 CHAPTER 65 THE FIRST KISS Hush, said the widow, there's a carriage coming on the road close to us. Mrs. Greenow, as she spoke these words, drew back from the captain's arms before the first kiss of permitted antinuptual love had been exchanged. The scene was on the high road from Shapp to Vaviser, and as she was still dressed, and all the sombre habillaments of early widowhood, and as neither he nor his sweetheart were under forty, perhaps it was as well that they were not caught towing together in so very public a place. But they were only just in time to escape the vigilant eyes of a new visitor. Round the corner of the road, at a sharp trot, came the Shapp post-hors, with the Shapp gig behind him, the same gig which had brought Belfield to Vaviser on the previous day, and seated in the gig looming large with his eyes wide awake to everything ground him was Mr. Cheesaker. It was a terrible sight to the eyes of Captain Belfield, and by no means welcome to those of Mrs. Greenow. As regarded her, her annoyance had chiefly referenced to her two nieces, and especially to Alice. How was she to account for this second lover? Kate, of course, knew all about it. But how could Alice be made to understand that she, Mrs. Greenow, was not to blame? That she had, in sober truth, told this ardent gentleman that there was no hope for him, and even as to Kate. Kate, whom her aunt had absurdly chosen to regard as the object of Mr. Cheesaker's pursuit, what sort of a welcome would she extend to the owner of oily mead? Before the wheels had stopped, Mrs. Greenow had begun to reflect whether it might be possible that she should send Mr. Cheesaker back without letting him go on to the hall. But if Mrs. Greenow was dismayed, what were the feelings of the captain? Before he was aware that Cheesaker knew that of him, which he had not told. How ardently did he now wish that he had sailed nearer to the truth in giving the schedule of his debts to Mrs. Greenow? That man's wanted by the police, said Cheesaker, speaking while the gig was still in motion. He was wanted by the police, Mrs. Greenow, and in his ardor he stood up in the gig and pointed at Bellefield. Then the gig stopped suddenly, and he fell back into his seat in his effort to prevent his falling forward. He's wanted by the police. He shouted out again as soon as he was able to recover his voice. Mrs. Greenow turned pale beneath the widow's veil which she had dropped. What might not her captain have done? He might have procured things to be sent to him out of shops on false pretenses, or urged on by want or famine. He might have committed orgery. Oh, my, she said, and dropped her hand from his arm when she had taken. It's false, said Bellefield. It's true, said Cheesaker. I'll indict you for slander, my friends, said Bellefield. Pay me the money you owe me, said Cheesaker. You're a swindler. Mrs. Greenow cared little as to her lover being a swindler in Mr. Cheesaker's estimation. Such accusations from him she had learned before, but she did care very much as to this mission of the police against her captain. If that were true, the captain could be her captain no longer. What is this I hear, Captain Bellefield, she said? It's a lie and a slander. He really wants to make a quarrel between us. What police are after me, Mr. Cheesaker? It's the police, or the sheriff's officer, or something of the kind, said Cheesaker. Oh, the sheriff's officer, exclaimed Mrs. Greenow, in a tone of voice which showed how great had been her relief. Mr. Cheesaker, you shouldn't come out and say such things. You shouldn't, indeed. Sheriff's officers can be paid, and there's an end of them. I'll indict him for the libel. I will, as sure as I'm alive, said Bellefield. Nonsense, said the widow. Don't you make a fool of yourself. When men can't pay their way, they must put up with having things like that said of them. Mr. Cheesaker, where were you going? I was going to Vaviser Hall, on purpose, to caution you. It's too late, said Mrs. Greenow, sinking behind her veil. Why, you haven't been and married him since yesterday. He only had twenty-four hours' start of me, I know. Or perhaps you had done it clandestine and Norwich. Oh, my, Mrs. Greenow. He got out of the gig, and the three walked back toward the hall together, while the boy drove on with Mr. Cheesaker's carpet bag. I hardly knew, said Mrs. Greenow, whether we can welcome you. There are other visitors, and the house is full. I'm not one to intrude where I'm not wanted. You may be sure of that. If I can't get my supper for love, I can get at, for money. There's more than some people can say. I wonder when you're going to pay me in what you owe me, Lieutenant Bellefield. Nevertheless, the widow had contrived to reconcile the two men before she reached the hall. They had actually shaken hands, and the lamb Cheesaker had agreed to lie down with the wolf. Bellefield, Cheesaker, moreover, had contrived to whisper into the widow's ears the true extent of his errand into Westmoreland. This, however, he did not do altogether in Bellefield's hearing. When Mrs. Greenow ascertained that there was something to be said, she made no scruple in sending her betroth away from her. You won't throw a fellow over, will you now? whispered Bellefield into her ear as she went. She merely frowned at him and bade him begone, so that the walk which Mrs. Greenow began with one lover she ended in company with the other. Bellefield, who was sent on to the house, found Alice and Kate surveying the newly arrived carpet bag. He knows Un, said the boy, who had driven the gig, pointing to the captain. It belongs to your old friend, Mr. Cheesaker, said Bellefield to Kate. And he has come, too, said Kate. The captain shrugged his shoulders and admitted it was hard. And it's not the slightest use, he said, not the least in the world. He never had a chance in that quarter. Not enough of the rocks and valleys about him was there, Captain Bellefield, said Kate, but Captain Bellefield understood nothing about the rocks and valleys, though he was regarded by certain eyes as being both a rock and a valley himself. In the meantime, Cheesaker was telling his story. He first asked in a melancholy tone whether it was really necessary that he must abandon all his hopes. He wasn't going to say anything against the captain, he said, if things were really fixed. He never begrudged any man his chance. Things are really fixed, said Mrs. Greenow. He could, however, not keep himself from hinting that Oilymead was a substantial home and that Bellefield had not as much as a straw mattress to lie upon. In answer to this, Mrs. Greenow told him that there was so much more reason why someone should provide the poor man with a mattress. If you look at it in that light, of course, it's true, said Cheesaker. Mrs. Greenow told him that she did look at it in that light. Then I've done about that, said Cheesaker. As to the little bit of money he owes me, I must give him his time about it, I suppose, Mrs. Greenow assured him that it should be paid as soon as possible after the nuptial benediction had been said over them. She offered, indeed, to pay it at once if he was in the distress for it, but he answered contemptuously that he never was in distress for money. He liked to have his own. That was all. After this, he did not get away to his next subject quite so easily as he wished, and it must be admitted that there was a difficulty, and he could not have Mrs. Greenow, he would be content to put up with Kate for his wife. That was his next subject. Rumors as to the old squire's will had no doubt reached him, and he was now willing to take advantage of that assistance which Mrs. Greenow had before offered him in this matter. The time had come in which he ought to marry. For that he was aware. He had told many of his friends in Norfolk that Kate Vaviser had thrown herself at his head, and very probably he had thought it true. In answer to all his love speeches to herself, the on had always told him what an excellent wife her niece would make him. So now he had come to Westmoreland with a second string to his bow. You know you put it into my head, your own self, pleaded Mr. Cheesaker. Didn't you now? But things are so different since that said the widow. How different? I ain't different. There's oily meat just where it always was, and the owner of it didn't owe a shilling to any man. How are things different? My niece has inherited property. And is that to make a change? Oh Mrs. Greenow, who would have thought to find you mercenary like that? Inherited property. Is she going to fling a man over because of that? Mrs. Greenow endeavored to explain to him that her niece could hardly be said to have flung over him, and at last pretended to become quite angry when he attempted to assert his position. Why Mr. Cheesaker, I am quite sure she never gave you a word of encouragement in her life, but you always told me I might have her for the asking. And now I tell you that you mayn't. It's of no use, you're going on there to ask her, for she will only send you away with an answer you won't like. Look here, Mr. Cheesaker, you want to get married, and it's quite time you should. There's my dear friend Charlie Fairstairs. How could you get a better wife than Charlie? Charlie Fairstairs, said Cheesaker, turning his nose up in disgust. She hasn't got a penny, nor any one belonging to her. The man who marries her will have to find the money for the smock she stands up in. Who's mercenary now, Mr. Cheesaker? Do you go home and think of it? And if you'll marry Charlie, I'll go to your wedding. You shan't be ashamed of her clothing, I'll see to that. They were now close to the gate, and Cheesaker paused before he entered. Do you think there's no chance at all for me, then, he said? I know there's none, I've heard her speak about it. Somebody else, perhaps, is the happy man. I can't say anything about that, but I know that she wouldn't take you. I like farming, you know, but she doesn't. I might give that up, said Cheesaker readily, at any rate, for a time. No, no, no. It would do no good. Believe me, my friend. That is of no use. He still paused at the gate. I don't see what's the use of my going in, he said he. To this she made him no answer. There's a pride about me, he continued, that I don't choose to go where I'm not wanted. I can't tell you, Mr. Cheesaker, that you