 CHAPTER 73 IN WHICH COME TITINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO ALL PANELSAIRS. It was not till they had been for a day or two together at Lucerne that Mr. Gray told Mr. Palisair the story of George Vavasor's visit to him in Suffolk Street. Having begun the history of his connection with Alice, he found himself obliged to go with it to the end, and as he described the way in which the man had vanished from the sight of all who had known him, that he had in truth gone, so as no longer to be a cause of dread, he could not, without dissimulation, keep back the story of that last scene. And, he tried to murder you, said Mr. Palisair. He should be caught and—and—Mr. Palisair hesitated, not liking to say boldly that the first cousin of the lady who was now living with him ought to be hung. It is better as it is, said Gray. He actually walked into your rooms in the daytime and fired a pistol at you as you were sitting at your breakfast. He did that in London, and then walked off and went abroad, as though he had nothing to fear. That was just it, said Gray. Mr. Palisair began to think that something ought to be done to make life more secure in the metropolis of the world. Had he not known Mr. Gray or been accustomed to see the other man in Parliament, he would not have thought so much about it. But it was almost too much for him when he reflected that one man, whom he now called his friend, had been nearly murdered in daylight in the heart of his own part of London by another man whom he had reckoned among his parliamentary supporters. And he has got your money, too, said Palisair, putting all the circumstances of the case together. In answer to this, Mr. Gray said that he hoped the loss might eventually be his own, but that he was bound to regard the money which had been taken as part of Miss Vavasor's fortune. He is simply the greatest miscreant of whom I ever heard in my life, said Mr. Palisair. The wonder is that Miss Vavasor should ever have brought herself to like him. Then Mr. Gray apologized for Alice, explaining that her love for her cousin had come from her early years, that the man himself was clever and capable of assuming pleasant ways, and that he had not been wholly bad till ruin had come upon him. He attempted public life and made himself miserable by failing, as most men do, who make that attempt, said Gray. This was a statement which Mr. Palisair could not allow to pass without notice, whereupon the two men got away from George Vavasor and their own individual interests and went on seriously discussing the merits and demerits of public life. The end of it all is, said Gray at last, that public men in England should be rich like you and not poor like that miserable wretch who has now lost everything that the fates had given him. They continued to live at Lucerne in this way for a fortnight. Mr. Gray, though he was not unfrequently alone with Alice, did not plead his suit in direct words, but continued to live with her on terms of close and easy friendship. He had told her that her cousin had left England, that he had gone to America immediately after his disappointment in regard to the seat in parliament, and that he would probably not return. After George, Alice had said, He is a man very much to be pitied. He is a man very much to be pitied, Gray had replied. After that, nothing more was said between them about George Vavasor. From Lady Glencora, Alice did hear something, but Lady Glencora herself had not heard the whole story. I believe he misbehaved himself, my dear, Lady Glencora said. But then, you know, he always does that. I believe that he saw Mr. Gray and insulted him. Perhaps you had better not ask anything about it till by and by. You'll be able to get anything out of him then. In answer to this, Alice made her usual protest. And Lady Glencora, as was customary, told her that she was a fool. I am inclined to think that Mr. Gray knew what he was about. Lady Glencora once scolded him very vehemently for not bringing the affair to an end. We shall be going on to Italy before it's settled, she said. And I don't suppose you can go with us unless it is settled. Mr. Gray protested that he had no intention of going to Italy in either case. Then it will be put off for another year or two. And you are both of you as old as Adam and Eve already. We ancient people are never impatient, said Gray, laughing. If I were you, I would go to her and tell her, roundly, that she should marry me, and then I would shake her. If you were to scold her till she did not know whether she stood on her head or her heels, she would come to reason. Suppose you try that, Lady Glencora. I can't. It's she that always scolds me, as you will her when she's your wife. You and Mr. Palacere are very much alike. You're both of you so very virtuous that no woman would have a chance of picking a hole in your coats. But Lady Glencora was wrong. Alice Wood, no doubt, have submitted herself patiently to her lover's rebukes and would have confessed her own sins towards him with any amount of self-accusation that he might have required. But she would not, on that account, have been more willing to obey him in that one point as to which he now required present obedience. He understood that she must be taught to forgive herself for the evil she had done, to forgive herself at any rate in part before she could be induced to return to her old allegiance to him. Thus they went on together at Lucerne, passing quiet idle days with some pretense of reading, with a considerable amount of letter writing, with both excursions and pony excursions, till the pony excursions came to a sudden end by means of a violent edict as to which, and the cause of it, a word or two must be said just now. During these days of the boats and the ponies, the carriage which Lady Glencora hated so vehemently was shut up in limbo and things went very pleasantly with her. Mr. Palacere received political letters from England which made his mouth water sadly and was often very fidgety. Parliament was not now sitting and the government would, of course, remain intact till next February. Might it not be possible that when the rent came in the cabinet, he might yet be present at the dining? He was a constant man and had once declared his intention of being absent for a year. He continued to speak to Gray of his coming travels as though it was impossible that they should be over until after the next Easter. But he was sighing for Westminster and regretting the blue books which were accumulating themselves at matching. Till, all of a sudden, there came to him tidings which upset all his plans, which routed the ponies, which made everything impossible, which made the Alps impassable and the railways dangerous, which drove Bergo Fitzgerald out of Mr. Palacere's head and so confused him that he could no longer calculate the blunders of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer. All the Palacere world was about to be moved from its lowest depths to the summits of its highest mountains. Lady Glencora had whispered into her husband's ear that she thought it probable. She wasn't sure. She didn't know. And then she burst out into tears on his bosom as he sat by her on her bedside. He was beside himself when he left her, which he did with the primary intention of telegraphing to London for half a dozen leading physicians. He went out by the lakeside and walked there alone for 10 minutes in a state of almost unconscious exaltation. He did not quite remember where he was or what he was doing. The one thing in the world which he had lacked, the one joy which he had wanted so much and which is so common among men was coming to him also. In a few minutes it was to him as though each hand already rested on the fair head of a little male Palacere of whom one should rule in the halls at Gatherham and the other the eloquent among the Commons of England. Either too for the last eight or nine months since his first hopes had begun to fade, he had been a man degraded in his own sight amidst all his honors. What good was all the world to him if he had nothing of his own to come after him? We must give him his due too when we speak of this. He had not had wit enough to hide his grief from his wife. His knowledge of women and of men in social life had not been sufficient to teach him how this should be done, but he had wished to do it. He had never willingly rebuked her for his disappointment either by a glance of his eye or a tone of his voice. And now he had already forgiven everything. Bergo Fitzgerald was a myth. Mrs. Martiam should never again come near her. Mr. Bott was, of course, a thing abolished. He had not even had the sense to keep his seat in Parliament. Dandy and Flirt should feed on gilded corn and there should be an artificial moon always ready in the ruins. If only those damnable saddle ponies of Lucerne had not come across his wife's path. He went at once into the yard and ordered that the ponies should be abolished, sent away, one and all, to the furthest confines of the Canton. And then he himself inspected the cushions of the carriage. Were they dry? As it was August in those days, and August in Lucerne is a warm month, it may be presumed that they were dry. He then remembered that he had promised to send Alice up to his wife and he hurried back into the house. She was alone in the breakfast room waiting for him and for his wife. In these days, Mr. Gray would usually join them at dinner but he seldom saw them before 11 or 12 o'clock in the day. Then he would saunter in and join Mr. Palacere and they would all be together till the evening. When the expectant father of embryo Dukes entered the room, Alice perceived at once that some matter was a stirrer. His manner was altogether changed and he showed by his eye that he was eager and moved beyond his walt. Alice, he said, would you mind going up to Glencourt's room? She wishes to speak to you. He had never called her Alice before and as soon as the word was spoken, he remembered himself and blushed. She isn't ill, I hope, said Alice. No, she isn't ill. At least I think she had better not get up quite yet. Don't let her excite herself if you can help it. I'll go to her at once, said Alice, rising. I'm so much obliged to you but, Miss Vavasor. You called me Alice just now, Mr. Palacere, and I took it as a great compliment. He blushed again. Did I? Very well. Then I'll do it again if you'll let me but if you please, do be as calm with her as you can. She is so easily excited, you know. Of course, if there's anything she fancies, we'll take care