice; has he got any of it as yet?"
"Not a shilling. Papa, pray do not look at me like that. If I had no thought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent to my cousin what money he might need."
"I should only say that so much of your fortune was thrown away, and if it were not much that would be an end of it. I would sooner see you surrender to him the half of all you have, without any engagement to marry him, than know that he had received a shilling from you under such a promise."
"You are prejudiced against him, sir."
"Was it prejudice that made you reject him once before? Did you condemn him then through prejudice? Had you not ascertained that he was altogether unworthy of you?"
"We were both younger, then," said Alice, speaking very softly, but very seriously. "We were both much younger then, and looked at life with other eyes than those which we now use. For myself I expected much then, which I now seem hardly to regard at all; and as for him, he was then attached to pleasures to which I believe he has now learned to be indifferent."
"Psha!" ejaculated the father.
"I can only speak as I believe," continued Alice. "And I think I may perhaps know more of his manner of life than you do, papa. But I am prepared to run risks now which I feared before. Even though he were all that you think him to be, I would still endeavour to do my duty to him, and to bring him to other things."
"What is it you expect to get by marrying him?" asked Mr. Vavasor.
"A husband whose mode of thinking is congenial to my own," answered Alice. "A husband who proposes to himself a career in life with which I can sympathize. I think that I may perhaps help my cousin in the career which he has chosen, and that alone is a great reason why I should attempt to do so."
"With your money?" said Mr. Vavasor with a sneer.
"Partly with my money," said Alice, disdaining to answer the sneer. "Though it were only with my money, even that would be something."
"Well, Alice, as your father, I can only implore you to pause before you commit yourself to his hands. If he demands money from you, and you are minded to give it to him, let him have it in moderation. Anything will be better than marrying him. I know that I cannot hinder you; you are as much your own mistress as I am my own master,--or rather a great deal more, as my income depends on my going to that horrid place in Chancery Lane. But yet I suppose you must think something of your father's wishes and your father's opinion. It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altar without my being there near you."
To this Alice made no answer; but she told herself that it had not been pleasant to her to have stood at so many places during the last four years,--and to have found herself so often alone,--without her father being near to her. That had been his fault, and it was not now in her power to remedy the ill-effects of it.
"Has any day been fixed between you and him?" he asked.
"No, papa."
"Nothing has been said about that?"
"Yes; something has been said. I have told him that it cannot be for a year yet. It is because I told him that, that I told him also that he should have my money when he wanted it."
"Not all of it?" said Mr. Vavasor.
"I don't suppose he will need it all. He intends to stand again for Chelsea, and it is the great expense of the election which makes him want money. You are not to suppose that he has asked me for it. When I made him understand that I did not wish to marry quite yet, I offered him the use of that which would be ultimately his own."
"And he has accepted it?"
"He answered me just as I had intended,--that when the need came he would take me at my word."
"Then, Alice, I will tell you what is my belief. He will drain you of every shilling of your money, and when that is gone, there will be no more heard of the marriage. We must take a small house in some cheap part of the town and live on my income as best we may. I shall go and insure my life, so that you may not absolutely starve when I die." Having said this, Mr. Vavasor went away, not immediately to the insurance office, as his words seemed to imply, but to his club where he sat alone, reading the newspaper, very gloomily, till the time came for his afternoon rubber of whist, and the club dinner bill for the day was brought under his eye.
Alice had no such consolations in her solitude. She had fought her battle with her father tolerably well, but she was now called upon to fight a battle with herself, which was one much more difficult to win. Was her cousin, her betrothed as she now must regard him, the worthless, heartless, mercenary rascal which her father painted him? There had certainly been a time, and that not very long distant, in which Alice herself had been almost constrained so to regard him. Since that any change for the better in her opinion of him had been grounded on evidence given either by himself or by his sister Kate. He had done nothing to inspire her with any confidence, unless his reckless daring in coming forward to contest a seat in Parliament could be regarded as a doing of something. And he had owned himself to be a man almost penniless; he had spoken of himself as being utterly reckless,--as being one whose standing in the world was and must continue to be a perch on the edge of a precipice, from which any accident might knock him headlong. Alice believed in her heart that this last profession or trade to which he had applied himself, was becoming as nothing to him,--that he received from it no certain income;--no income that a man could make to appear respectable to fathers or guardians when seeking a girl in marriage. Her father declared that all men spoke badly of him. Alice knew her father to be an idle man, a man given to pleasure, to be one who thought by far too much of the good things of the world; but she had never found him to be either false or malicious. His unwonted energy in this matter was in itself evidence that he believed himself to be right in what he said.