are wanted in that light, certainly. Then I'll go. Perhaps you'll be so good as to tell the boy with a gig to come after me. That's six pound ten. It will have to cost me to come here and to go back. Belfield did it cheaper, of course. He traveled second class. I heard of him as I came along. The expense does not matter to you, Mr. Cheesaker. To this he assented, and then took his leave, at first offering his hand to Mrs. Greenow with an air of offended dignity, but falling back almost into humility during the performance of his idea. Before he was gone he had invited her to bring the captain to Oilymead when she was married. He had begged her to tell Mrs. Vavasor how happy he should be to receive her, and for Mr. Cheesaker, said the widow, as he walked back along the road, don't forget, dear Charlie fair stares. They were all standing on the front door of the house when Mrs. Greenow reappeared. Alice, Kate, Captain Belfield, the chap boy, and the chap horse and gig. Where is he, Kate asked in a low voice, and everyone there felt how important was the question. He has gone, said the widow. Belfield was so relieved that he could not restrain his joy, but took off his little straw hat and threw it up in the air. Kate's satisfaction was almost as intense. I'm so glad, she said, what on earth should we have done with him? I was never so disappointed in my life, said Alice. I have heard so much of Mr. Cheesaker, but have never seen him. Kate suggested that she should get into the gig and drive after him. He ain't a bin, and took his self off, suggested the boy, whose face became very dismal, as the terrible idea struck him. But with juvenile craft he put his hand on the carpet bag, and finding that it did not contain stones, was comforted. You drive after him, young gentleman, and you'll find him on the road to shop, said Mrs. Greenow. Mind you, give him my love, and said the captain in his glee, and say I hope he'll get his turnips in well. This little episode went far to the break of the day, and did more than anything else could have done to put Mr. Belfield at his ease. It created a little joint stock fund of merriment between the whole party, which was very much needed. The absence of such joint stock fund is always felt when a small party is thrown together without such assistance. Some bond is necessary on these occasions, and no other bond is so easy or pleasant. Now when the captain found himself alone for a quarter with an hour with Alice, he had plenty of subjects for small talk. Yes, indeed, old cheese-acre, in spite of his absurdities, is not a bad sort of fellow at bottom. Offly fond of his money, you know, Miss Faviser, and always boasting about it. That's not pleasant, said Alice. No, the most unpleasant thing in the world. There's nothing I hate so much, Mrs. Faviser, as that kind of talking. My idea is this. When a man has lots of money, let him make the best use he can of it, and say nothing about it. Nobody ever heard me talking about my money. He knew that Alice knew that he was a pauper, but nevertheless he had the satisfaction of speaking of himself as though he were not a pauper. And this way the afternoon went very pleasantly. For an hour before dinner, Captain Belfield was had into the drawing-room and was talked to by his widow on the matters of business, but he had, of course, known that this was necessary. She scolded him soundly about those sheriff's orders. Why had he not told her? As long as there's anything kept back, I won't have you, she said. I won't become your wife, till I'm quite sure there's not a penny-owing that is not shown on this list. And then I think he did tell her all, or nearly all. When all was counted, it was not so very much. Three or four hundred pounds would make him a new man. And what was such a sum as that to his wealthy widow? Indeed, for a woman wanting a husband of that sort, Captain Belfield was a safer venture than would be a man of higher standing among his creditors. It is true Belfield might have been a forger or a thief, a returned convict, but then his debts could not have been large. Let him have done his best. He could have not obtained credit for a thousand pounds, whereas no one could tell the liabilities of a gentleman of high standing. Bergo Fitzgerald was a gentleman of high standing, and his creditors would have swallowed up every shilling that Mrs. Greenow possessed. But with Captain Belfield she was comparatively safe. Upon the whole I think that she was lucky in her choice, or perhaps I might more truly say that she had chosen with prudence. He was no forger or thief in the ordinary sense of the word, nor was he a returned convict. He was simply an idle scamp who had hung about the world for forty years, done nothing without principle, shameless, accustomed to eating dirty puddings, and to be kicked, morally kicked, by men such as Cheesaker. But he was moderate in his greediness and possessed of a certain appreciation of the comfort of a daily dinner, which might possibly suffice to keep him from straying very wide as long as he intended wife should be able to keep the purse-strings all altogether in her own hands. Therefore I say that Mrs. Greenow had been lucky in her choice, and not altogether without prudence. I think of taking this house, said she, and of living here. What, in Westmoreland, said the Captain, with something of dismay in his tone, what on earth would he do with himself all his life in that gloomy place? Yes, in Westmoreland. Why not in Westmoreland, as well as anywhere else? If you don't like Westmoreland, it's not too late yet, you know. An answer to this poor Captain was obliged to declare that he had no objection whatsoever to Westmoreland. I'd been talking to my niece about it, continued Mrs. Greenow, and I find that such an arrangement can be made very conveniently. The property is left between her and her uncle, the father of my other niece, and neither of them want to live here. But won't you be rather dull, my dear? We could go to Yarmouth, you know, in the autumn. Then the Captain's visage became somewhat bright again. And perhaps if you are not extravagant, we could manage a month or so in London during the winter, just to see the plays and do a little shopping. Then the Captain's face became very bright. That will be delightful, he said. And as for being dull, said the widow, when people grow old, they must be dull. Dancing can't go on forever. In answer to this, the widow's Captain assured the widow that she was not at all old. And now, on this occasion, that ceremony came off successfully, which had been interrupted on the sharp road by the noise of Mr. Cheesaker's wheels. There goes my cap, she said. What a goose you are! What will Jeanette say? Father Jeanette, said the Captain, in his bliss. She can do another cap, and many more won't be wanted. Then I think the ceremony was repeated. Upon the whole, the Captain's visit was satisfactory, at any rate to the Captain. Everything was settled. It was to go away on Saturday morning and remain in lodgings at Penrith till the wedding, which they agreed to have celebrated at Vaviser Church. Kate promised to be the solitary bridesmaid. There was some talk of sending for Charlie Fairstairs, but the idea was abandoned. Still have her afterwards, said the widow to Kate. When you are gone, and we shall want her more. And I'll get Cheesaker here, and make him marry her. There's no good in paying for two journeys. The Captain was to be allowed to come over from Penrith twice a week previous to his marriage, or perhaps, I might more fairly say, that he was commanded to do so. I wonder how he felt when Mrs. Greenout gave him his first five-pound note, and told him that he must make it due for a fortnight. Whether it was all for joy, or whether there was about his heart any touch of manly regret. Captain Belfield of Vaviser Hall, Westmoreland. It doesn't sound badly, he said to himself, as he travelled away, on his first journey to Penrith. CHAPTER 66 Lady Monk's Plan On the night of Lady Monk's party, Bergo Fitzgerald disappeared, and when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in vain. The old butler and factotum of the house, who was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps, and to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife's triumphs, was interrogated by his mistress and said that he thought Mr. Bergo had left the house. Lady Monk herself knocked at her nephew's door, when she went upstairs, ascending an additional flight of stairs with her weary old limbs, in order that she might do so. She even opened the door, and saw the careless debris of his toilet about the room. But he was gone. Perhaps after all he has arranged it, she said to herself, as she went down to her own room. But Bergo, as we know, had not arranged it. It may be remembered that when Mr. Palacere came back to his wife in the supper-room at Lady Monk's, bringing with him the scarf which Lady Glencora had left upstairs, Bergo was no longer with her. He had become well aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night. The poor fool, acting upon his aunt's implied advice, rather than his own hopes, had secured a post-chase, and stationed it in Bruton Street, some five minutes' walk from his aunt's house. And he had purchased feminine wrappings, cloaks, etc., things that he thought might be necessary for his companion. He had, too, ordered rooms at the new hotel, near the Dover Station, the London Bridge Station. From whence was to start on the following morning a train to catch the tidal boat for Boulogne? There was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-five guineas out of his aunt's money, not having been able to induce the tradesmen to grant it to him on credit. And there were other things—slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs—and what else might, as he thought, under such circumstances, be most necessary. Poor, thoughtful, thoughtless fool. The butler was right—he did leave the house. He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage from some back hiding-place in the hall, and then slipped out, unmindful of his shining boots and dress-coat and jeweled studs. He took a gibbous hat, his own or that of some other unfortunate, and slowly made his way down to the place in Bruton Street. There was the carriage, and a pair of horses, all in readiness, and the driver, when he had placed himself by the door of the vehicle, was not long in emerging from the neighboring public house. "'All ready, Your Honor,' said the man. "'I shan't want you to-night,' said Bergo Horsley. Go away.' "'And about the things, Your Honor.' "'Take them to the devil. No. Stop. Take them back with you, and ask somebody to keep them till I send for them. I shall want them and another carriage in a day or two.' Then he gave the man half a sovereign, and went away, not looking at the little treasures which he had spent so much of his money in selecting for his love. When he was gone, the waterman and the driver turned them over with careful hands and gloating eyes. "'It's a heiress, I'll go bail,' said the waterman. "'Pretty dear, I suppose her parents was too many for her,' said the driver. But neither of them imagined the enormity which the hierer of the chase had in truth contemplated. Bergo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor Square, and from thence down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and amuse, which there are in those parts, into Park Lane. He had now passed the position of Mr. Palacere's house. He didn't come out on Park Lane at a spot nearer to Piccadilly, but he retraced his steps, walking along by the rails of the park, till he found himself opposite to the house. Then he stood there, leaning back upon the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora's windows. What did he expect to see? Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind, which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow that is made by the one loved object, that may be made by her, or by some violent conjecture of the mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such love as that is, I think, always innocent. Bergo Fitzgerald did not love like that. I almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all. There was in his breast a mixed feverish desire which he took no trouble to analyze. He wanted money. He wanted the thing of which this Palacere had robbed him. He wanted revenge, though his desire for that was not a burning desire. And among other things he wanted the woman's beauty of the woman whom he coveted. He wanted to kiss her again, as he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft and lovely and loving for him. But as for seeing her shadow, unless its movement indicated some purpose in his favor, I do not think that he cared much about that. And why then was he there? Because in his unreasoning folly he did not know what step to take or what step not to take. There are men whose energies hardly ever carry them beyond looking for the thing they want. She might see him from the window and come to him. I do not say that he thought that it would be so. I fancy that he never thought at all about that or about anything. If you lie under a tree and open your mouth, a plum may fall into it. It was probably an undefined idea of some such chance as this, which brought him against the railings in the front of Mr. Palacere's house, that and a feeling made up partly of despair and partly of lingering romance, that he was better there, out in the night air, under the gas lamps, than he could be elsewhere. There he stood and looked and cursed his ill luck. But his curses had none of the bitterness of those which George Bavisor was always uttering. Through it all there remained about Bergo one honest feeling, one conviction that was true. A feeling that it all served him right, and that he had better, perhaps, go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble. If he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate any one. And whenever he made any self-inquiry into his own circumstances, he always told himself that it was all his own fault. When he cursed his fate, he only did so because cursing is so easy. George Bavisor would have ground his victims up to powder if he knew how, but Bergo Fitzgerald desired to hurt no one. There he stood till he was cold, and then, as the plum did not drop into his mouth, he moved on. He went up into Oxford Street, and walked along it the whole distance to the corner of Bond Street, passing by Grofner Square, to which he intended to return. At the corner of Bond Street a girl took hold of him, and looked up into his face. Ah! she said, I saw you once before. Then you saw the most miserable devil alive, said Bergo. You can't be miserable, said the girl. What makes you miserable? You've plenty of money. I wish I had, said Bergo. And plenty to eat and drink, exclaimed the girl. And you are so handsome. I remember you. You gave me supper one night when I was starving. I ain't hungry now. Will you give me a kiss? I'll give you a shilling, and that's better, said Bergo. But give me a kiss, too, said the girl. He gave her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and after that he left her and passed on. I'm damned if I wouldn't change with her, he said to himself. I wonder whether anything really ails him, thought the girl. He said he was wretched before. Shouldn't I like to be good to such a one as him? Bergo went on, and made his way into the house in Grovener Square, by some means probably unknown to his aunt, and certainly unknown to his uncle. He emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted a roll of notes which he had kept in one of them. There were still a hundred and thirty pounds left. Lady Glencora had promised that she would see him again. She had said as much as that quite distinctly. But what use would there be? In that, if all his money should then be gone, he knew that the keeping of money in his pocket was to him quite an impossibility. Then he thought of his aunt. What should he say to his aunt if he saw her in the course of the coming day? Might it not be as well for him to avoid his aunt altogether? He breakfasted upstairs in his bedroom. In the bed, indeed. Reading a small pâté de foie gras from the supper-table as he read a French novel. There he was still reading his French novel in bed, when his aunt's maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see him before she went out. "'Tell me, Lucy,' said he, "'how is the old girl?' "'She's as cross as cross, Mr. Bergo. Indeed, I shan't. Not a minute longer. Don't now, will you? I tell you she's waiting for me.' From which it may be seen that Lucy shared the general feminine feeling in favour of poor Bergo. Thus summoned Bergo applied himself to his toilet. But as he did so he recruited his energies from time to time by a few pages of the French novel, and also by small doses from a bottle of curacao which he had in his bedroom. He was utterly a pauper. There was no pauper poorer than he in London that day. But nevertheless he breakfasted on pâté de foie gras and curacao, and regarded those dainties very much as other men regard bread and cheese and beer. But though he was dressing at the summons of his aunt, he had by no means made up his mind that he would go to her. Why should he go to her? What good would it do him? She would not give him more money. She would only scold him for his misconduct. She might perhaps turn him out of the house if he did not obey her, or attempt to do so. But she would be much more likely to do this when he had made her angry by contradicting her. In neither case would he leave the house, even though its further use were positively forbidden him, because his remaining there was convenient. But as he could gain nothing by seeing the old girl as he had called her, he resolved to escape to his club without attending to her summons. But his aunt, who was a better general than he, outmaneuvered him. He crept down the back stairs. But as he could not quite condescend to escape through the area, he was forced to emerge upon the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him, coming out of the breakfast-parlor. "'Did not Lucy tell you that I wanted to see you,' Lady Monk asked, with severity in her voice?' Bergo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to have his hair washed and brushed. He would have been back in twenty minutes. There was no energy about the poor fellow, unless, perhaps, when he was hunting. But he possessed a readiness which enabled him to lie at a moment's notice, with the most perfect ease. Lady Monk did not believe him. But she could not confute him, and therefore she let the lie pass. "'Never mind your hair now,' she said. "'I want to speak to you. Come in here for a few minutes.' As there was no way of escape left to him, he followed his aunt into the breakfast-parlor. "'Bergo,' she said, when she had seated herself, and had made him sit in a chair opposite to her, "'I don't think you will ever do any good.' "'I don't much think I shall, and—' "'What do you mean, then, to do with yourself?' "'Oh, I don't know. I haven't thought much about it. You can't stay here in this house. Sir Cosmo was speaking to me about you only yesterday morning. "'I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes it better—that is, when the season is a little more through.' "'He won't have you at Monkshade. He won't let you go there again. And he won't have you here. You know that you are turning what I say into joke.' "'No, indeed, and—' "'Yes, you are. You know you are. You are the most ungrateful, heartless creature I ever met. You must make up your mind to leave this house at once. "'Where does Sir Cosmo mean that I should go, then? To the work-house, if you like. He doesn't care.' "'I don't suppose he does—the least in the world,' said Bergo, opening his eyes, and stretching his nostrils, and looking into his aunt's face, as though he had great ground for indignation. But the turning of Bergo out of the house was not Lady Monk's immediate purpose. She knew that he would hang on there till the season was over. After that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he should have succeeded in a certain enterprise. She had now caught him in order that she might learn whether there was any possible remaining chance of success as to that enterprise. So she received his indignation in silence, and began upon another subject. "'What a fool you made of yourself last night, Bergo! Did I? More of a fool than usual? I believe that you will never be serious about anything. Why did you go on waltzing in that way, when every pair of eyes in the room was watching you?' I couldn't help going on if she liked it. "'Oh, yes. Say it was her fault. That's so like a man.' "'Look here, aunt. I am not going to sit here and be abused. I couldn't take her in my arms and fly away with her out of a crowd. Who wants you to fly away with her? For the matter of that, I suppose that you do.' "'No, I don't. Well, then I do. You haven't spirit to do that or anything else. You are like a child that is just able to amuse itself for the moment, and never can think of anything further. You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too, and her. But, of course, you care nothing about that." I had a plan already. Only he came back. "'Of course he came back. Of course he came back when they sent him word how you and she were going on. And now he will have forgiven her. And after that, of course, the thing will be all over." I tell you what, aunt. She would go if she knew how. When I was forced to leave her last night, she promised to see me again. And as for being idle, and not doing anything—why? I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed. What good did that do? It didn't do any good, as it happened, but a fellow can only try. I believe after all it would be easier down in the country, especially now that he has taken it into his head to look after her. Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low voice. What did she say to you when you were parting? What were her exact words? She at any rate was not deficient in energy. She was anxious enough to see her purpose accomplished. She would have conducted the matter with discretion, if the running away with Mr. Palliser's wife could, in very fact, have been done by herself. She said she would see me again. She promised it twice. And was that all? What could she say more when she was forced to go away? Had she said that she would go with you? I asked her half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse. I know she means it. If she knew how to get away. She hates him, I'm sure of it. A woman, you know, wouldn't absolutely say that she would go till she was gone. If she really meant it, she would tell you. I don't think she could have told me plainer. She said she would see me again. She said that twice over. Again, Lady Monk sat silent. She had a plan in her head—a plan that might, as she thought, give to her nephew one more chance. But she hesitated before she could bring herself to explain it in detail. At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr. Palacere's wife. But in lending it had said no word upon the subject. During the last season she had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house in London, and had taken care that Bergo should meet her there. Then a hint or two had been spoken, and Lady Glencora had been asked to monk-shade. Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to monk-shade, and Lady Monk had then been baffled. But she did not therefore give up the game. Having now thought of it so much, she began to speak of it more boldly, and had procured money for her nephew that he might thereby be enabled to carry off the woman. But though this had been well understood between them, though words had been spoken which were sufficiently explicit, the plan had not been openly discussed. Lady Monk had known nothing of the mode in which Lady Glencora was to have been carried off after her party, nor wither she was to have been taken. But now—now she must arrange it herself, and have a scheme of her own, or else the thing must fail absolutely. Even she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to her nephew on such a subject. What if he should be false to her, and tell of her? But when a woman has made such schemes, nothing distresses her so sadly as their failure. She would risk all, rather than that Mr. Palacere should keep his wife. I will try and help you," she said at last, speaking hoarsely, almost in a whisper. If you have courage to make an attempt yourself. Courage, said he, what is it you think I am afraid of? Mr. Palacere? I'd fight him, or all the Palacers, one after another, if it would do any good. Fighting? There's no fighting wanted, as you know well enough. Women don't fight nowadays—look here. If you can get her to call here some day—say, on a Thursday—at three o'clock? I will be here to receive her. And instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab for her, somewhere near. She can come, as it were, to make a morning call. A cab? Yes, a cab won't kill her, and it is less easily followed than a carriage. And where shall we go? There is a train to Southampton at four, and the boat sails for Jersey at half-past six. You will be in Jersey the next morning, and there is a boat goes on to St. Malo almost at once. You can go direct from one boat to the other—that is, if she has strength and courage. After that, who will say that Lady Monk was not a devoted aunt? That would do excellently well, said the enraptured burgo. She will have difficulty in getting away from me out of the house. Of course I shall say nothing about it, and shall know nothing about it. She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere to pick someone up, and to return. Out somewhere, to Tibernia, or down to Pimlico. Then she can leave me, and go out on foot, to where you have the cab. She can tell the whole porter that she will walk to her carriage. Do you understand? Burgo declared that he did understand. You must call on her, and make your way in, and see her, and arrange all this. It must be a Thursday, because of the boats. Then she made inquiry about his money, and took from him the notes which he had, promising to return them, with something added, on the Thursday morning. But he asked, with a little wine, for a five-pound note, and got it. Burgo then told her about the travelling bags and the stockings, and they were quite pleasant and confidential. Bid her come in a stout travelling dress, said Lady Monk. She can wear some lace or something over it, so that the servants won't observe it. I will take no notice of it. Was there ever such an aunt? After this, Burgo left his aunt, and went away to his club, in a state of most happy excitement. End of CHAPTER sixty-six. Recording by Laura Koskinen. CHAPTER sixty-seven. Of Can You Forgive Her? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Can You Forgive Her? by Antony Trollop. CHAPTER sixty-seven. The Last Kiss. Alice, on her return from Westmoreland, went direct to Park Lane, with her Lady Glencora, and Mr. Palacere had also returned before her. She was to remain with them in London one entire day, and on the morning after that they were to start for Paris. She found Mr. Palacere in close attendance upon his wife. Not that there was anything in his manner which at all implied that he was keeping watch over her, or that he was more with her, or closer to her, than a loving husband might wish to be with a young wife. But the mode of life was very different from that which Alice had seen at Maging Priory. On her arrival Mr. Palacere himself received her in the hall, and took her up to his wife before she had taken off her travelling hat. We are so much obliged to you, Miss Fabasor," he said. I feel it quite as deeply as Glencora. Oh! No! she said. It is I that am under obligation to you for taking me. He merely smiled and shook his head, and then took her upstairs. On the stairs he said one other word to her. You must forgive me if I was cross to you that night she went out among the ruins. Alice muttered something, some little fib of courtesy as to the matter having been forgotten, or never born in mind, and then they went on to Lady Glencora's room. It seemed to Alice that he was not so big or so much to be dreaded as when she had seen him at Maging. His descent from an expectant, or more than expectant, Chancellor of the Exchequer, down to a simple attentive husband, seemed to affect his gate, his voice, and all his demeanor. When he received Alice at the Priory he certainly loomed before her as something great, whereas now his greatness seemed to have fallen from him. We must own that this was hard upon him, seeing that the deed by which he had divested himself of his greatness had been so pure and good. Dear Alice, this is so good of you. I am all in the midst of packing, and Plantagenet is helping me. Plantagenet winced a little under this, as the Hero of Old must have winced when he was found with the Distaff. Chancellor Palacere had relinquished his sort of state for the Distaff, which he had assumed, and could take no glory in the change. There was, too, in his wife's voice the slightest hint of mockery, which, slight as it was, he perhaps thought she might have spared. "'You have nothing left to pack,' continued Glencora, "'and I don't know what you can do to amuse yourself.' "'I will help you,' said Alice. "'But we have so very nearly done. I think we shall have to pull all the things out, and put them up again, or we shall never get through to-morrow. We couldn't start to-morrow. Could we Plantagenet?' "'Not very well, as your rooms are ordered in Paris for the next day.' "'As if we couldn't find rooms at every inn on the road. Men are so particular. Now, in travelling I should like never to order rooms, never to know where I was going or when I was going, and to carry everything I wanted in a market basket.' Alice, who by this time had followed her friend along the passage to her bedroom, and had seen how widely the packages were spread about, bethought herself that the market basket should be a large one. And I would never travel among Christians. Christians are so slow, and they wear chimney-pot hats everywhere. The further one goes from London among Christians, the more they wear chimney-pot hats. I want Plantagenet to take us to see the curds, but he won't.' "'I don't think that would be fair to Miss Vavasor,' said Mr. Palacere, who had followed them.' "'Don't put the blame on her head,' said Lady Glencora. Women have always plucked for anything. Wouldn't you like to see a live curd, Alice?' "'I don't exactly know where they live,' said Alice. Nor I. I have not the remotest idea of the way to the curds. You see my joke, don't you, though Plantagenet doesn't. But one knows that they are eastern, and the east is such a grand idea.' "'I think we'll content ourselves with Rome, or perhaps Naples, on this occasion,' said