to get it for her but she must be kept quiet. Upon this, Alice left him, having had no moment of time to guess what had happened or was about to happen and he was again alone, contemplating the future glories of his house. Had he a thought for his poor cousin, Jeffrey, whose nose was now so terribly out of joint? No indeed. His thoughts were all of himself and the good things that were coming to him, of the new world of interest that was being opened for him. It would be better to him, this, than being Chancellor of the Exchequer. He would rather have it in store for him to be father of the next Duke of Omnium than make half a dozen consecutive annual speeches in Parliament as to the ways and means and expenditure of the British nation. Could it be possible that this foreign tour had produced for him this good fortune? If so, how luckily had things turned out? He would remember even that ball at Lady Monks with gratitude. Perhaps a residence abroad would be best for Lady Glencora at this particular period of her life. If so, abroad she should certainly live. Before resolving, however, on anything permanently on this head, he thought that he might judiciously consult those six first-rate London positions, whom in the first moment of his excitement, he had been desirous of summoning to Lucerne. In the meantime, Alice had gone up to the bedroom of the lady who was now to be the subject of so much anxious thought. When she entered the room, her friend was up and in her dressing-gown, lying on a sofa which stood at the foot of the bed. Oh, Alice, I'm so glad you've come, said Lady Glencora. I do so wanted to hear your voice. Then Alice knelt beside her and asked her if she were ill. He hasn't told you, but of course he wouldn't. How could he? But Alice, how did he look? Did you observe anything about him? Was he pleased? I did observe something, and I think he was pleased. But what is it? He called me Alice and seemed to be quite unlike himself. But what is it? He told me that I was to come to you instantly. Oh, Alice, can't you guess? Then suddenly Alice did guess the secret and whispered her guess into Lady Glencora's ear. I suppose it is so, said Lady Glencora. I know what they'll do. They'll kill me by fussing over me. If I could go about my work like a washerwoman, I should be all right. I am so happy, she said, some two or three hours afterwards. I won't deny that I am very happy. It seemed as though I were destined to bring nothing but misery to everybody, and I used to wish myself dead so often. I shan't wish myself dead now. We shall all have to go home, I suppose, said Alice. He says so, but he seems to think that I oughtn't to travel above a mile and a half a day. When I talked of going down the Rhine in one of the steamers, I thought he would have gone into a fit. When I asked him why, he gave me such a look. I know he'll make a goose of himself and he'll make a geese of us, too, which is worse. On that afternoon, as they were walking together, Mr. Palacere told the important secret to his new friend, Mr. Gray. He could not deny himself the pleasure of talking about this great event. It is a matter, you see, of such immense importance to me, Mr. Palacere said. Indeed, it is, said Gray. Every man feels that when a child is about to be born to him, but this did not at all satisfy Mr. Palacere. Yes, said he. That's, of course. It is an important thing to everybody, very important, no doubt. But when a man, you see, Gray, I don't think a man is a bit better because he is rich or because he has a title, nor do I think he is likely to be in any degree the happier. I am quite sure that he has no right to be in the slightest degree proud of that which he has had no hand in doing for himself. Men usually are very proud of such advantages, said Gray. I don't think that I am, I don't indeed. I am proud of some things. Whenever I can manage to carry a point in the house, I feel very proud of it. I don't think I ever knocked under to anyone, and I am proud of that. Perhaps Mr. Palacere was thinking of a certain time when his uncle the Duke had threatened him and he had not given way to the Duke's threats. But I don't think I'm proud because chance has made me my uncle's heir. Not in the least, I should say. But I do feel that a song to me is of more importance than it is to most men. A strong anxiety on the subject is, I think, more excusable in me than it might be in another. I don't know whether I quite make myself understood. Oh, yes. When there's a dukedom and heaven knows how many thousands a year to be disposed of, the question of their future ownership does become important. This property is so much more interesting to one if one feels that all one does to it is done for one's own son. And yet, said Gray, of all the great plunderers of property throughout Europe, the popes have been the most greedy. Perhaps it's different when a man can't have a wife, said Mr. Palacere. From all this it may be seen that Mr. Palacere and Mr. Gray had become very intimate. Had chance brought them together in London, they might have met a score of times before Mr. Palacere would have thought of doing more than bowing to such an acquaintance. Mr. Gray might have spent weeks at matching without having achieved anything like intimacy with its noble owner. But things of that kind progress more quickly abroad than they do at home. The deck of an ocean steamer is perhaps the most prolific hotbed of the growth of sudden friendships. But an hotel by the side of a Swiss lake does almost as well. For some time after this, Lady Blancora's conduct was frequently sown in discreet as to drive her husband almost to frenzy. On the very day after the news had been communicated to him, she proposed a picnic and made the proposition not only in the presence of Alice, but in that of Mr. Gray also. Mr. Palacere, on such an occasion, could not express all that he thought, but he looked at it. "'What is the matter now, Plantagenet?' said his wife. "'Nothing,' said he. "'Nothing, never mind. "'And shall we make this party up to the chapel?' "'The chapel in question was Tell's Chapel, "'ever so far up the lake. "'A journey in a steamboat would have been necessary.' "'No,' said he, shouting out his refusal at her. "'We will not.' "'You needn't be angry about it,' said she, "'as though he could have failed to be stirred "'by such a proposition at such a time.' "'On another occasion she returned from an evening walk, "'showing on her face some sign of the exercise "'she had taken.' "'Good God, Blancora,' said he. "'Do you mean to kill yourself?' "'He wanted her to eat six or seven times a day, "'and always told her that she was eating too much, "'remembering some ancient proverb about little and often. "'He watched her now as closely as Mrs. Marsham "'and Mr. Bott had watched her before, "'and she always knew that he was doing so. "'She made the matter worse by continually proposing "'to do things which she knew he would not permit "'in order that she might enjoy the fun "'of seeing his agony and amazement. "'But this, though it was fun to her at the moment, "'produced anything but fun, as its general result. "'Upon my word, Alice, I think this will kill me,' she said. "'I am not to stir her out of the house now, "'unless I go in the carriage, or he is with me. "'It won't last long. "'I don't know what you call long. "'As for walking with him, it's out of the question. "'He goes about a mile an hour, "'and then he makes me look so much like a fool. "'I had no idea that he would be such an old coddle. "'The coddling will all be given "'to someone else very soon. "'No baby could possibly live through it, "'if you mean that, if there is a baby. "'I suppose there will be one by and by,' said Alice. "'Don't be a fool. "'But if there is, I shall take that matter into my own hands. "'He can do what he pleases with me, and I can't help myself. "'But I shan't let him or anybody "'do what they please with my baby. "'I know what I'm about in such matters "'a great deal better than he does. "'I have no doubt he's a very clever man in parliament. "'But he doesn't seem to need to understand anything else.' "'Alice was making some very wise speech, "'in answer to this, when Lady Glencora interrupted her. "'Mr. Gray wouldn't make himself so troublesome, I'm quite sure.' "'Then Alice held her tongue. "'When the first consternation arising from the news "'had somewhat subsided, "'say in a fortnight from the day in which "'Mr. Palacere was made so triumphant. "'And when tidings had been duly sent to the Duke, "'and an answer from his grace had come, "'arrangements were made for the return of the party to England. "'The Duke's reply was very short. "'My dear Plantagenet, give my kind love to Glencora. "'If it's a boy, of course, I would be one of the godfathers. "'The Prince, who is very kind, "'will perhaps oblige me by being the other. "'I should advise you to return as soon as convenient. "'Your affectionate uncle, Omnium.' "'That was the letter, and short as it was, "'it was probably the longest that Mr. Palacere "'had ever received from the Duke. "'There was great trouble about the mode of their return.' "'Oh, what nonsense!' said Glencora. "'Let us get into an express train "'and go right through to London. "'Mr. Palacere looked at her with a countenance "'full of rebuke and sorrow. "'He was always so looking at her now. "'If you mean, Plantagenet, "'that we are to be dragged all across the continent "'in that horrible carriage and be a thousand days "'on the road, I, for one, won't submit to it. "'I wish I had never told him a word about it,' "'she said afterwards to Alice. "'He would never have found it out himself "'till this thing was all over.' "'Mr. Palacere did at last consent "'to take the joint opinion of a Swiss doctor "'and an English one who was settled at Bern "'and who, on the occasion, was summoned to Lusanne. "'They suggested the railway, "'and as letters arrived for Mr. Palacere, "'medical letters, in which the same opinion was broached, "'it was agreed, at last, "'that they should have returned by railway. "'But they were to make various halts on the road, "'stopping at each halting-place for a day. "'The first was, of course, Basel, "'and from Basel they were to go on to Baden. "'I particularly wanted to see Baden again,' "'they to Glencora said. "'And perhaps I may be able to get back mine, "'pull in,' end of Chapter 73, "'recording by Laura Kastner.'" Can you forgive her by Anthony Trelaw, Chapter 74? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The present recording is by Raju, Pramina45 at hotmail.com. Can you forgive her by Anthony Trelaw, Chapter 74? Showing what happened in the church yard. These arrangements as to return of Mr. Palisar's party to London did not, of course, include Mr. Gray. They were generally discussed in Mr. Gray's absence and communicated to him by Mr. Palisar. "'I suppose we shall see you in England before long,' said Mr. Palisar. "'I shall be able to tell you that before you go,' said Gray. "'Not bad that in any event, "'I shall return to England before the winter.' "'Then come to us at matching,' said Mr. Palisar. "'We shall be most happy to have you. "'Say that you will come for the first fortnight "'in December. "'After that, we always go to the duke in Versace Shire. "'Though, by the by, "'I don't suppose we shall go anywhere this year,' Mr. Palisar added, interrupting the warmth of his invitation and reflecting that, "'under the present circumstances, perhaps, "'it might be improper to have any guests at matching "'in December.' But he had become very fond of Mr. Gray, and on this occasion, as he had done on some others, pressed him warmly to make an attempt at Parliament. "'It isn't nearly so difficult, as you think,' said he, when Gray declared that he would not know where to look for a seat. "'See the men that get in. "'There was Mr. Versar. "'Even he got a seat. "'But he had to pay for it very dearly. "'You might easily find some quiet little borough. "'Quite little boroughs have usually got "'their own quiet little members,' said Gray. "'They are fond of change, "'and if you like to spend a thousand pounds, "'the thing isn't difficult. "'I'll put you in the way of it.' "'But Mr. Gray still declined. "'He was not a man, "'prone to be talked out of his own way of life, "'and the very fact that George Versar had been in Parliament "'would of itself have gone far "'towards preventing any attempt on his part "'in that direction. "'Alice had also wanted him to go into public life, "'but he had put aside her request "'as though the things were quite out of the question, "'never giving a moment to its consideration. "'Had she asked him to settle himself "'and her in Central Africa, "'his manner and mode of refusal would have been the same. "'It was this immobility on his part, "'his absolute point of any of the weakness of indecision, "'which had frightened her and driven her away from him. "'He was partly aware of this, "'but that which he had declined to do at her solicitation, "'he certainly would not do at the advice of anyone else. "'So it was that he argued the matter with himself. "'Had he now allowed himself to be so counseled "'with what terrible acknowledgement of his own faults "'must he not have presented himself before Alice? "'I suppose books then will be your object in life,' said Mr. Palazzo. "'I hope they will be my aides,' Gray answered. "'I almost doubt whether any object such as that "'you mean is necessary for life or even expedient. "'It seems to me that if a man can so train himself "'that he may live honestly and die fearlessly, "'he has done about as much as is necessary. "'He has done a great deal, certainly,' said Mr. Palazzo, who was not ready enough to carry on the argument, "'as he might have done, had more time "'been given to him to consider it. "'He knew very well that he himself was working "'for others and not for himself, "'and he was aware, though he had not analyzed "'his own convictions on the matter, "'that good men struggle as they do in order "'that others besides themselves may live honestly "'and if possible die fearlessly.' "'The recluse of other quotes had thought "'much more about all these than the rising star "'of the House of Commons, "'but the philosophy of the rising star "'was a better philosophy of the two, "'though he was, by far, the less brilliant man. "'I don't see why a man should not live honestly "'and be a member of parliament as well,' continued Mr. Palazzo, "'when he had been silent for a few minutes. "'Nor I either,' said Gray. "'I'm sure that there are such men "'and that the country is under great obligation to them, "'but they are subject to temptations "'which a prudent man like myself "'may perhaps do well to avoid. "'But though he spoke with an assured tone, "'he was shaken and almost regretted "'that he did not accept the aid which was offered to him. "'It's astonishing how strong a man "'may be to those around him, "'how impregnable may be his exterior "'while within he feels himself to be as weak as water "'and as unstable as chaff.' "'But the object which he had now in view "'was a renewal of his engagement with Alice, "'and he felt that he must obtain an answer from her "'before they left Luzon. "'If she still persisted in refusing to give him a ride, "'it would not be consistent with his dignity "'as a man to continue his immediate pursuit "'of her any longer. "'In such case, he must leave her "'and see what future time might bring forth. "'He believed himself to be aware "'that he would never offer his love to another woman. "'And if Alice were to remain single, "'he might try again after the lapse of a year or two. "'But if he failed now, then for that year or two, "'he would see her no more. "'Having so resolved and being averse to anything "'like a surprise, he asked her as he left her "'on evening whether she would walk with him "'on the following morning. "'That morning would be the morning "'of her last day at Luzon, "'and as she assented, she knew well what was to come. "'She said nothing to Redy and Kora on the subject "'but allowed the coming prospects of the palace of family "'to form the sole subject of their conversation that night, "'as it had done on every night "'since then great news had become known. "'They were always together for an hour "'every evening before Alice was allowed to go to bed. "'And during this hour, the anxieties of the future, "'father and mother were always discussed "'till Alice Pevezor was almost tired of them. "'But she was patient with her friend, "'and on this special night she was patient as ever. "'But when she was released and was hallowed, "'she made a great endeavor to come to some fixed resolution "'as to what she would do on the morrow, "'some resolution which should be absolutely resolute "'and from which no eloquence on the part of anyone "'should move her. "'But such resolutions are not easily reached, "'and Alice labored through half the night almost in vain. "'She knew that she loved the man. "'She knew that he was as true to her "'as the son is true to the earth. "'She knew that she would be, in all respects, "'safe in his hands. "'She knew that Lady Glencora would be delighted "'and her father gratified. "'She knew that the Countesses would open their arms to her, "'though I doubt whether this knowledge was "'in itself very persuasive. "'She knew that by such a marriage, "'she would gain all that women generally looked gain "'when they give themselves away. "'But nevertheless, as far as she could decide at all, "'she desired it against her lover. "'She had no right of her own to be taken back "'after the evil that she had done. "'And she did not choose to be taken back "'as an object of pity and forgiveness. "'Where are you going?' said her cousin "'when she came in with her hat on soon after breakfast. "'I'm going to walk with Mr. Gray by appointment. "'Yes, by appointment,' he asked me yesterday. "'Then it's all settled. "'And you haven't told me. "'All that is settled, I have told you very often. "'He asked me yesterday to walk with him this morning "'and I could not well refuse him. "'Why should you have wished to refuse him? "'I haven't said that I did wish it, "'but I hate scenes, "'and I think it would have been pleasanter for us "'to have parted without any occasion for special words. "'Alice, you are such a fool. "'So you tell me very often.' "'Of course, he is now going to say the very thing "'that he has come all this way for the purpose of saying. "'He has been wonderfully slow about it. "'But then slow as he is, you're slower. "'If you don't make it up with him now, "'I really shall think you are very wicked. "'I'm becoming like Lady Midlothian. "'I can't understand it. "'I know you want to be his wife, "'and I know he wants to be your husband. "'And the only thing that keeps you apart is your obstinacy. "'Just because you have said you wouldn't have him. "'My belief is that if Lady Midlothian "'and the rest of us were to pat you on the back "'and tell you how right you were, "'you would ask him to take you out of defiance. "'You may be sure of this, Alice. "'If you refuse him now, it'll be for the last time.' "'This and much more of the same kind she bore "'before Mr. Great came to take her, "'and she answered to it all as little as she could. "'You are making me very unhappy, Glencora. "'She said once, "'I wish I could break you down with unhappiness, "'Lady Glencora answered, "'so that he might find you less stiff "'and hard and unmanageable. "'Directly upon that he came in, "'looking as though he had no business on hand, "'more exciting than his ordinary mornings "'tranquil employments. "'Alice at once got up to start with him. "'So you and Alice are going to make your aduse,' "'said Lady Glencora. "'It must be done sooner or later,' said Mr. Great, "'and then they went off. "'Those who know Luzern, "'and almost everybody now does know Luzern, "'will remember the big hotel which has been built "'close to the landing pier of the steamers, "'and will remember also the church "'that stands upon a little hill or rising round "'to the left of you as you come out of the inn upon the lake. "'The church is immediately over the lake, "'and round the church there is a burying ground, "'and skirting the burying ground there are cloisters "'through the orchards and apertures, "'of which they who walk and sit there "'look down immediately upon the blue water "'and across the water upon the frowning menaces "'of Mount Pilate. "'It is one of the prettiest parts in that land of beauty, "'and its charm is to my feeling, "'enhanced by the sepulchral monuments over which I walk, "'and by which I am surrounded as I stand there. "'Up here into these cloisters Alice and John Gray went together. "'I doubt whether he had formed any purpose of doing so. "'She certainly would have gone without question "'in any direction that he might have led her. "'The distance from the inn up to the church gate "'did not take them 10 minutes. "'And when they were there, their walk was over, "'but the place was solitary, and they were alone, "'and it might be as well for Mr. Gray to speak "'what