To tell the truth, Alice was frightened at what she had done, and almost repented of it already. Her acceptance of her cousin's offer had not come of love;--nor had it, in truth, come chiefly of ambition. She had not so much asked herself why she should do this thing, as why she should not do it,--seeing that it was required of her by her friend. What after all did it matter? That was her argument with herself. It cannot be supposed that she looked back on the past events of her life with any self-satisfaction. There was no self-satisfaction, but in truth there was more self-reproach than she deserved. As a girl she had loved her cousin George passionately, and that love had failed her. She did not tell herself that she had been wrong when she gave him up, but she thought herself to have been most unfortunate in the one necessity. After such an experience as that, would it not have been better for her to have remained without further thought of marriage?
Then came that terrible episode in her life for which she never could forgive herself. She had accepted Mr. Grey because she liked him and honoured him. "And I did love him," she said to herself, now on this morning. Poor, wretched, heart-wrung woman! As she sat there thinking of it all in her solitude she was to be pitied at any rate, if not to be forgiven. Now, as she thought of Nethercoats, with its quiet life, its gardens, its books, and the peaceful affectionate ascendancy of him who would have been her lord and master, her feelings were very different from those which had induced her to resolve that she would not stoop to put her neck beneath that yoke. Would it not have been well for her to have a master who by his wisdom and strength could save her from such wretched doubtings as these? But she had refused to bend, and then she had found herself desolate and alone in the world.
"If I can do him good why should I not marry him?" In that feeling had been the chief argument which had induced her to return such an answer as she had sent to her cousin. "For myself, what does it matter? As to this life of mine and all that belongs to it, why should I regard it otherwise than to make it of some service to some one who is dear to me?" He had been ever dear to her from her earliest years. She believed in his intellect, even if she could not believe in his conduct. Kate, her friend, longed for this thing. As for that dream of love, it meant nothing; and as for those arguments of prudence,--that cold calculation about her money, which all people seemed to expect from her,--she would throw it to the winds. What if she were ruined! There was always the other chance. She might save him from ruin, and help him to honour and fortune.
But then, when the word was once past her lips, there returned to her that true woman's feeling which made her plead for a long day,--which made her feel that that long day would be all too short,--which made her already dread the coming of the end of the year. She had said that she would become George Vavasor's wife, but she wished that the saying so might be the end of it. When he came to her to embrace her how should she receive him? The memory of John Grey's last kiss still lingered on her lips. She had told herself that she scorned the delights of love; if it were so, was she not bound to keep herself far from them; if it were so,--would not her cousin's kiss pollute her?
"It may be as my father says," she thought. "It may be that he wants my money only; if so, let him have it. Surely when the year is over I shall know." Then a plan formed itself in her head, which she did not make willingly, with any voluntary action of her mind,--but which came upon her as plans do come,--and recommended itself to her in despite of herself. He should have her money as he might call for it,--all of it excepting some small portion of her income, which might suffice to keep her from burdening her father. Then, if he were contented, he should go free, without reproach, and there should be an end of all question of marriage for her.
As she thought of this, and matured it in her mind, the door opened, and the servant announced her cousin George.

Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall. The journey was not a pleasant one. Mr. Vavasor knew that he ought to do something to prevent his daughter marrying George Vavasor; but he did not know what that something should be, although he did know that doing it would be thoroughly disagreeable.
The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson, if Alice's father would say he was satisfied with the marriage. But John Vavasor had said nothing of the kind.
"I think so badly of George," he had said, "that I would rather almost any other calamity happened to her, than that she should marry him." Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had argued on his grandson's side.
"It would do very well for the property," he said. "I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform."
John Vavasor had declared that George was thoroughly bad, and would never reform. The squire had grown angry. When Alice wished him goodbye, the old man gave her a message to his grandson.
"You may tell him," said he, "that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon your child. I shall always be glad to see you, my dear."
Alice felt that the squire was her friend rather than her enemy in the matter. However she was well aware that her father was an uncompromising enemy, so the journey up to London was not comfortable. She had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience.