Mr. Palacere. The notion of Lady Glencora packing anything for herself was as good a joke as that other one of the curds and Hui. But she went, flitting about from room to room, declaring that this thing must be taken and that other, till the market-basket, would have become very large indeed. Alice was astonished at the extent of the preparations, and the sort of equipage with which they were about to travel. Lady Glencora was taking her own carriage. "'Not that I shall ever use it,' she said to Alice. But he insists upon it, to show that I am not supposed to be taken away in disgrace. He is so good, isn't he?' "'Very good,' said Alice. "'I know no one better.' "'And so dull,' said Lady Glencora. But I fancy that all husbands are dull, from the nature of their position. If I were a young woman's husband, I shouldn't know what to say to her that wasn't dull. Two women and two men's servants were to be taken. Alice had received permission to bring her own maid. Or a dozen if you want them,' Lady Glencora had said. Mr. Palacere, in his present mood, would think nothing too much to do for you. If you were to ask him to go among the curds, he'd go at once. Or on to crème tarterie, if you made a point of it. But as both Lady Glencora's servants spoke French, and as her own did not, Alice trusted herself in that respect to her cousin. "'You shall have one all to yourself,' said Lady Glencora. "'I only take two for the same reason that I take the carriage. Just as you let a child go out in her best frock for a treat, after you've scolded her.' When Alice asked why it was supposed that Mr. Palacere was so specially devoted to her, the thing was explained to her. "'You see, my dear, I have told him everything. I always do tell everything. Nobody can say I am not candid. He knows about your not letting me come to your house in the old days. Oh, Alice, you were wrong, then. I shall always say that. But it's done and gone, and things that are done and gone shall be done and gone for me. And I told him all that you said, about you know what. I have had nothing else to do but make confessions for the last ten days. And when a woman once begins, the more she confesses the better. And I told him that you refused, Geoffrey. You didn't. I did indeed, and he likes you the better for that. I think he'd let Geoffrey marry you now, if you both wished it. And then, oh dear, supposing that you had a son, and that we adopted it. Cora, if you go on in that way I will not remain with you. But you must, my dear. You can't escape now. At any rate you can't when we once get to Paris. Oh, dear, you shouldn't grudge me my little naughtinesses. I have been so proper for the last ten days. Do you know I got into a way of driving Dandy and Flirt at the rate of six miles an hour, till I'm sure the poor beasts thought they were always going to a funeral. Poor Dandy, and poor Flirt. I shan't see them now for another year. On the following morning they breakfasted early, because Mr. Palacere had got into an early habit. He had said that early hours would be good for them. But he never tells me why, said Lady Glyncora. I think it is pleasant when people are travelling, said Alice. It isn't that, her cousin answered. But we are all to be such particularly good children. It's hardly fair, because he went to sleep last night after dinner, while you and I kept ourselves awake. But we needn't do that another night, to be sure. After breakfast they all three went to work to do nothing. It was ludicrous, and almost painful, to see Mr. Palacere wandering about and counting the boxes, as though he could do any good by that. At this special crisis of his life he hated his papers, and figures, and statistics, and could not apply himself to them. He, whose application had been so unremitting, could apply himself now to nothing. His world had been brought to an abrupt end, and he was awkward at making a new beginning. I believe that they all three were reading novels before one o'clock. Ciglincora and Alice had determined that they would not leave the house throughout the day. Nothing has been said about it, but I regard it as part of the bond, that I'm not to go out anywhere. Who knows, but what I might be found in Gloucester Square. There was, however, no absolute necessity, that Mr. Palacere should remain with them. And at about three he prepared himself for a solitary walk. He would not go down to the house. All interest in the house was over with him for the present. He had the speakers leave to absent himself for the season. Nor would he call on any one. All his friends knew, or believed they knew, that he had left town. His death and burial had been already chronicled, and were he now to reappear, he could reappear only as a ghost. He was being talked of as the departed one. Or rather, such talk on all sides had now come nearly to an end. The poor Duke of St. Bunga still thought of him with regret, when more than ordinarily annoyed by some special grievance coming to him from Mr. Fine's one. But even the Duke had become almost reconciled to the present order of things. Mr. Palacere knew better than to disturb all this by showing himself again in public, and prepared himself, therefore, to take another walk under the elms in Kensington Gardens. He had his hat on his head in the hall, and was in the act of putting on his gloves when there came a knock at the front door. The hall porter was there, a stout plethoric personage, not given to many words, who was at this moment standing with his master's umbrella in his hand, looking as though he would feign be of some use to some buddy, if any such utility were compatible with the purposes of his existence. Now had come this knock at the door, while the umbrella was still in his hand, and the nature of his visage changed, and it was easy to see that he was oppressed by the temporary multiplicity of his duties. Give me the umbrella, John," said Mr. Palacere. John gave up the umbrella, and opening the door, disclosed Bergo Fitzgerald, standing upon the doorstep. "'Is Lady Glencora at home?' asked Bergo, before he had seen the husband. John turned a dismayed face upon his master, as though he knew that the commer ought not to be making a morning call at that house. There's no doubt he did know very well, and made no instant reply. "'I am not sure,' said Mr. Palacere, making his way out, as he had originally purposed. The servant will find out for you.' Then he went on his way, across Park Lane, and into the park, never once turning back his face to see whether Bergo had affected an entrance into the house. Or did he return a minute earlier than he would otherwise have done? After all, there was something chivalrous about the man. "'Yes, Lady Glencora was at home,' said the porter, not stirring to make any further inquiry. It was no business of his if Mr. Palacere chose to receive such a guest. He had not been desired to say that her ladyship was not at home. Bergo was therefore admitted and shone direct up into the room in which Lady Glencora was sitting. As chance would have it she was alone. Alice had left her and was in her own chamber, and Lady Glencora was sitting at the window of the small room upstairs that overlooked the park. She was seated on a footstool with her face between her hands when Bergo was admitted, thinking of him, and of what the world might have been to her had. They left her alone, as she was in the habit of saying to Alice and to herself. She rose quickly, so that he saw her only as she was rising. "'Ask Miss Favisor to come to me,' she said, as the servant left the room. And then she came forward to greet her lover.' "'Cora,' he said, dashing at once into his subject, hopelessly. But still with a resolve to do as he had said that he would do. "'Cora, I have come to you to ask you to go with me.' "'I will not go with you,' said she. "'Do not answer me in that way without a moment's thought. Everything is arranged.' "'Yes, everything is arranged,' she said. "'Mr. Fitzgerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr. Palacere and I, and my friend, are starting to-morrow. Wish me God speed and go, and to be generous.' "'And is this to be the end of everything?' He was standing close to her, but hitherto he had only touched her hand at greeting her. "'Give me your hand, Cora,' he said. "'No. I will never give you my hand again. You should be generous to me and go. This is to be the end of everything—of everything that is common to you and to me. Go, when I ask you.' "'Cora, did you ever love me?' "'Yes. I did love you. But we were separated, and there was no room for love left between us.' "'You are as dear to me now—dearer than ever you were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell me, when we last parted, that I might come to you again? Are we children, that others should come between us and separate us like that?' "'Yes, Bergo, we are children. Here is my cousin coming. You must leave me now.' As she spoke the door was opened, and Alice entered the room. "'Miss Favisor, Mr. Fitzgerald,' said Lady Glencora, "'I have told him to go and leave me. Now that you have come, Alice, he will perhaps obey me.' Alice was dumbfounded, and knew not how to speak either to him or to her. But she stood with her eyes riveted on the face of the man of whom she had heard so much. Yes—certainly he was very beautiful. She had never before seen man's beauty such as that. She found it quite impossible to speak a word to him then, at the spur of the moment. But she acknowledged the introduction with a slight inclination of the head, and then stood silent, as though she were waiting for him to go. "'Mr. Fitzgerald, why do you not leave me and go?' said Lady Glencora. Poor Bergo also found it difficult enough to speak. What could he say? His cause was one which certainly did not admit of being pleaded in the presence of a strange lady, and he might have known from the moment in which he heard Glencora's request, that a third person should be summoned to their meeting, and probably did know, that there was no longer any hope for him. It was not on the cards that he should win. But there remained one thing that he must do. He must get himself out of that room, and how was he to affect that?" "'I had hoped,' said he, looking at Alice, though he addressed Lady Glencora, "'I had hoped, to be allowed, to speak to you alone for a few