 Chapter 20. 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. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Can you forgive her? By Anthony Trollop. Chapter 20. Which shall it be? The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging house in the close, that Mr Chesaker would not be seen there then. Mrs Greno had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined, but on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Pearstairs, who, with her family, had come from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them, and in order that Charlie might not feel at dull, Mrs Greno had, with her usual good nature, invited Captain Bellfield, a very nice little dinner they had. The Captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr Chesaker, as he did so, and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jacuz about the richness of the farmyard at Oily Mead. He is the most generous man I ever met, said Mrs Greno. So he is, said Captain Bellfield, and will drink his health. Poor old Cheesy, it's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife. I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy, said Mrs Greno. No, indeed, said Miss Fairstas, I'm told that his house, and all about it, is quite beautiful. Especially the strawyard and the horse pond, said the Captain, and then they drunk the health of their apps and friend. It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would perhaps accompany them. But when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained in order as she afterwards explained to Kate that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and poor man, as Mrs Greno said, in a little explanation, if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting place for the soul of his foot, but some horrid barric room. Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting place in Mrs Greno's drawing room, but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone. Looking back, she said to things that were gone, that were gone, but come dears, I am not going to make you melancholy, so they had tea, and Mr Chesaaker's cream was used with liberality. Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. I'm afraid the wine is not very good, said Mrs Greno, but one can't get good wine in lodgings. I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs Greno, that's the truth, said the Captain. I daresay the wine is very good of its kind, then there was another period of silence between them. I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings, don't you? Ask the Captain. I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield, that a woman's circumstance, as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelve month yet, since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do. It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs Greno. That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it. Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she, at any rate, used no paint in producing that freshness of colour, which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and, removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield. There is nothing on earth, Mrs Greno, I desire so much as permission to dry those tears. Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield, time alone, but cannot time be added by love and friendship and affection. By friendship, yes, what would life be worth without the solace of friendship? And how much better is the warm glow of love, Captain Bellfield? As he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side, but the widow has deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him. How much better is the warm glow of love? He said again, contending himself with looking into her face, with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would be able to press her hand by this time. The warm glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it. If I have ever felt it, do I not feel it now, Mrs Greno? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they had been strong. Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield? Yes, often, in various scenes of life, on the field of battle. I did not know that you had seen active service. What? Not on the plains of Zuzulane? When, with fifty picked men, I kept five hundred caphras at bay for seven weeks, never knew the comfort of a bear, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks. Not for seven weeks, said Mrs Greno. No, did I not see active service at Exquibo, on the burning coast of Guinea, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony, or again at the mouth of the Kichomi River. When I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword, I really hadn't heard, said Mrs Greno. Ah, I understand, I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world, in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Incoman, demanded the captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind. So I did, so I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself, but I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs Greno, and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable. Whereupon he took one's ride over to the sofa and went down upon his knees before her. But Captain Bellefield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now, the girl will come in. I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me, till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope. Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. Arabella, he said, will you not speak a word to me? Not a word, Captain Bellefield, till you get up, and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greno, then whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way. But I want you to become my wife, and then, ah, then indeed, but that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellefield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down, unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you, it's just half past seven, and I told Jeanette to come to me then. There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. You pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man, she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places and had rung the bell. When Jeanette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned and asked Captain Bellefield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined and made her farewell while Jeanette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger and even expressed her hope that they might see him again before long. He's a very handsome man, is the Captain, said Jeanette, as the hero of the Kichimi River descended the stairs. You shouldn't think about handsome men, child, said Mrs Gweno. And I'm sure I don't, said Jeanette, not no more than anybody else. But if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome? I suppose Captain Bellefield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves. As for gloves and such like, Mr Chessaker is much better for giving them the Captain, as we all know. Don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, their presence, as I never takes from anybody, let everybody pay his debts if the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her. On the following Tuesday morning Mr Chessaker, as usual, called in the close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegate, made of green leaves, and lorris' dinners' flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs Gweno on particular business. That means you, Kate, said Mrs Gweno. No, it doesn't. It doesn't mean me at all. At any rate, he won't see me. I daresay it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan, now for gentlemen to make offers by a deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know. Yes, you can. You can tell him simply that I won't have him, but he is no more thinking of me than. Then he is of me. You were going to say. No, aunt. I wasn't going to say that at all. Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course, you can please yourself, but I really think you might do worse. But if I don't want to do it all, very well, you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think. At half past three o'clock punctually, Mr Chessaker came to the door, and was shown upstairs. He was told by Jeanette that Captain Bellefield had looked in on Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstiles and Miss Bavisaur had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots, nor yet had his round top tack. And as he did wear a new frock coat and had his left hand thrust into a kid's glove, Jeanette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing room, and there he found the widow alone. Thanks for the flowers, she said at once. It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept. As for that, said he, I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long. To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she made him sit down. He did sit down, but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove, somewhat laboriously, that his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands, there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume, as of marrow oil, and there was fixed propriety a position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong. How goes everything an oily mead, said Mrs. Greno, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation? Pretty well, Mrs. Greno, pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand today. I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings. In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greno. There isn't a shilling jewel on my land to where a bank in Norwich, and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say, but there aren't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't boast. I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Chersaker, as regards worldly matters, and I haven't left at all to Providence, either. Those who do generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour, and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese. I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Chersaker. Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough. When the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth, and I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should, and I shoot over my own ground, but I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing. But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Chersaker. He fight, I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes. But he was in the Crimea, at Inkiman, for instance. He in the Crimea? Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story? But as I was saying, Mrs. Greno, you have seen my little place at Oilymead. A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it. That's it. That's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greno. Will you be that woman? As he made the offer, he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart. I, Mr. Chersaker, she said, Yes, you, who else, since I saw you, what other woman has been anything to me, or indeed, I may say before. Since the first day I saw you, I felt that they're my happiness depended. Oh, Mr. Chersaker, I thought you were looking elsewhere. No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Mrs. Vavasol, but really. Mr. Chersaker, what am I to say to you? What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at oily need shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady, which I have been looking at this morning, shall be yours. Yes, indeed, the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life. Just like one that the Lady of the Lord, Lieutenant, drives about in all ways. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greno. Ah, Mr. Chersaker, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months. But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. You are sitting here all alone, morning, noon and night. Won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him. I am indeed poor Greno, but what more can I do? I can do more, Mr. Chersaker. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence. No, no, no. What's the use of it? Breaking your heart for nothing, and my heart too. You never think of that. And Mr. Chersaker spoke in a tone that was full of reproach. It cannot be, Mr. Chersaker. Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greno, we understand each other well enough now. Surely, come, dearest. And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeanette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Belfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business. Show Captain Belfield up, certainly, said Mrs. Greno. The Captain Belfield said Mr. Chersaker. End of Chapter 20 She had often regretted that she had been induced to make the promise, and yet she had as often resolved that there was no possible reason why she should not go to matching priory. But she feared this commencement of a closer connection with her great relations. She had told herself so often that she was quite separated from them, that the slight accident of blood in no way tied her to them or them to her. This lesson had been so thoroughly taught to her by the injudicious attempts of Lady MacLeod to teach an opposite lesson, that she did not like the idea of putting aside the effect of that teaching. She was little afraid of the great folk whom she might probably meet at her cousin's house. Lady Glencora herself she had liked, and had loved too with that momentary love which certain circumstances of our life will sometimes produce, a love which is strong while it lasts, but which can be laid down when the need of it is passed. She had liked and loved Lady Glencora, and had in no degree been afraid of her during those strange visitings in Queen Anne Street. But she was by no means sure that she should like Lady Glencora in the midst of her grandeur and surrounded by the pomp of her rank. She had a friend or acquaintance in that house and feared that she might find herself desolate, cold and wounded in her pride. She had been tricked into the visit too, or rather had tricked herself into it. She had been sure that there had been a joint scheme between her cousin and Lady Midlothian, and could not resist the temptation of repudiating it in her letter to Lady Glencora. But there had been no such scheme, she had wronged Lady Glencora and had therefore been unable to resist her second request. But she felt unhappy, fearing that she would be out of her element, and more than once half made up her mind to excuse herself. Her aunt had, from the first, thought well of her going, believing that it might probably be the means of reconciling her to Mr. Gray. Moreover, it was a step altogether in the right direction. Lady Glencora would, if she lived, become a duchess, and as she was decidedly Alice's cousin, of course Alice should go to her house when invited. It must be acknowledged that Lady MacLeod was not selfish in her worship of rank. She had played out her game in life, and there was no probability that she would live to be called cousin by a duchess of omnium. She bade Alice go to matching priory simply because she loved her niece, and therefore wished her to live in the best and most eligible way within her reach. I think you owe it as a duty to your family to go, said Lady MacLeod. What further correspondence about her affairs had passed between Lady MacLeod and Lady Midlothian Alice never knew. She steadily refused all entreaty made that she would answer the Countess's letter, and at last threatened her aunt that if the request were further urged she would answer it, telling Lady Midlothian that she had been very impertinent. I am becoming a very old woman, Alice, the poor lady said piteously, and I suppose I had better not interfere any further. Whatever I have said I have always meant to be for your good. Then Alice got up, and kissing her aunt, tried to explain to her that she resented no interference from her, and felt grateful for all that she both said and did, but that she could not endure meddling from people whom she did not know, and who thought themselves entitled to meddle by their rank. And because they are cousins as well, said Lady MacLeod, in a softly sad, apologetic voice. Alice left Cheltenham about the middle of November on her road to matching priory. She was to sleep in London one night, and go down to matching in Yorkshire with her maid on the following day. Her father undertook to meet her at the Great Western Station, and to take her on the following morning to the Great Northern. He said nothing in his letter about dining with her, but when he met her, murdered something about an engagement, and taking her home graciously promised that he would breakfast with her on the following morning. I am very glad you are going, Alice, he said, when they were in the cab together. Why, Papa? Why? Because I think it is the proper thing to do. You know, I have never said much to you about these people. They are not connected with me, and I know that they hate the name of Vevasa. Not but what the name is a deal older than any of theirs, and the family, too. And therefore I don't understand why you think I am especially right. If you were to say I was especially wrong, I should be less surprised, and of course I shouldn't go. You should go by all means. Rank and wealth are advantages, let anybody say what they will to the contrary. Why else does everybody want to get them? But I shan't get them by going to matching priory. You'll get part of their value. Take them as a whole. The nobility of England are pleasant acquaintances to have. I haven't run after them very much myself, though I'm married, as I may say, among them. That very thing rather stood in my way than otherwise, but you may be sure of this, that men and women ought to grow, like plants, upwards. Everybody should endeavour to stand as well as he can in the world, and if I had a choice of acquaintance between a sugar-baker and a pier, I should prefer the pier, unless indeed the sugar-baker had something very strong on his side to offer. I don't call that tough-hunting, and it does not necessitate toadying. It's simply growing up towards the light, as the trees do. Alice listened to her father's worldly wisdom with a smile, but she did not attempt to answer him. It was very seldom, indeed, that he took upon himself the labour of lecturing her, or that he gave her even as much counsel as he