"There cannot be obedience on one side," she said to herself, "without protection and support on the other." It was quite true that John Vavasor had done little to support or protect his daughter. Early in life, before she had come to live with him, he had, as it were, washed his hands of her upbringing. Then, when they first shared the same house, he did not attempt to change his bachelor ways, telling himself that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection. She was steady and independently minded, and he thought she needed no surveillance.
So Alice had been left to make the most she could of her own hours. She had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month; and when he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, she could not help feeling that she lacked the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child. She had uttered no word of complaint; but she had learned to resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life.
In that affair of John Grey they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had been content to leave her alone. But now, as he sat opposite his daughter in the railway carriage, he felt that he must interfere. However, he put off speaking, and then others joined them in the carriage, and he could not say what he felt necessary. They reached home about eight in the evening, having dined on the road.
"She will be tired tonight," he said to himself, as he went off to his club, "and I will speak to her tomorrow." Alice specially felt his going out on this evening. If he had stayed and sat with her at the tea-table, she would have endeavoured to be soft with him in any discussion; but he went at once.
"I want to speak to you after breakfast tomorrow," he said as he went out. Alice answered that she should be there. She scorned to tell him that she was always there, always alone at home. She had never complained, and she would not begin now.
The discussion the next day began with formal and almost ceremonial preparation.
"Will you come upstairs?" said Alice.
"Perhaps that will be best," said he, and followed her into the drawing-room. "Alice, I must speak to you about this engagement."
"Won't you sit down, papa? It does look so dreadful, your standing up over one in that way." He had stood with his back to the fire, but now he sat down.
"I was greatly grieved when I heard of this."
"I am sorry that you should be grieved, papa."
"Does Mr. Grey know yet of your engagement with your cousin?"
"He will know it by this time tomorrow."
"Then I beg of you to postpone your letter to him."
"I think it is my duty to let him know the truth."
"But you may change your mind again."
Alice found that this was hard to bear; but there was a certain amount of truth in it which made her bow her head. "I have no right to say that it is impossible," she replied, in words that were barely audible.
"Exactly so," said her father. "Therefore it will be better that you should postpone your letter."
"For how long?"
"Till you and I shall have agreed together that he should be told."
"No, papa; I will not consent to that. I consider myself bound to let him know the truth without delay. I have done him a great injury, and I must put an end to that as soon as possible."
"You have done him a very great injury certainly, my dear," said Mr. Vavasor; "and I believe he will feel it to the last day of his life."
"I hope not. I believe not."
"But of course I am thinking now of your welfare, not his. When you simply told me that you intended to break your engagement, I said little or nothing. I would not ask you to marry any man. But when you tell me that you are engaged to your cousin George, the matter is very different. I do not think well of your cousin. Indeed I must tell you that the world speaks very ill of him." He paused, but Alice remained silent. "When you were about to travel with him," he continued, "I ought perhaps to have told you. But I did not wish to pain you or his sister; and since then, I have heard much worse of him than I had heard before. If it were not for your money he would never think of marrying you."
"Of that I am well aware," said Alice. "He has told me so very plainly."
"And yet you will marry him?"
"Certainly. Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get the money for which every man is struggling? At this point of George's career money is essential to him. He could not marry without it."
"Then you had better give him your money without yourself," said her father, speaking in irony.
"That is just what I mean to do, papa," said Alice.
"What!" said Mr. Vavasor, jumping up. "You mean to give him your money before you marry him?"
"Certainly I do, if he wants it - or some of it."
"Heavens and earth!" exclaimed Mr. Vavasor. "Alice, you must be mad."
"To give money to my friend?" said she. "It is a kind of madness of which I need not be ashamed."
"Tell me this, Alice; has he got any of it as yet?"
"Not a shilling. Papa, pray do not look at me like that. If I had no thought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent money to my cousin."
"I should say that so much of your fortune was thrown away. When you rejected him before, did you not see that he was altogether unworthy of you?"
"We were both younger then," said Alice, speaking softly, but very seriously. "We looked at life with different eyes. I expected much then, which I now seem hardly to regard at all; and he was attached to pleasures to which he has now learned to be indifferent."
"Psha!" ejaculated the father.