minutes.' "'No, Mr. Fitzgerald, it cannot be so. Alice, do not go. I sent for my cousin when I saw you, because I did not choose to be alone with you. I have asked you to go.' "'You, perhaps, have not understood me. I understand you well enough.' "'Then Mr. Fitzgerald,' said Alice. Why do you not do, as Lady Glencora has asked you? You know, you must know, that you ought not to be here.' "'I know nothing of the kind,' said he, still standing his ground.' "'Alice,' said Lady Glencora, "'we will leave Mr. Fitzgerald here, since he drives us from the room.' In such contests a woman has ever the best of it at all points. The man plays with a button to his foil, while the woman uses a weapon that can really wound. Bergo knew that he must go, felt that he must skulk away as best he might, and perhaps hear a low-titter of half-suppressed laughter as he went. Even that might be possible.' "'No, Lady Glencora,' he said, "'I will not drive you from the room. Because one must be driven out, it shall be I. I own, I did think, that you would, at any rate, have been less hard to me.' He then turned to go, bombing again very slightly to Miss Mavisor. He was on the threshold of the door, before Glencora's voice recalled him. "'Oh, my God,' she said, "'I am hard, harder than flint. I am cruel, Bergo.' And he was back with her in a moment, and had taken her by the hand. "'Glencora,' said Alice, "'pray, pray let him go. Mr. Fitzgerald, if you are a man, do not take advantage of her folly.' "'I will speak to him,' said Lady Glencora. "'I will speak to him, and then he shall leave me.' She was holding him by the hand now, and turning to him, away from Alice, who had taken her by the arm. "'Bergo,' she said, repeating his name twice again, with all the passion that she could throw into the word. "'Bergo, no good can come of this. Now, you must leave me. You must go. I shall stay with my husband, as I am bound to do. As I have wronged you, I will not wrong him also. I loved you. You know I loved you.' She still held him by the hand, and was now gazing up into his face, while the tears were streaming from her eyes. "'Sir,' said Alice, "'you have heard from her all that you can care to hear. If you have any feeling of honour in you, you will leave her.' I will never leave her, while she tells me that she loves me.' "'Yes, Bergo, you will. You must. I shall never tell you that again. Never. Do as she bids you. Go and leave us. But I could not bear that you should tell me that I was hard.' "'You are hard. Hard and cruel, as you said yourself.' "'Am I? May God forgive you for saying that of me.' Then why do you send me away? Because I am a man's wife, and because I care for his honour, if not for my own. Alice, let us go.' He still held her. But she would have been gone from him had he not stooped over her, and put his arm round her waist. In doing this I doubt whether he was quicker than she would have been had she chosen to resist him. As it was he pressed her to his bosom, and, stooping over her, kissed her lips. Then he left her, and making his way out of the room, and down the stairs got himself out into the street. "'Thank God that he is gone,' said Alice. "'You may say so,' said Lady Glencora, for you have lost nothing, and you have gained everything. Have I? I did not know that I had ever gained anything as yet. The only human being to whom I have ever yet given my whole heart, the only thing that I have ever really loved, has just gone from me for ever. And you bid me thank God that I have lost him. There is no room for thankfulness in any of it, either in the love or in the loss. It is all wretchedness from first to last. At any rate he understands now that you meant it when you told him to leave you. Of course I meant it. I am beginning to know myself by degrees. As for running away with him, I have not the courage to do it. I can think of it, scheme for it, wish for it. But as for doing it, that is beyond me. Mr. Palacere is quite safe. He need not try to coax me to remain. Alice knew that it was useless to argue with her. So she came and sat over her, for Lady Glencora had again placed herself on the stool by the window, and tried to soothe her by smoothing her hair and nursing her like a child. Of course I know that I ought to stay where I am, she said, breaking out almost with rage, and speaking with quick, eager voice. I am not such a fool as to mistake what I should be if I left my husband, and went to live with that man as his mistress. You don't suppose that I should think that sort of life very blessed. But why have I been brought to such a pass as this? And as for female purity, ah, what was their idea of purity when they forced me, like ogres, to marry a man for whom they knew I never cared? Had I gone with him, had I now eloped with that man who ought to have been my husband, whom would a just God have punished worst, me or those two old women and my uncle, who tortured me into this marriage? Come, Cora, be silent. I won't be silent. You have had the making of your own lot, you have done what you like, and no one has interfered with you. You have suffered, too, but you at any rate can respect yourself. And so can you, Cora, thoroughly now. How? When he kissed me, and I could hardly restrain myself from giving him back his kiss tenfold, could I respect myself? But it is all sin. I sinned towards my husband, feigning that I love him, and I sinned in loving that other man who should have been my husband. There, I hear Mr. Palacere at the door, come away with me, or rather, stay, for he will come up here, and you can keep him in talk while I try to recover myself." Mr. Palacere did at once, as his wife had said, and came upstairs to the little front room as soon as he had deposited his hat in the hall. Alice was, in fact, in doubt what she should do as to mentioning, or omitting to mention, Mr. Fitzgerald's name. In an ordinary way it would be natural that she should name any visitor who had called, and she specially disliked the idea of remaining silent because that visitor had come as the lover of her host's wife. But on the other hand, she owed much to Lady Glencora, and there was no imperative reason, as things had gone, why she should make mischief. There was no further danger to be apprehended. But Mr. Palacere at once put an end to her doubts. "'You have had a visitor here?' said he. "'Yes,' said Alice. "'I saw him as I went out,' said Mr. Palacere. "'Indeed, I met him at the hall door. He, of course, was wrong to come here—so wrong—that he deserves punishment, if there were any punishment, for such offences.' "'He has been punished, I think,' said Alice. But as for Glencora, continued Mr. Palacere, without any apparent notice of what Alice had said. I thought it better that she should see him or not, as she should herself decide. She had no choice in the matter. As it turned out, he was shown up here at once. She sent for me, and I think she was right to do that.' Glencora was alone when he came in. For a minute or two, till I could get to her. "'I have no questions to ask about it,' said Mr. Palacere, after waiting for a few moments. He had probably thought that Alice would say something further. I am very glad that you were within reach of her, as otherwise her position might have been painful. For her, and for me perhaps, it may be as well that he has been here. As for him, I can only say that I am forced to suppose him to be a villain. What a man does when driven by passion I can forgive, but that he should deliberately plan schemes to ruin both her and me is what I can hardly understand.' As he made this little speech, I wonder whether his conscience said anything to him about Lady Dumbello, and a certain evening in his own life, on which he had ventured to call that lady, Griselda. The little party of three dined together very quietly, and after dinner they all went to work with their novels. Before long Alice saw that Mr. Palacere was yawning, and she began to understand how much he had given up in order that his wife might be secure. It was then, when he had left the room for a few minutes, in order that he might wake himself by walking about the house, that Glencora told Alice of his yawning down at matching. I used to think that he would fall in pieces. What are we to do about it? Don't seem to notice it, said Alice. That's all very well, said the other. But he'll set us off yawning as bad as himself, and then he'll notice it. He has given himself up to politics, till nothing else has any salt in it left for him. I cannot think why such a man as that wanted a wife at all. You are very hard upon him, Cora. I wish you were his wife, with all my heart, but of course I know why he got married, and I ought to feel for him, as he has been so grievously disappointed. Even Mr. Palacere, having walked off his sleep, returned to the room, and the remainder of the evening was passed in absolute tranquility. Bergo Fitzgerald, when he left the house, turned back into Groverner Square, not knowing at first whether he was going. He took himself as far as his uncle's door, and then, having paused there for a moment, hurried on. For half an hour or thereabouts, something like true feeling was at work within his heart. He had once more pressed to his bosom the woman he had, at any rate, thought that he had loved. He had had his arm round her, and had kissed her, and the tone with which she had called him by his name was still ringing in his ears. Bergo. He repeated his own name audibly to himself, as though in this way he could recall her voice. He comforted himself for a minute with the conviction that she loved him. He felt, for a moment, that he could live on such consolation as that. But among mortals there could, in truth, hardly be one with whom such consolation would go a shorter way. He was a man who required to have such comfort backed by Pates and Curacao to a very large extent, and now it might be doubted whether the amount of Pates and Curacao at his command would last him much longer. He would not go in and tell his aunt at once of his failure, as he could gain nothing by doing so. Indeed he thought that he would not tell his aunt at all. So he turned back from Grovener Square, and went down to his club in St. James Street, feeling that Billiards and Brandy and Water might, for the present, be the best restorative. But as he went back he blamed himself