had given now. Well, papa, I hope I shall find myself growing towards the light, she said, as she got out of the cab. Then he had not entered the house, but had taken the cab on with him to his club. On her table Alice found a note from her cousin George. I hear you are going down to the palaces at matching priory to-morrow, and as I shall be glad to say one word to you before you go, will you let me see you this evening, say at nine? G.V. She felt immediately that she could not help seeing him, but she greatly regretted the necessity. She wished that she had gone directly from Cheltenham to the north, regardless even of those changes of wardrobe which her purpose visit required. Then she set herself to considering how had George heard of her visit to the priory, and how had he learned the precise evening which she would pass in London? Why should he be so intent on watching all her movements as it seemed that he was? As to seeing him she had no alternative, so she completed her arrangements for her journey before nine, and then awaited him in the drawing-room. I'm so glad you're going to matching priory, were the first words he said. He too might have taught her to grow towards the light if she had asked him for his reasons, but this she did not do just then. How did you learn that I was going, she said? I heard it from a friend—well, from Berge Fitzgerald, if you must know. From Mr. Fitzgerald, said Alice, in profound astonishment. How could Mr. Fitzgerald have heard of it? That's more than I know, Alice, not directly from Lady Glencore, I should say. That would be impossible. It's quite so, no doubt—I think she keeps up her intimacy with Berge's sister, and perhaps it got round to him in that way. And did he tell you also that I was going to-morrow? He must have known all about it very accurately. No, then I asked Kate, and Kate told me when you were going. Yes, I know—Kate has been wrong, hasn't she? Kate was cautioned, no doubt, to say nothing about your comings and goings to so inconsiderable a person as myself. But you must not be down upon Kate. She never mentioned it till I showed by my question to her that I knew all about your journey to matching. I own I do not understand why it should be necessary to keep me so much in the dark. Alice felt that she was blushing. The caution had been given to Kate, because Kate still transgressed in her letters by saying little words about her brother, and Alice did not even now believe Kate to have been false to her, but she saw that she herself had been imprudent. I cannot understand it, continued George, speaking without looking at her. It was but the other day that we were such dear friends. Do you remember the balcony at Basil? Now it seems that we are quite estranged, nay worse than estranged, that I am, as it were, under some ban. Have I done anything to offend you, Alice? If so, speak out, like a woman of spirit as you are." Nothing, said Alice. Then why am I tabooed? Why was I told the other day that I might not congratulate you on your happy emancipation? I say boldly that had you resolved on that while we were together in Switzerland, you would have permitted me, as a friend, almost as a brother, to discuss it with you. I think not, George. I am sure you would, and why has Kate been warned not to tell me of this visit to the houses? I know she has been warned, though she has not confessed it. Alice sat silent, not knowing what to say in answer to this charge brought against her, thinking, perhaps, that the questioner would allow his question to pass without an answer. But Vivace was not so complacent. If there be any reason, Alice, I think that I have a right to ask it. For a few seconds she did not speak a word but sat considering. He also remained silent with his eyes fixed upon her. She looked at him, and saw nothing but his scar, nothing but his scar and the brightness of his eyes, which was almost fierce. She knew that he was an earnest, and therefore resolved that she would be an earnest also. I think that you have such a right, she said at last. Then let me exercise it. I think that you have such a right, but I think also that you are ungenerous to exercise it. I cannot understand that. By Heaven's Alice I cannot be left in this suspense. If I have done anything to offend you, perhaps I can remove the offence by apology. You have done nothing to offend me. Or if there be any cause why our friendship should be dropped, why we should be on a different footing to each other in London than we were in Switzerland, I may acknowledge it, if it be explained to me, but I cannot put up with the doubt when I am told that I have a right to demand its solution. Then I will be frank with you, George, though my being so will, as you may guess, be very painful. She paused again, looking at him, to see if yet he would spare her, but he was all scar and eyes as before, and there was no mercy in his face. Your sister, George, has thought that my parting with Mr. Gray might lead to a renewal of a purpose of marriage between you and me. You know her eagerness, and will understand that it may have been necessary that I should require silence from her on that head. You ought now to understand it all. I then, and being punished for her sins, he said, and suddenly the scar on his face was healed up again, and there was something of the old pleasantness in his eyes. I have said nothing about any sins, George, but I have found it necessary to be on my guard. Well, he said, after a short pause, you are an honest woman, Alice, the honestest I ever knew. I will bring Kate to order, and now we may be friends again, may we not? And he extended his hand to her across the table. Yes, she said, certainly, if you wish it. She spoke doubtingly, with indecision in her voice, as they remembering at the moment that he had given her no pledge. I certainly do wish it very much, said he, and then she gave him her hand. And I may now talk about your new freedom? No, said she, no, do not speak of that. A woman does not do what I have done in that affair without great suffering. I have to think of it daily, but do not make me speak of it. But this other subject is visit to matching. Surely I may speak of that. There