"I can only say what I believe," continued Alice. "And I think I know more of his way of life than you do, papa. But I am prepared to run risks now which I feared before. Even if he were all that you think, I would still try to do my duty to him, and to bring him to other things."
"What is it you expect to get by marrying him?"
"A husband whose mode of thinking is congenial to my own," answered Alice. "A husband who proposes to build a career with which I can sympathize, and perhaps help."
"With your money?" said Mr. Vavasor with a sneer.
"Partly with my money."
"Well, Alice, I can only implore you to pause before you commit yourself to his hands. If he demands money from you, give it to him in moderation. Anything will be better than marrying him. I know that I cannot stop you; you are your own mistress. But I suppose you must think something of your father's opinion. It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altar without me."
To this Alice made no answer; but she told herself that it had not been pleasant to have stood at so many places during the last four years alone, without her father.
"Has any day been fixed?" he asked.
"No, papa. I have told him that it cannot be for a year yet, although I told him also that he should have my money when he wanted it."
"Not all of it?" said Mr. Vavasor.
"I don't suppose he will need it all. He intends to stand again for Chelsea, and it is the expense of the election which makes him need money. He has not asked me for it. I offered him the use of it."
"And he has accepted?"
"He answered that when the need came he would take me at my word."
"Then, Alice, I will tell you what I believe. He will drain you of every shilling, and when that is gone, there will be no more heard of the marriage. We must take a small house in some cheap part of the town and live on my income as best we may. I shall go and insure my life, so that you may not starve when I die." Having said this, Mr. Vavasor went away, not to the insurance office, but to his club where he sat reading the newspaper, very gloomily, till the time came for whist and dinner.
Alice had no such consolations in her solitude. She had fought her battle with her father, but she now had to fight a battle with herself. Was her cousin - her betrothed - the worthless, heartless, mercenary rascal which her father painted him? There had certainly been a time when Alice herself had almost felt so. Any change for the better in her opinion of him had been grounded on evidence given either by himself or by his sister Kate. He had done nothing to inspire her with any confidence. He had admitted that he was almost penniless; he had spoken of himself as being utterly reckless. Her father declared that all men spoke badly of him. Alice knew her father to be an idle man, but she had never found him to be false or malicious. He believed in what he said.
To tell the truth, Alice was frightened at what she had done, and almost repented of it already. Her acceptance of her cousin's offer had not come of love; nor even of ambition. She had not so much asked herself why she should do this thing, as why should she not do it? Her friend wished it, and after all what did it matter? That was her argument with herself.
It cannot be supposed that she looked back on her past life with any self-satisfaction. In truth she felt more self-reproach than she deserved. As a girl she had loved her cousin George passionately, and that love had failed. After that, would it not have been better for her to have remained without further thought of marriage?
Then came that terrible episode in her life for which she never could forgive herself. She had accepted Mr. Grey because she liked him and honoured him.
"And I did love him," she said to herself now. Poor heart-wrung woman! As she thought of Nethercoats, with its quiet life, its gardens, its books, and the peaceful affectionate ascendancy of its master, her feelings were very different from those which had made her resolve not to put her neck beneath that yoke. Would it not have been well for her to have a master whose wisdom and strength could save her from such wretched doubts as these? But she had refused to bend, and had found herself desolate and alone in the world.
"If I can do him good why should I not marry him?" That had been the chief argument which had induced her to accept George Vavasor. "For myself, what does it matter? At least I can make my life of some use to someone who is dear to me."
He had always been dear to her from her earliest years. She believed in his intellect, even if she could not believe in his conduct. As for that dream of love, it meant nothing. And what if she were ruined! She might save him from ruin, and help him to honour and fortune.
But she already dreaded the coming of the end of the year. She had said that she would become George Vavasor's wife, but she wished that saying so might be the end of it. When he came to embrace her how should she receive him? The memory of John Grey's last kiss still lingered on her lips.
"It may be as my father says," she thought. "It may be that he wants my money only; if so, let him have it. Surely when the year is over I shall know."
Then a plan formed itself in her head. He should have her money as he might call for it - all of it except some small portion of her income, which might keep her from burdening her father. Then, if he were contented, he should go free, without reproach, and there should be an end of all question of marriage for her.
As she thought of this, the door opened, and the servant announced her cousin George.

Chapter 34: Mr. Vavasor Speaks to His Daughter