very greatly in the matter of those banknotes which he had allowed Lady Monk to take from him. How had it come to pass that he had been such a dupe in her hands? When he entered his club in St. James Street, his mind had left Lady Glencora, and was hard at work considering how he might best contrive to get that spoil out of his aunt's possession. CHAPTER 68 From London to Bodden. On the following morning everybody was stirring by times at Mr. Palacere's house in Park Lane, and the master of that house yonned no more. There is some life in starting for a long journey, and the life is the stronger and the fuller if the things and people to be carried are numerous and troublesome. Lady Glencora was a little troublesome, and would not come down to breakfast in time. When rebuked on account of this manifest breach of engagement, she asserted that the next train would do just as well, and when Mr. Palacere proved to her, with much trouble, that the next train could not enable them to reach Paris on that day, she declared that it would be much more comfortable to take a week in going, than to hurry over the ground in one day. There was nothing she wanted so much as to see Folkston. "'If that is the case, why did not you tell me so before?' said Mr. Palacere, in his gravest voice. Richard and the carriage went down yesterday, and are already on board the packet. "'If Richard and the carriage are already on board the packet,' said Lady Glencora, Of course we must follow them, and we must put off the glories of Folkston till we come back. "'Ellis, haven't you observed that, in travelling, you are always driven on by some Richard, or some carriage, till you feel that you are a slave?' All this was trying to Mr. Palacere, but I think that he enjoyed it nevertheless, and that he was happy when he found that he did get his freight off from the Pimlico station in the proper train. Of course Lady Glencora and Allis were very ill crossing the channel. Of course the two mates were worse than their mistresses. Of course the men kept out of their master's way when they were wanted, and drank brandy and water with the steward downstairs. And of course Lady Glencora declared that she would not allow herself to be carried beyond Boulogne that day. But nevertheless they did get on to Paris. Had Mr. Palacere become Chancellor of the Exchequer, as he had once hoped, he could hardly have worked harder than he did work. It was he who found out which carriage had been taken for them, and who put, with his own hands, the ladies' dressing-cases and cloaks on to the seats, who laid out the novels which, of course, were not read by the road, and made preparations as though this stage of their journey was to take them a week, instead of five hours and a half. "'Oh, dear, how I have slept,' said Lady Glencora, as they came near to Paris. "'I think you've been tolerably comfortable,' said Mr. Palacere joyfully. "'Since we got out of that horrid boat I have done pretty well. Why do they make the boats so nasty? I'm sure they do it on purpose. It would be difficult to make them nice, I suppose,' said Alice. "'It is the sea that makes them uncomfortable,' said Mr. Palacere. "'Never mind, we shan't have any more of it for twelve months at any rate. We can get to the curds, Alice, without getting into a packet again. That, to my way of thinking, is the great comfort of the Continent. One can go everywhere without being sea-sick.' Mr. Palacere said nothing, but he sighed as he thought of being absent for a whole year. He had said that such was his intention, and would not at once go back from what he himself had said. But how was he to live for twelve months out of the House of Commons? What was he to do with himself, with his intellect and his energy, during all these coming dreary days? And then he might have been Chancellor of the Exchequer. He might, even now, at this very moment, have been upon his legs, making a financial statement of six hours' duration to the delight of one half of the House, and bewilderment of the other, instead of dragging cloaks across that dingy, dull, dirty waiting-room at the Paris station in which British subjects are kept in prison, while their boxes are being tumbled out of the carriages. But we are not to stop here, are we? said Lady Glencora, mournfully. No, dear, I have given the keys to Richard. We will go on at once. But can't we have our things in about half an hour, pleaded Mr. Palacere? I suppose we must bear it, Alice, said Lady Glencora, as she got into the carriage that was waiting for her. Alice thought of the last time in which she had been in that room, when George and Kate had been with her, and the two girls had been quite content to wait patiently while their trunks were being examined. But Alice was now travelling with great people, with people who never spoke of their wealth, or seemed ever to think of it, but who showed their consciousness of it at every turn of their lives. After all, Alice had said to herself more than once, I doubt whether the burden is not greater than the pleasure. They stayed in Paris for a week, and during that time Alice found that she became very intimate with Mr. Palacere. At matching she had, in truth, seen but little of him, and had known nothing. Now she began to understand his character, and learned how to talk to him. She allowed him to tell her of things in which Lady Glencora resolutely persisted in taking no interest. She delighted him by writing down, in a little pocket-book, the number of eggs that were consumed in Paris every day, whereas Glencora protested that the information was worth nothing unless her husband could tell her how many of the eggs were good, and how many bad. And Alice was glad to find that a hundred and fifty thousand female operatives were employed in Paris, while Lady Glencora said it was a great shame and that they ought all to have husbands. When Mr. Palacere explained that that was impossible because of the redundancy of the female population, she angered him very much by asserting that she saw a great many men walking about who, she was quite sure, had not wives of their own. I do so wish you had married him, Glencora said to Alice that evening. You would always have had a pocket-book ready to write down the figures, and you would have pretended to care about the eggs and the bottles of wine and the rest of it. As for me, I can't do it. If I see an hungry woman, I can give her my money, or if she be a sick woman, I can nurse her. Or if I hear of a very wicked man, I can hate him. But I cannot take up poverty and crime in the lump. I never believe it all. My mind isn't big enough. They went into no society at Paris, and at the end of a week were all glad to leave it. I don't know that Baden will be any better, Lady Glencora said. But you know we can leave that again after a bit, and so we shall go on getting nearer to the Kurds. To this Mr. Palacere demirred. I think we had better make up our mind to stay a month at Baden. But why should we make up our minds at all, his wife pleaded? I like to have a plan, said Mr. Palacere. And so do I, said his wife, if only for the sake of not keeping it. There's nothing I hate so much as not carrying out my intentions, said Mr. Palacere. Upon this Lady Glencora shrugged her shoulders and made a mock grimace to her cousin. All this her husband bore for a while meekly, and it must be acknowledged that he behaved very well. But then he had his own way in everything. Lady Glencora did not behave very well, contradicting her husband, and not considering as perhaps she ought to have done the sacrifice he was making on her behalf. But then she had her own way in nothing. She had her own way in almost nothing. But on one point she did conquer her husband. He was minded to go from Paris back to Cologne, and sow down the Rhine to Baden. Lady Glencora declared that she hated the Rhine, that of all rivers it was the most distasteful to her, that of all scenery the scenery of the Rhine was the most overpraised, and that she would be wretched all the time if she were carried that way. On this Mr. Palliser referred the matter to Alice, and she, who had last been upon the Rhine with her cousins Kate and George Vavasor, voted for going to Baden by way of Strasbourg. "'We will go by Strasbourg, then,' said Mr. Palliser, gallantly. "'Not that I want to see that horrid church again,' said Glencora. "'Everything is alike horrid to you,' I think,' said her husband. "'You are determined not to be contented, so that it matters very little which way we go.' "'That's the truth,' said his wife. "'It does matter very little.' They got on to Baden, with very little delay at Strasbourg, and found half an hotel prepared for their reception. Here the carriage was brought into use for the first time, and the mistress of the carriage talked of sending home for dandy and flirt. Mr. Palliser, when he heard the proposition, calmly assured his wife that the horses would not bear the journey. They would be so out of condition, he said, as not to be worth anything for two or three months. "'I only meant to ask for them if they could come in a balloon,' said Lady Glencora. This angered Mr. Palliser, who had really, for a few minutes, thought of pacifying his wife by sending for the horses. "'Alas,' she asked one morning. "'How many eggs are eaten in Baden every morning before ten o'clock?' Mr. Palliser, who at the moment was in the act of eating one, threw down his spoon and pushed his plate from him. "'What's the matter, Plantagenet?' she asked. "'The matter,' he said. "'But never mind. I am a fool to care for it.' "'I declare I didn't know that I had done anything wrong,' said Lady Glencora. "'Alas, do you understand what it is?' Palliser said that she did understand very well. "'Of course she understands,' said Mr. Palliser. How can she help it? And indeed, Miss Vavisore, I am more unhappy than I can express myself, to think that your comfort should be disturbed in this way.' "'Upon my word, I think Alice is doing very well,' said Lady Glencora. "'What is there to hurt her comfort? She scolds her. Nobody tells her that she is a fool. She never jokes or does anything wicked. And of course she isn't punished.' Mr. Palliser, as he wandered that day, alone, through the gambling-rooms at the Great Assembly House, thought that, after all, it might have been better for him to have