words he had to say there as elsewhere. "'They had often been together in those cloisters before, "'but on such occasions, either Mr. Palliser "'or Lady Plankora had been with them. "'On their slow passage up the hill, "'very little was spoken, and that little was a firm moment. "'We'll go in here for a few minutes,' he said. "'It is the prettiest spot above Luzon, "'and we don't know when we may see it again.' "'So they went in and sat down on one of the embrasures "'that opened from the cloisters over the lake. "'Probably never again,' said Alice. "'And yet I have been here now two years running.' "'She shuddered as she remembered that "'in that former year George Webazor had been with her. "'As she thought of it, all she hated herself. "'Over and over again, she had told herself "'that she had so mismanaged the latter years of her life "'that it was impossible for her not to hate herself. "'No woman had a clearer idea of feminine constancy "'than she had, and no woman had sinned "'against that idea more deeply.' "'He gave her time to think of all this "'as he sat there looking down upon the water. "'And yet I would sooner live in Cambridgeshire, "'where the first words he spoke. "'Why so? "'Partly because all beauty is best enjoyed "'when it is sought for with some trouble and difficulty. "'And partly because such beauty and the romance, "'which is attached to it, "'should not make up the staple of one's life. "'Romance, if it is to come at all, "'should always come by fits and starts. "'I should like to live in a pretty country "'and would like to live a romantic life, no doubt. "'But all those things lose their charm "'if they are made common. "'When a man has to go to Vienna or St. Petersburg "'two or three times a month, "'you don't suppose he enjoys traveling. "'All the same, I should like to live "'in a pretty country,' said Alice. "'And I want you to come and live in a very ugly country.' "'Then he passed for a minute or two, "'not looking at her, "'but gazing still on the mountain opposite. "'She did not speak a word, "'but looked as he was looking. "'She knew that the request was coming "'and had been thinking about it all night. "'But now that it had come, "'she did not know how to bear herself. "'I don't think,' he went on to say, "'that you would let that conservation stand in your way. "'If on other grounds, "'you are willing to become my wife. "'What conservation? "'Because Nethercoats is not so pretty as Busser. "'It would have nothing to do with it,' said Alice. "'You should have nothing to do with it? "'Nothing, nothing at all,' repeated Alice. "'Will you come then? "'Will you come and be my wife "'and help me to be happy amidst all that ugliness? "'Will you come and be my one beautiful thing, "'my treasure, my joy, my comfort, my counselor? "'You want no counselor, Mr. Gray? "'No man ever wanted one more.' "'Alice, this has been a bad year to me "'and I do not think that it has been a happy one for you. "'Indeed, no. "'Let's forget it or rather let us treat it "'as though it were forgotten. "'Twelve months ago, you were mine. "'You were, at any rate, so much mine "'that I had a right to boast to my possession "'among my friends. "'It was a poor boast. "'They did not seem to think so. "'I had but one or two to whom I could speak of you "'but they told me that I was going to be a happy man. "'As to myself, I was sure that I was to be so. "'No man was ever better contended with his bargain "'than I was with mine. "'Let's go back to it and the last twelve months "'shall be as though they had never been. "'That cannot be, Mr. Gray. "'If it could, I should be worse even than I am. "'Why cannot it be? "'Because I cannot forgive myself what I have done "'and because you ought not to forgive me. "'But I do. "'There has never been an hour with me "'in which there has been an offense of yours "'rankling in my bosom unforgiven. "'I think you have been foolish, misguided, "'led away by a vain ambition "'and that in the difficulty to which these things brought you, "'you endow over to constrain yourself to do an act, "'which when it came near to you, "'when the doing of it had to be more closely considered, "'you found to be contrary to your nature. "'Now, as he spoke thus, she turned her eyes upon him "'and looked at him, wondering that he should have had "'power to read her heart so accurately. "'I never believed that you would marry your cousin. "'When I was told of it, I knew that trouble "'had blinded you for a while. "'You had driven yourself to revolt against me "'and upon that your heart misgave you. "'And you said to yourself that it did not matter "'then how you might throw away all your sweetness. "'You see that I speak of your old love for me "'with the frank conceit of a happy lover. "'No, no, no, she ejaculated. "'But the storm passes over the tree "'and does not tear it up by the roots "'or spoil it of all its symmetry. "'When we hear the winds blowing "'and see how the poor thing is shaken, "'we think that its days are numbered "'and its destruction at hand. "'Alice, when the winds were shaking you "'and you were torn and buffeted, I never thought so. "'There may be some who will forgive you slowly. "'Now your own self-forgiveness will be slow. "'But I, who have known you better than anyone, "'yes, better than anyone, I have forgiven you everything, "'have forgiven you instantly. "'Come to me, Alice, and comfort me. "'Come to me, for I want you solely.' "'She sat quite still, looking at the lake "'and the mountain beyond. "'But she said nothing. "'What could she say to him? "'My need of you is much greater now,' he went on to say. "'Then when I first asked you to share the world with me, "'then I could have borne to lose you, "'as I had never boasted to myself that you were my own, "'had never pictured to myself the life "'that might be mine if you were always to be with me. "'But since that day, I have had no other hope, "'no other hope but this for which I plead now. "'Am I to plead in vain? "'You do not know me,' she said. "'How while I have been, you do not think what it is "'for a woman to have promised herself to one man "'while she loved another. "'But it was me you loved. "'Ah, Alice, I can forgive that. "'Do I not tell you that I did forgive it "'the moment that I heard it? "'Do you not hear me say that I never, "'for a moment, thought that you would marry him? "'Alice, you should scold me for my vanity, "'for I have believed all through that "'you loved me and me only. "'Come to me, dear, and tell me that it is so, "'and the past shall be only as a dream.' "'I'm dreaming it always,' said Alice. "'They will cease to be bitter dreams "'if your head be upon my shoulder. "'You will cease to reproach yourself "'and you know that you have made me happy. "'I shall never cease to reproach myself. "'I have done that which no woman can do "'and honor herself afterwards. "'I have been a jilt. "'The noblest jilt that ever had halted between two minds. "'There has been no touch of selfishness in your fickleness. "'I think I could be hard enough upon a woman "'who had left me for greater wealth, for a higher rank, "'who had left me even that she might be gay and marry. "'It has not been so with you. "'Yes, it has. "'I thought you were too firm in your own will and, "'and you think so still, is that it? "'It does not matter what I think now. "'I'm a fallen creature and have no longer a right "'to such thoughts. "'It will be better for us both "'that you should leave me and forget me. "'There are things which, if a woman does them, "'should never be forgotten, "'which she should never permit herself to forget. "'And am I to be punished then because of your fault? "'Is that your sense of justice?' "'He got up and standing before her, "'look down upon her. "'Alice, if you will tell me that you do not love me, "'I'll believe you and will trouble you no more. "'I know that you will say nothing to me, that is false. "'Through it all, you have spoken no word of falsehood. "'If you love me after what has passed, "'I have a right to demand your hand. "'My happiness requires it "'and I have a right to expect your compliance. "'I do demand it. "'If you love me, Alice, "'I tell you that you dare not refuse me. "'If you do so, you will fail hereafter to reconcile it "'to your conscience before God.' "'Then he stopped his speech and waited for a reply. "'But Alice sat silent beneath his gaze "'with her eyes turned upon the tombstones beneath her feet. "'Of course, she had no choice but to yield. "'He possessed of power and force, "'infinitely greater than hers, "'had left her no alternative but to be happy. "'But there still clung to her, what I fear, "'we must call a perverseness of obstinacy, "'a desire to maintain the resolution she had made, "'a wish that she might be allowed to undergo "'the punishment she had deserved. "'She was as a prisoner who would claim "'clink to his prison after pardon as each day "'because he is conscious that the pardon is undeserved. "'And it may be that there was still left within her bosom, "'some remnant of that feeling of rebellion, "'which his masterful spirit had ever produced in her. "'He was so imperious in his tranquility, "'he argued his question of love "'with such a manifest preponderance of right on his side "'that she had always felt that to yield to him "'would be to confess the omnipotence of his power. "'She knew now that she must yield to him, "'that his power over her was omnipotent. "'She was pressed by him as in some countries "'the prisoner is pressed by the judge, "'so pressed that she acknowledged to herself silently "'that any further antagonism to him was impossible. "'Nevertheless, the word which she had to speak "'still remained unspoken, "'and he stood over her, waiting for her answer. "'Then slowly he sat down beside her "'and gradually he put his arm round her waist. "'She shrank from him back against the stonework "'of the embracer, but she could not shrink away "'from his grasp. "'She put up her hand to impede his, "'but his hand, like his character and his words, "'was full of power. "'He could not be impeded. "'Alice, he said, as he pressed her close with his arm, "'the battle is over now, and I have won it. "'You win everything always,' she said, "'espering to him as she still shrank from his embrace. "'In winning you, I have won everything. "'Then he put his face over her "'and pressed his lips to hers. "'I wonder whether he was made happier "'when he knew that no other touch had performed those lips "'since last he had pressed them.'" End of chapter 74. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The present recording is by Raju, from inner48hhotmail.com. Chapter 75 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. Recording by Catherine Holt. Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 75. Rouge et Noir. Alice insisted on being left up in the churchyard, urging that she wanted to think about it all, but in truth, fearing that she might not be able to carry herself well if she were to walk down with her lover to the hotel. To this he made no objection, and on reaching the inn, met Mr. Palasa in the hall. Mr. Palasa was already inspecting the arrangement of certain large trunks which had been brought downstairs, and was preparing for their departure. He was going about the house with a nervous solicitude to do something, and was flattering himself that he was of use. As he could not be chancellor of the Exchequer, and as, by the nature of his disposition, some employment was necessary to him, he was looking to the cording of the boxes. Good morning, good morning, he said to Gray, hardly looking at him, as though time were too precious with him to allow of his turning his eyes upon his friend. I am going up to the station to see after a carriage for to-morrow. Perhaps she'll come with me. To this proposition Mr. Gray assented. Sometimes, you know, continued Mr. Palasa, the springs of the carriages are so very rough. Then, in a very few words, Mr. Gray told him what had been his own morning's work. He hated secrets and secrecy, and as the Palasa's knew well what had brought him upon their track, it was, he thought, well that they should know that he had been successful. Mr. Palasa congratulated him very cordially, and then, running upstairs for his gloves or his stick, or, more probably, that he might give his wife one other caution as to her care of herself, he told her also that Alice had yielded at last. Of course she has, said Lady Glencora. I really didn't think she would, said he. That's because you don't understand things of that sort, said his wife. Then the caution was repeated. The mother of the future Duke was kissed, and Mr. Palasa went off on his mission about the carriage, its cushions, and its springs. In the course of their walk, Mr. Palasa suggested that, as things were settled so pleasantly, Mr. Gray might as well return with them to England, and to this suggestion Mr. Gray assented. Alice remained alone for nearly an hour, looking out upon the rough sides and gloomy top of Mount Pilate. No one disturbed her in the churchyard, no steps were heard along the tombstones, no voice sounded through the cloisters. She was left in perfect solitude to think of the past and form her plans of the future. Was she happy, now that the manner of her life to come was thus settled for her, that all further question as to the disposal of herself was taken out of her hands, and that her marriage with a man she loved was so firmly arranged that no further folly of her own could disarrange it? She was happy, though she was though to confess her happiness to herself. She was happy, and she was resoluting this, that she would now do all she could to make him happy also. And there must now, she acknowledged, be an end to her pride, to that pride which had hitherto taught her to think that she could more wisely follow her own guidance than that of any other who might claim to guide her. She knew now that she must follow his guidance. She had found her master, as we sometimes say, and laughed to herself with a little inward laughter as she confessed that it was so. She was from henceforth altogether in his hands. If he chose to tell her that they were to be married at Mikkelmus, or at Christmas, or on Ladyday, they would, of course, be married accordingly. She had taken her fling at having her own will, and she and all her friends had seen what had come of it. She had assumed the command of the ship, and had thrown it upon the rocks, and she felt that she never ought to take the captain's place again. It was well for her that he who was to be captain was one whom she respected as thoroughly as she loved him. She would write to her father at once, to her father, and Lady Macleod, and would confess everything. She felt that she owed it to them, and that they should be told by herself that they had been right, and that she had been wrong. Hitherto, she had not mentioned to either of them the fact that Mr. Gray was with them in Switzerland. And then what must she do was to Lady Midlothian? As to Lady Midlothian, she would do nothing. Lady Midlothian, of course, would triumph, would jump upon her, as Lady Glencora had once expressed it, with very triumphant heels, would try to patronize her, or which would be almost worse, would make a parade of her forgiveness. But she would have nothing to do with Lady Midlothian, unless, indeed, Mr. Gray should order it. Then she laughed at herself again with that inward laughter, and, rising from her seat, proceeded to walk down the hill to the hotel. Vanquished at last, said Lady Glencora, as Alice entered the room. Yes, vanquished, if you like to call it so, said Alice. It is not what I call it, but what you feel it, said the other. Do you think that I don't know you well enough to be sure that you regard yourself now as an unfortunate prisoner, as a captive taken in war, to be led away in triumph, without any hope of a ransom? I know that it is quite a misery to you that you should have been made a happy woman of at last. I understand it all, my dear, and my heart bleeds for you. Of course, I knew that was the way you would treat me. In what way would you have me treat you, if I were to hug you with joy and tell you how good he is and how fortunate you are? If I were to praise him and bid you triumph in your success, as might be expected on such an occasion, you would put on a long face at once and tell me that though the thing is to be, it would be much better that the thing shouldn't be. Don't I know you, Alice? I shouldn't have said that, not now. I believe in my heart that you would, that or something like it. But I do wish you joy all the same and you may say what you please. He has got you in his power now and I don't think even you can go back. No, I shall not go back again. I would join with Lady Midlothian in putting you into a madhouse if you did, but I am so glad. I am indeed. I was afraid to the last, terribly afraid. You are so hard and so proud. I don't mean hard to me, dear. You have never been half hard enough to me. But you are hard to yourself and upon my word you have been hard to him. What a deal you will have to make up to him. I feel that I ought to stand before him always as a penitent in a white sheet. He will like it better, I dare say, if you will sit upon his knee. Some penitents do, you know. And how happy you will be. He'll never explain the sugar duties to you and there'll be no Mr. Bott at Nethercoats. They sat together the whole morning while Mr. Palasa was seeing to the springs and cushions and by degrees Alice began to enjoy her happiness. As she did so her friend enjoyed it with her and at last they had something of the comfort and excitement which such an occasion should give. I'll tell you what Alice, you shall come and be married at Matching in August or perhaps September. That's the only way in which I can be present and if we can bespeak some sun we'll have the breakfast out in the ruins. On the following morning they all started together a first class compartment having been taken for the Palasa family and a second class compartment close to them for the Palasa servants. Mr. Palasa, as he slowly handed his wife in, was a triumphant man. As was also Mr. Gray as he handed in his lady love though in a manner much less manifest. We may say that both the gentlemen had been very fortunate while at Lucerne. Mr. Palasa had come abroad with a feeling that all the world had been cut from under his feet. A great change was needed for his wife and he had acknowledged at once that everything must be made to yield to that necessity. He certainly had his reward now in his triumphant return. Terrible troubles had afflicted him as he went which seemed now to have dissipated themselves altogether. When he thought of Bergo Fitzgerald he remembered him only as a poor unfortunate fellow for whom he should be glad to do something if the doing of anything were only in his power and he had in his pocket a letter which he had that morning received from the Duke of St. Bungie marked private and confidential which was in its nature very private and confidential and in which he was told that Lord Brock and Mr. Feinspen were totally at variance about French wines. Mr. Feinspen wanted to do something now in the recess to send some political agent over to France to which Lord Brock would not agree and no one knew what would be the consequence of this disagreement. Here might be another chance if only Mr. Parsa would give up his winter in Italy. Mr. Parsa, as he took his place opposite his wife was very triumphant and Mr. Gray was triumphant as he placed himself gently in his seat opposite to Alice. He seemed to assume no right as he took that position apparently because it was the one which came naturally to his lot. No one would have been made aware that Alice was his own simply by seeing his arrangements for her comfort. He made no loud assertion as to his property and his rights as some men do. He was quiet and subdued in his joy but not the less was he triumphant. From the day on which Alice had accepted his first offer nay, from an earlier day than that from the day on which he had first resolved to make it down to the present hour he had never been stirred from his purpose. By every word that he had said and by every act that he had done he had shown himself to be unmoved by that episode in their joint lives which Alice's other friends had regarded as so fatal. When she first rejected him he would not take his rejection. When she told him that she intended to marry her cousin he silently declined to believe that such a marriage would ever take place. He had never given her up for a day and now the event proved that he had been right. Alice was happy, very happy but she was still disposed to regard her lover as fate and her happiness as an enforced necessity. They stopped the night at Basil and again she stood upon the balcony. He was close to her as she stood there so close that putting out her hand for his she was able to take it and press it closely. You are thinking of something Alice? he said. What is it? It was here, she said. Here on this very balcony that I first rebelled against you and now you have brought me here that I should confess and submit on the same spot. I do confess. How am I to thank you for forgiving me? On the following morning they went on to Barden-Barden and there they stopped for a couple of days. Lady Glancora had positively refused to stop a day at Basil making so many objections to the place that her husband had at last yielded. I could go from Vienna to London without feeling it, she said with indignation and to tell me that I can't do two days easy journey running. Mr. Parsa had been afraid to be imperious and therefore immediately on his arrival at one of the stations in Basil he had posted across the town in the heat and the dust to look after the cushions and the springs at the other. I have a particular favour to ask of you. Lady Glancora said to her husband as soon as they were alone together in their rooms at Barden. Mr. Parsa declared that he would grant her any particular favour only promising that he was not to be supposed to have thereby committed himself to any engagement under which his wife should have authority to take any exertion upon herself. I wish I were a milkmaid, said Lady Glancora, but you are not a milkmaid my dear. You haven't been brought up like a milkmaid. But what was the favour? If she would only ask for jewels though they were the grand Duchess's diamond eardrops he would endeavour to get them for her. If she would have quaffed molten pearls like Cleopatra he would have procured the beverage having first fortified himself with the medical opinion as to the fitness of the drink for a lady in her condition. There was no expenditure that he would not willingly incur for her nothing costly that he would grudge. But when she asked for a favour he was always afraid of an imprudence. Possibly she might want to drink beer in an open garden and her request was, at last, of this nature. I want you to take me up to the gambling rooms, said she. The gambling rooms? said Mr. Palser in dismay. Yes, Plantagenet, the gambling rooms. If you had been with me before I should not have made a fool of myself by putting my piece of money on the table. I want to see the place but then I saw nothing because I was so frightened when I found that I was winning. Mr. Palser was aware that all the world of Barn or rather the world of the strangers at Barn assembles itself in those salons. It may be also that he himself was curious to see how men looked when they lost their own money or won that of others. He knew how a minister looked when he lost or gained a tax. He was familiar with millions and tens of millions in a committee of the whole house. He knew the excitement of a near division upon the estimates but he had never yet seen a poor man stake his last Napoleon and rake back from off the table a small hat full of gold. A little exercise after an early dinner was, he had been told, good for his wife. And he agreed therefore that on their second evening at Barn they would all walk up and see the play. Perhaps I shall get back my Napoleon, said Glencora to Alice, and perhaps I shall be forgiven when somebody sees how difficult it is to manage you, said Alice, lucky at Mr. Palser. She isn't in earnest, said Mr. Palser, almost fearing the result of the experiment. I don't know that, said Lady Glencora. They started together, Mr. Palser with his wife and Mr. Gray with Alice on his arm and found all the tables at work. They at first walked through the different rooms whispering to each other their comments on the people that they saw and listening to the quick, low, monotonous words of the croupier as they arranged and presided over the games. Each table was closely surrounded by its own crowd, made up of players, embryo players, and simple lookers on so that they could not see much as they walked. But this was not enough for Lady Glencora. She was anxious to know what these men and women were doing to see whether the croupiers wore horns on their heads and were devils, indeed, to behold the faces of those who were wretched and of those who were triumphant, to know how the thing was done and to learn something of that lesson in life. Let us stand here a moment, she said to her husband, arresting him at one corner of the table which had the greatest crowd. We shall be able to see in a few minutes. So he stood with her there, giving way to Alice who went in front with his wife and in a minute or two an aperture was made so that they could all see the marked cloth and the money lying about and the rakes on the table and the croupiers skilfully dealing his cards and more interesting than all the rest, the faces of those who were playing. Gray looked on over Alice's shoulder very attentively as Palliser did also but both of them kept their eyes upon the ministers of the work. Alice and Glencora did the same at first but as they gained courage they glanced round upon the gamblers. It was a long table, having, of course, four corners and at the corner appropriated by them they were partly opposite to the man who dealt the cards. The corner answering to theirs at the other end was the part of the table most removed from their sight and that on which their eyes fell last. As Lady Glencora stood she could hardly see. Indeed, at first she could not see one or two who were congregated at this spot. Mr. Palliser, who was behind her, could not see them at all. But to Alice and to Mr. Gray had he cared about it every face at the table was visible except the faces of those who were immediately close to them. Before long Alice's attention was riveted on the action and countens of one young man who sat at that other corner. He was leaning, at first blisslessly over the table dressed in a velveteen jacket and with his round-topped hat brought far over his eyes so that she could not fully see his face. But she had hardly begun to observe him before he threw back his hat and taking some pieces of gold from under his left hand which lay upon the table pushed three or four of them onto one of the divisions marked on the cloth. He seemed to show no care, as others did, as to the special spot which they should occupy. Many were very particular in this respect placing their ventures on the lines so as to share the fortunes of two compartments or sometimes of four or they divided their coins taking three or four numbers selecting the numbers with almost grotesque attention to some imagined rule of their own. But this man let his gold go all together and left it where his half-stretched rake deposited it by chance. Alice could not but look at his face. His eyes, she could see, were bloodshot and his hair, when he pushed back his hat, was rough and dishevelled. But still there was that in his face which no woman could see and not regard. It was a face which at once pre-possessed her in his favour as it had always pre-possessed all others. On this occasion he had won his money and Alice saw him drag it in as lazily as he had pushed it out. Do you see that little Frenchman, said Lady Glencora? He has just made half a Napoleon and has walked off with it. Isn't it interesting? I could stay here all night. Then she turned round to whisper something to her husband and Alice's eyes again fell on the face of the man at the other end of the table. After he had won his money he had allowed the game to go on for a turn without any action on his part. The gold again went under his hand and he lounged forward with his hat over his eyes. One of the croupiers had said a word as though calling his attention to the game but he had merely shaken his head. But when the fate of the next turn had been decided he again roused himself and on this occasion, as far as Alice could see pushed his whole stock forward with the rake. There was a little mass of gold and from his manner of placing it all might see that he left its position to chance. One piece had got beyond its boundary and the croupier pushed it back with some half-expressed inquiries to his correctness. All right, said a voice in English. Then Lady Glencora started and clutched Alice's arm with her hand. Mr. Parsa was explaining to Mr. Gray behind them something about German finances connected with gambling tables and did not hear the voice or see his wise motion. I need hard to tell the reader that the gambler was Bergo Fitzgerald. But Lady Glencora said not a word, not as yet. She looked forward very gently but still with eager eyes just she could just see the face she knew so well. His hat was now pushed back and his countenance had lost its listlessness. He watched narrowly the face of the man as he told out the amount of the cards as they were dealt. He did not try to hide his anxiety and when, after the telling of some six or seven cards, he heard a certain number named and a certain color called. He made some exclamation which even Glencora could not hear. And then another croupier put down, close to Bergo's money, certain rolls of gold done up in paper and also certain new Napoleon's. Why doesn't he take it? said Lady Glencora. He is taking it, said Alice, not at all knowing the cause of her cousin's anxiety. Bergo had paused a moment and then prepared to rate the money to him but as he did so he changed his mind and pushed it all back again. Now, on this occasion, being very careful to place it on its former spot. Both Alice and Glencora could see that a man at his elbow was dissuading him, had even attempted to stop the arm which held the rake. But Bergo shook him off, speaking to him some word roughly and then again he steadied the rolls upon their appointed place. The croupier who had paused for a moment now went on quickly with his cards and in two minutes the fate of Bergo's wealth was decided. It was all drawn back by the croupier's unimpassioned rake and the rolls of gold were restored to the tray from whence they had been taken. Bergo looked up and smiled at them all round the table. By this time, most of those who stood around were looking at him. He was a man who gathered eyes upon him wherever he might be or whatever he was doing and it had been clear that he was very intent upon his fortune and on the last occasion the amount staked had been considerable. He knew that men and women were looking at him and therefore he smiled faintly as he turned his eyes round the table. Then he got up and putting his hands in his trouser pockets whistled as he walked away. His companion followed him and laid a hand upon his shoulder but Bergo shook him off and would not turn round. He shook him off and walked on whistling the length of the whole salon. Alice said Lady