remained in London, to have become Chancellor of the Exchequer, and to have run all risks. I wonder whether it would be any harm if I were to put a few pieces of money on the table just once, Lady Glencora said to her cousin, on the evening of the same day, in one of those gambling-salons. There had been some music on that evening in one side of the building, and the Palliser's had gone to the rooms. But as neither of the two ladies would dance, they had strayed away into the other apartments. "'The greatest harm in the world,' said Alice. "'And what on earth could you gain by it? You don't really want any of those horrid people's money.' "'I'll tell you what I want. Something to live for. Some excitement. Is it not a shame that I see around me so many people getting amusement, and that I can get none? I'd go and sit out there and drink beer and hear the music. Only Plantagenet wouldn't let me. I think I'll throw one piece onto the table to see what becomes of it.' "'I shall leave you, if you do,' said Alice. "'You are such a prude. It seems to me as if it must have been my special fate—my good fate, I mean—that has thrown me so much with you. You look after me quite as carefully as Mr. Botte and Mrs. Marsham ever did. But as I chose you myself, I can't very well complain, and I can't very well get rid of you. Do you want to get rid of me, Cora?' "'Sometimes.' "'Do you know there are moments when I almost make up my mind to go headlong to the devil? When I think it is the best thing to be done. It's a hard thing for a woman to do, because she has to undergo so much obliquy before she gets used to it. A man can take to drinking and gambling and all the rest of it, and nobody despises him a bit. The domestic old fogies give him lectures if they can catch him, but he isn't full enough for that. All he wants is money, and he goes away and has his fling. Now I have plenty of money, or at any rate I had, and I never got my fling yet. I do feel so tempted to rebel and go ahead and care for nothing." Throwing one piece onto the table wouldn't satisfy that longing. You think I should be like the wild beast that has tasted blood and can't be controlled. Look at all these people here. There are husbands gambling, and their wives don't know it. And wives gambling, and their husbands don't know it. I wonder whether Plantagenet ever has a fling. What a joke it would be to come and catch him. I don't think you need be afraid. Afraid? I should like him all the better for it. If he came to me some morning and told me that he had lost a hundred thousand pounds, I should be so much more at my ease with him. You have no chance in that direction, I'm quite sure. None the least. He'd make a calculation that the chances were nine to seven against him, and then the speculation would seem to him to be madness. I don't suppose he'd wish to try, even though he were sure of winning. Of course not. It would be a very vulgar kind of thing, then. Look, there's an opening. I'll just put on one Napoleon. You shall not. If you do, I'll leave you at once. Look at the women who are playing. Is there one there whom it would not disgrace you to touch? Look what they are. Look at their cheeks, and their eyes, and their hands. Those men, who rake about the money, are bad enough. But the women look like fiends. You're not going to frighten me in that hobgoblin sort of way, you know. I don't see anything the matter with any of the people. What do you think of that young woman who has just got a handful of money from the man next to her? I think she is very happy. I never get money given to me by handfuls, and the man to whom I belong gives me no encouragement when I want to amuse myself. They were now standing near to one end of the table, and suddenly there came to be an opening, through the crowd, up to the table itself. Lady Glencora, leaving Alice's side, at once stepped up and deposited a piece of gold on one of the marked compartments. As soon as she placed it, she retreated again with flushed face, and took hold of Alice's arm. There, she said, I have done it. Alice, in her dismay, did not know what step to take. She could not scold her friend now, as the eyes of many were turned upon them. Nor could she, of course, leave her as she had threatened. Lady Glencora laughed, with her peculiar little low laughter, and stood her ground. I was determined you shouldn't frighten me out of it, she said. One of the ministers at the table had, in the meantime, gone on with the cards, and had called the game. And another minister had gently pushed three or four more pieces of gold up to that which Lady Glencora had flung down, and had then cunningly caught her eye, and, with all the courtesy of which he was master, had pushed them further on towards her. She had supposed herself to be unknown there in the salon, but no doubt all the croupier and half the company knew well enough who was the new customer at the table. There was still the space open, near to which she stood, and then someone motioned to her to come and take up the money which she had won. She hesitated, and then the croupier asked her, in that low, indifferent voice which these men always use, whether she desired that her money should remain. She nodded her head to him, and he at once drew the money back again to the spot on which she had placed the first Napoleon. Again the cards were turned up softly. Then the game was called, and again she won. The money was dealt out to her, on this occasion with a full hand. There were lying there between twenty and thirty Napoleons, of which she was the mistress. Her face had flushed before, but now it became very red. She caught hold of Alice, who was literally trembling beside her, and tried to laugh. But there was that in her eye which told Alice that she was really frightened. Someone then placed a chair for her at the table, and in her confusion, not knowing what she was to do, she seated herself. "'Come away,' said Alice, taking hold of her, and disregarding everything but her own purpose, in the agony of the moment. "'You must come away. You shall not sit there.' "'I must get rid of that money,' said Glencora, trying to whisper her words. "'And then I will come away.' The croupier again asked her if the money was to remain, and she again nodded her head. Everybody at the table was now looking at her. The women especially were staring at her. Those horrid women, with vermilion cheeks, and loud bonnets half off their heads, and hard, shameless eyes, and white gloves, which, when taken off in the ardour of the game, disclosed dirty hands. They stared at her with that fixed stare which such women have, and Alice saw it all and trembled. "'Again,' she won. "'Leave it,' said Alice, and come away. "'I can't leave it,' said Glencora. "'If I do, there'll be a fuss. I'll go the next time.' What she said was, of course, in English, and was probably understood by no one near her. But it was easy to be seen that she was troubled, and, of course, those around her looked at her the more because of her trouble. Again that little question and answer went on between her and the croupier, and on this occasion the money was piled up on the compartment, a heap of gold, which made envious the hearts of many who stood around there. Alice had now both her hands on the back of the chair, needing support. If the devil should persist, and increase that stock of gold again, she must go and seek for Mr. Palacere. She knew not what else to do. She understood nothing of the table, or of its laws, but she supposed all those ministers of the game to be thieves, and believed that all villainous contrivances were within their capacity. She thought that they might go on, adding to that heap so long as Lady Glencora would sit there, presuming that they might thus get her into their clutches. Of course she did not sift her suspicions. Who does at such moments? Come away at once and leave it, she said, or I shall go. At that moment the croupier raked it all up and carried it all away. But Alice did not see that this had been done. A hand had been placed on her shoulder, and as she turned round her face her eyes met those of Mr. Palacere. It is all gone, said Glencora, laughing. And now she, turning round, also saw her husband. I am so glad that you are come, said Alice. Why did you bring her here? said Mr. Palacere. There was anger in his tone and anger in his eyes. He took his wife's arm upon his own, and walked away quickly, while Alice followed them alone. He went off at once, down the front steps of the building, towards the hotel. What he said to his wife, Alice did not hear. But her heart was swelling with the ill usage to which she herself was subjected. Though she might have to go back alone to England, she would tell him that he was ill-treating her. She followed him on, up into their drawing-room, and there he stood with the door open in his hand for her, while Lady Glencora threw herself upon a sofa, and burst out into affected laughter. Here's a piece of work, she said, about a little accident. An accident, said Mr. Palacere. Yes, an accident. You don't suppose that I sat down there, meaning to win all that money, whereupon he looked at her with scorn. Mr. Palacere, said Alice, you have treated me, this evening, in a manner I did not expect from you. It is clear that you blame me. I have not said a word, Miss Vavasor. No, you have not said a word. You know well how to show your anger without speaking. As I do not choose to undergo your displeasure, I will return to England by myself. Alice—Alice!—said Glencora, jumping up. What is nonsense? What is all this trumpery thing about? Leave me, because he chooses to be angry about nothing. Is it nothing that I find my wife playing at a common gambling table, surrounded by all that is wretched and vile, established there, seated, with heaps of gold before her? You wrong me, Plantagenet, said Glencora. There was only one heap, and that did not remain long. Did it, Alice? It is impossible to make you ashamed of anything, he said. I certainly don't like being ashamed, she answered, and don't feel any necessity on this occasion. If you don't object, Mr. Palacere, said Alice, I will go to bed. You can think over all this at night, and so can I. Good night, Glencora. Then Alice took her candle, and marched off to her own room, with all the dignity of which she was mistress.