Glencora, it is Bergo Fitzgerald. Mr. Palacer had gone so deep into that question of German finance that he had not at all noticed the gambler. Alice, what can we do for him? It is Bergo, said Lady Glencora. Many eyes were now watching him. Used as he was to the world and to misfortune he was not successful in his attempt to bear his loss with a show of indifference. The motion of his head, the position of his hands, the tone of his whistling, all told the tale. Even the unimpassioned croupiers furtively cast an eye after him and a very big guard in a cocked hat and uniform and sword who hitherto had hardly been awake seemed evidently to be interested by his movements. If there is to be a tragedy at these places and tragedies will sometimes occur it is always as well that the tragic scene should be as far removed as possible from the salons in order that the public eye should not suffer. Lady Glencora and Alice had left their places and had shrunk back almost behind a pillar. Is it he in truth? Alice asked. In very truth, said Glencora, what can I do? Can I do anything? Look at him, Alice. If he were to destroy himself, what should I do then? Bergo, conscious that he was the regarded of all eyes, turned round upon his heel and again walked the length of the salon. He knew well that he had not a friend left in his possession yet still he laughed and still he whistled. His companion, whoever he might be, had slunk away from him not caring to share the notoriety which now attended him. What shall I do, Alice? said Lady Glencora, with her eyes still fixed on him who had been her lover. Tell Mr. Palliser, whispered Alice. Lady Glencora immediately ran up to her husband and took him away from Mr. Gray. Rapidly she told her story, with such rapidity that Mr. Palliser could hardly get in a word. Do something for him! Do, do! Unless I know that something is done, I shall die. You needn't be afraid. I am not afraid, said Mr. Palliser. Lady Glencora, as she went on quickly, got hold of her husband's hand and caressed it. You are so good, said she. Don't let him out of your sight. There, he is going. I will go home with Mr. Gray. I will be ever so good, I will. Indeed, you know what he'll want and for my sake you'll let him have it. But don't let him gamble. If you could only get him home to England and then do something. You owe him something, Plantagenet. Do you not? If money can do anything, he shall have it. God bless you, dearest. I shall never see him again, there, he is going now. Go, go! She pushed him forward and then, retreating, put her arm within Mr. Gray's still keeping her eye upon her husband. Burgo, when he first got to the door leading out of the salon, had paused a moment and, turning round, had encountered the big gendarm close to him. Well, old buffer, what do you want? said he, accosting the man in English. The big gendarm simply walked on through the door and said nothing. Then Burgo also passed out and Mr. Palliser quickly went after him. They were now in the large front salon from whence the chief door of the building opened out upon the steps. Through this door Burgo went without pausing and Mr. Palliser went after him. They both walked to the end of the row of buildings and then Burgo, leaving the broadway turned into a little path which led up through the trees to the hills. That hillside among the trees is a popular resort at Barden during the day but now at nine in the evening it was deserted. Palliser did not press on the other man but followed him and did not accost Burgo till he had thrown himself on the grass beneath the tree. Who are in trouble, I fear, Mr. Fitzgerald said Mr. Palliser as soon as he was close at Burgo's feet. We will go home, Mr. Palliser has something to do, said Lady Glencora to Mr. Gray as soon as the two men had disappeared from her sight. Is that a friend of Mr. Palliser? said Mr. Gray. Yes, that is, he knows him and is interested about him. Alice, shall we go home? Oh, Mr. Gray, you must not ask any questions. He—Mr. Palliser will tell you everything when he sees you, that is, if there is anything to be told. Then they all went home and soon separated for the night. Of course, I shall sit up for him, said Lady Glencora to Alice, but I will do it in my own room. You can tell, Mr. Gray, if you like. But Alice told nothing to Mr. Gray, nor did Mr. Gray ask any questions. Chapter 76 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 Anthony Trollop Chapter 76 The Landlord's Bill You are in trouble, Mr. Fitzgerald, I fear, said Mr. Palliser, standing over Bergo as he lay upon the ground. They were now altogether beyond the gas lights, and the evening was dark. Bergo, too, was lying with his face to the ground, expecting that the footsteps which he had heard would pass by him. Who is that? said he, turning round suddenly. But still he was not at once able to recognize Mr. Palliser, whose voice was hardly known to him. Perhaps I have been wrong in following you, said Mr. Palliser. But I thought you were in distress, and that probably I might help you. My name is Palliser. Plantagenet Palliser, said Bergo, jumping up onto his legs and looking close into the other's face. By heavens, it is Plantagenet Palliser. Well, Mr. Palliser, what do you want of me? I want to be of some use to you, if I can. I and my wife saw you leave the gaming-table just now. Is she here, too? Yes, she is here. We are going home, but Chance brought us up to the salon. She seemed to think that you are in distress, and that I could help you. I will, if you will let me. Mr. Palliser, during the whole interview, felt that he could afford to be generous. He knew that he had no further cause for fear. He had no lingering dread of this poor creature who stood before him. All that feeling was over, though it was as yet hardly four months, since he had been sent back by Mrs. Marsham to Lady Monk's house to save his wife, if saving her were yet possible. So, she is here, is she? And saw me there when I staked my last chance. I should have had over twenty thousand francs now if the cards had stood me. The cards never do stand to any one, Mr. Fitzgerald. Never, never, never said Bergo. At any rate, they never did to me. Nothing ever does stand to me. If you want twenty thousand francs, that's eight hundred pounds, I think, I can let you have it without any trouble. The devil you can. Oh, yes, as I am travelling with my family, I wonder whether Mr. Palacere considered himself to be better entitled to talk of his family than he had been some three or four weeks back. As I am travelling with my family, I have been obliged to carry large bills with me, and I can accommodate you without any trouble. There was something pleasant in this which made Bergo Fitzgerald laugh. Mr. Palacere, the husband of Lady Glencora McCloskey, and the heir of the Duke of Omnium happening to have money with him. As if Mr. Palacere could not bring down showers of money in any quarter of the globe simply holding up his hand. And then, to talk of accommodating him, Bergo Fitzgerald, as though it were simply a little matter of convenience, as though Mr. Palacere would, of course, find the money at his bankers when he next examined his book. Bergo could not but laugh. I was not in the least doubting your ability to raise the money, said he. But how would you propose to take back again? That would be at your convenience, said Mr. Palacere, who hardly knew how to put himself on a proper footing with his companion, so that he might offer to do something effectual for the man's aid. I never have any such convenience, said Bergo. Who were those women whose tubs always had holes at the bottom of them? My tub always has such a hole. You mean the daughters of Donoes, said Mr. Palacere. I don't know whose daughters they were, but you might just as well lend them all eight hundred pounds a piece. There were so many of them, said Mr. Palacere, trying a little joke. But as you are only one, I shall be most happy, as I said before, to be of service. They were now walking slowly together up towards the hills, and near to them they heard a step. Upon this Bergo turned round. Do you see that fellow, said he. Mr. Palacere, who was somewhat short-sighted, said that he did not see him. I do, though. I don't know his name, but they have sent him out from the hotel with me to see what I do with myself. I owe them six or seven hundred francs, and they want to turn me out of the house and not let me take my things with me. That would be very uncomfortable, said Mr. Palacere. It would be uncomfortable, but I shall be too many for them. If they keep my traps they shall keep me. They think I'm going to blow my brains out. That's what they think. Come down, let's me go far enough off to do that, so long as it's nowhere about the house. I hope you're not thinking of such a thing. As long as I can help it, Mr. Palacere, I never think of anything. The stranger was now standing near to them, almost so near that he might hear their words. Bergo, perceiving this, walked up to him, and speaking in bad French, desired him to leave them. Don't you see that I have a friend with me? Oh, a friend! said the man, answering in bad English. Perhaps the friend can advance monies? Never mind what he can do, said Bergo. You do as you are bid, and leave me. Then the gentleman from the hotel retreated down the hill, and during the rest of the interview frequently fancied that he heard the man's footfall at no great distance. They continued to walk on up the hill very slowly, and it was some time before Mr. Palacere knew how to repeat his offer. So Lady Glencora is here? Bergo said again. Yes, she is here. It was she who asked me to come to you, Mr. Palacere answered. Then they both walked on a few steps in silence, for neither of them knew how to address the other. By George, isn't it odd, said Bergo at last, that you and I, of all men in the world, should be walking together here at Bodden? It's not only that you're the richest man in London, and that I'm the poorest, but there are other things which make it so funny. There have been things which make me and my wife very anxious to give you aid. And have you considered, Mr. Palacere, that those things make you the very man in the world, indeed, for the matter of that, the only man in the world, from whom I can't take aid? I would have taken it all if I could have got it, but I've tried hard. I know you have been disappointed, Mr. Fitzgerald. Disappointed? By God, yes. Did you ever know any man who had so much right to be disappointed as I have? I did love her, Mr. Palacere. Nay, by heavens, I do love her. Out here I will dare to say as much, even to you. I shall never try to see her again. All that is over, of course. I've been a fool about her as I have been about everything, but I did love her. I believe it, Mr. Fitzgerald. It was not altogether her money, but think what it would have been to me, Mr. Palacere. Think what a chance I had and what a chance I lost. I should have been at the top of everything, as now I am at the bottom. I should not have spent that. There would have been enough of it to have saved me. And then I might have done something good instead of crawling about almost in fear of that beast who is watching us. It has been ordered otherwise, said Mr. Palacere, not knowing what to say. Yes, it has been ordered with a vengeance. It seems to have been ordered that I am to go to the devil, but I don't know who gave the orders and I don't know why. Mr. Palacere had not time to explain to his friend that the orders had been given in a very preemptory way by himself as he was anxious to bring back the conversation to his own point. He wished to give some serviceable and, if possible, urgent aid to the poor Nairdowell, but he did not wish to talk more than could be helped about his own wife. There is an old saying which you will remember well, said he, that the way to good manners is never too late. That's nonsense, said Bergo. It's too late when the man feels the knot round his neck at the old Bailey. Perhaps not even then. Indeed, we may say certainly not, if the man be still able to take the right way. But I don't want to preach to you. It wouldn't do any good, you know. But I do want to be of service to you. There is something of truth in what you say. You have been disappointed. And I, perhaps, of all men and the most bound to come to your assistance indeed. How can I take it from you? said Bergo, almost crying. You shall take it from her. No. That would be worse. Twenty times worse. What? Take her money when she would not give me herself? I do not see why you should not borrow her money or mine. You shall call it, which you will. No. I won't have it. And what will you do then? What will I do? Ah, that's the question. I don't know what I will do. I have the key of my bedroom in my pocket, and I will go to bed tonight. It's not very often that I look forward much beyond that. Will you let me call on you to-morrow? I don't see what good it will do. I shan't get up till late, for fear they should shut the room against me. I might as well have as much out of them as I can. I think I shall say I'm ill and keep my bed. Will you take a few Napoleon's? No. Not a wrap. Not from you. You are the first man from whom I ever refused to borrow money, and I should say that you'll be about the last to offer to lend at me. I don't know what else I can offer," said Mr. Palacere. You can offer nothing. If you will say to your wife from me that I bade her adieu, that is all you can do for me. Good night, Mr. Palacere. Good night. Mr. Palacere left him and went his way, feeling that he had no further eloquence at his command. He shook Bergo's hand and then walked quickly down the hill. As he did so he passed, or would have passed, the man who had been dodging them. Mr.—Mr.— said the man in a whisper. What do you want of me? Asked Mr. Palacere, in French. Then the man spoke in French also. Has he got any money? Have you given him any money? I have not given him any money, said Mr. Palacere, not quite knowing what he had better do or say under such circumstances. Then he will have a bad time with it, said the man. And he might have carried away two thousand francs just now. Dear, dear, dear, has he got any friends, sir? Yes, he has friends. I do not know that I can assist him, or you. Fitzgerald. His name is Fitzgerald? Yes, said Mr. Palacere. His name is Fitzgerald. Ah, there are so many Fitzgeralds in England. Mr. Fitzgerald, London, he has no other address? If he had, and I knew it, I should not give it you without his sanction. But what shall we do? How shall we act? Perhaps with his own hand he will himself kill. For five weeks his pension he owes. Yes, for five weeks. And for wine. Oh, so much! There came through Bodden, eh, my lord, and then I think he got money. But he went and played. That was, of course, but—oh, my God! He might have carried away this night two thousand francs. Yes, two thousand francs. Are you the hotelkeeper? His friend, sir, only his friend. That is, I am the head commissioner. I look after the gentlemen who sometimes are not all— not all—exactly what they should be, the commissioner intended to explain, and Mr. Palacere understood him although the words were not quite spoken. The interview was ended by Mr. Palacere taking the name of the hotel and promising to call before Mr. Fitzgerald should be up in the morning. A purposed visit, which we need not regard as requiring any very early energy on Mr. Palacere's part, when we remember Burgow's own programme for the following day. Lady Glencora received her husband that night with infinite anxiety and was by no means satisfied with what had been done. He described to her as accurately as he could the nature of his interview with Burgow, and he described to her also his other interview with the head commissioner. He will, he will, said Lady Glencora, when she heard from her husband the man's surmise that perhaps he might destroy himself. He will, he will, and if he does how can you expect that I shall bear it? Mr. Palacere tried to soothe her by telling her of his promised visit to the landlord, and Lady Glencora, accepting this as something, strove to instigate her husband to some lavish expenditure on Burgow's behalf. There can be no reason why he should not take it, said Glencora. None the least, had it not been promised to him, had he not a right to it. The subject was one which Mr. Palacere found it very hard to discuss. He could not tell his wife that Fitzgerald ought to accept his bounty, but he assured her that his money should be forthcoming, almost to any extent, if it could be made available. On the following morning he went down to the hotel and saw the real landlord. He found him to be a reasonable, tranquil, and very good-natured man, and was possessed by a not irrational desire that his customer's bills should be paid, but who seemed to be much less eager on the subject than our English landlords in general. His chief anxiety seemed to arise from the great difficulty of doing anything with the gentleman who was now lying in his bed upstairs. Has he had any breakfast? Mr. Palacere asked. Breakfast! Oh yes! And the landlord laughed. He had been very particular in the orders he had given. He had desired his cutlets to be dressed in a particular way, with a great deal of cayenne pepper, and they had been so dressed. He had ordered a bottle of sautern, but the landlord had thought, or the head waiter acting for him had thought, that a bottle of ordinary wine of the country would do as well. The bottle of ordinary wine of the country had just that moment been sent upstairs. Then Mr. Palacere sat down in the landlord's little room, and had Bergo Fitzgerald's bill brought to him. I think I might venture to pay it, said Mr. Palacere. That was as Miss. Pleased, said the landlord, with something like a sparkle in his eye. What was Mr. Palacere to do? He did not know whether, in accordance with the rules of the world in which he lived, he ought to pay it, or ought to leave it. And certainly the landlord could not tell him. Then he thought of his wife. He could not go back to his wife without having done something. So, as a first measure, he paid the bill. The landlord's eyes glittered, and he receded it in the most becoming manner. Should he now send up the bottle of sauténe? But to this Mr. Palacere demurred. And to whom should the receded bill be given? Mr. Palacere thought that the landlord had better keep it himself for a while. Perhaps there is some little difficulty? Suggested the landlord. Mr. Palacere acknowledged that there was a little difficulty. He knew that he must do something more. He could not simply pay the bill and go away. That would not satisfy his wife. He knew that he must do something more. But how was he to do it? So, at last he let the landlord into his confidence. He did not tell the whole of Bergo's past history. He did not tell that little episode in Bergo's life, which referred to Lady Glencora. But he did make the landlord understand that he was willing to administer money to Mr. Fitzgerald, if only it could only be administered judiciously. You can't keep him out of the gambling salon, you know, sir. That is, not if he has a frank in his pocket. As to that, the landlord was very confident. It was at last arranged that the landlord was to tell Bergo that his bill did not signify at present, and that the use of the hotel was to be at Bergo's command for the next three months. At the end of that time he was to have noticed to quit. No money was to be advanced to him, but the landlord, even in this respect, had a discretion. When I get home I will see what can be done with his relations there," said Mr. Palacere. Then he went home and told his wife. But he'll have no clothes," said Lady Glencora. Mr. Palacere said that the judicious landlord would manage that also, and in that way Lady Glencora was appeased— appeased till something final could be done for the young man on Mr. Palacere's return home. Poor Bergo! He must now be made to end his career as far as these pages are concerned. He soon found that something had been done for him at the hotel, and no doubt he must have made some guess near the truth. The discreet landlord told him nothing—would tell him nothing— but that his bill did not signify as yet. Bergo, thinking about it, resolved to write about it in an indignant strain to Mr. Palacere, but the letter did not get itself written. When in England Mr. Palacere saw Sir Cosmo Monk, and with many apologies told him what he had done— I regret it, said Sir Cosmo in anger. I regret it—not for the money's sake, but I regret it. The amount expended was, however, repaid to Mr. Palacere, and an arrangement was made for remitting a weekly sum of fifteen pounds to Bergo, through a member of the diplomatic corps, as long as he should remain at a certain small German town, which was indicated, and in which there was no public gambling-table. Lady Glencora expressed herself satisfied for the present, but I must doubt whether poor Bergo lived long in comfort on the allowance made to him. Here we must say farewell to Bergo Fitzgerald.