was something now in his voice so bright that she felt the influence of it, and answered him cheerfully. I do not see what you can have to say about it. But I have a great deal. I am so glad you are going. Mind you cement a close intimacy with Mr. Palliser. With Mr. Palliser? Yes, with Mr. Palliser you must read all the blue books about finance. I will send them to you, if you like it. Oh, George! I am quite an earnest, that is, not an earnest about the blue books, as you would not have time, but about Mr. Palliser. He will be the new chancellor of the Exchequer without a doubt. Will he indeed? But why should I make a bosom friend of the chancellor of the Exchequer? I don't want any public money. But I do, my girl, don't you see? No, I don't. I think I shall get returned at this next election. I am sure I hope you will. And if I do, of course, it will be my game to support the ministry, or rather the new ministry, for, of course, there will be changes. I hope they will be on the right side. Not a doubt of that, Alice. I wish they might be changed altogether. Ah, that's impossible. It's very well as a dream, but there are no such men as you want to see. Men really from the people, strong enough to take high office. A man can't drive four horses because he's a philanthropist, or rather a Philhorsifist, and is desirous that the team should be driven without any hurt to them. A man can't govern well simply because he is genuinely anxious that men should be well governed. And will there never be any such men? I won't say that. I don't mind confessing to you that it is my ambition to be such a one myself, but a child must crawl before he can walk. Such a one as I, hoping to do something in politics, must spare no chance. It would be something to me that Mr. Palliser should become the friend of any dear friend of mine, especially of a dear friend bearing the same name. I'm afraid, George, you'll find me a bad hand at making any such friendship. They say he is led immensely by his wife, and that she is very clever, but I mean this chiefly, Alice, that I do hope I shall have all your sympathy in any political career that I may make, and all your assistance also. My sympathy, I think I can promise you. My assistance, I fear, would be worthless. By name means worthless, Alice, What if I see you take that place in the world which I hope to see you fill? Do you think women nowadays have no bearing upon the politics of the times, almost as much as men have? In answer to which Alice shook her head, but nevertheless she felt in some way pleased and flattered. George left her without saying a word more about her marriage prospects past or future, and Alice, as she went to bed, felt glad that this explanation between them had been made. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Laura Koskinen. Can You Forgive Her? by Antony Trollop. Chapter 22 Dandy and Flirt Alice reached the matching road station about three o'clock in the afternoon without adventure, and immediately on the stopping of the train became aware that all trouble was off her own hands. A servant in Libri came to the open window, and touching his hat to her, inquired if she were Miss Vavasor. Then her dressing-bag and shawls and cloaks were taken from her, and she was conveyed through the station by the station master, on one side of her, the footman on the other, and by the railway porter behind. She instantly perceived that she had become possessed of great privileges by belonging even for a time to matching priory, and that she was essentially growing upwards towards the light. Outside, on the broad drive before the little station, she saw an omnibus that was going to the small town of matching, intended for people who had not grown upwards as had been her lot, and she saw also a light, stylish-looking cart, which she would have called a white-chapel had she been properly instructed in such matters, and a little low open carriage with two beautiful small horses, in which was sitting a lady enveloped in furs. Of course this was Lady Glancora. Another servant was standing on the ground, holding the horses of the carriage and the cart. "'Dear Alice, I'm so glad you've come,' said a voice from the furs. "'Look here, dear, your maid can go in the dog-cart with your things.' It wasn't a dog-cart, but Lady Glancora knew no better. She'll be quite comfortable there, and do you get in here. Are you very cold?' "'Oh, no, not cold at all.' "'But it is awfully cold. You've been in the stuffy carriage, but you'll find it cold enough out here, I can tell you.' "'Oh, Lady Glancora, I am so sorry that I've brought you out on such a morning,' said Alice, getting in, and taking the place assigned her next to the charioteer. "'What nonsense! Sorry! Why, I've looked forward to meeting you all alone ever since I knew you were coming. If it had snowed all the morning I should have come just the same. I drive out almost every day when I'm down here, that is, when the house is not too crowded, or I can make an excuse. Wrap these things over you, there are plenty of them. You shall drive if you like.' Alice, however, declined the driving, expressing her gratitude in what prettiest words she could find. "'I like driving better than anything I think. Mr. Palacere doesn't like ladies to hunt. And, of course, it wouldn't do as he does not hunt himself. I do ride, but he never gets on horseback. I almost fancy I should like to drive fore in hand, only I know I should be afraid.' "'It would look very terrible,' said Alice. "'Yes, wouldn't it? The look would be the worst of it. As it is all the world over. Sometimes I wish there were no such things as looks. I don't mean anything improper, you know. Only one does get so hampered right and left for fear of Mrs. Grundy. I endeavour to go straight and get along pretty well on the whole, I suppose. Baker, you must put Dandy in the bar. He pulls so, going home, that I can't hold him in the check.' She stopped the horses, and Baker, a very completely got-up groom of some forty years of age, who sat behind, got down and put the impetuous Dandy in the bar, thereby changing the rain so that the curb was brought to bear on him. "'They're called Dandy and Flirt,' continued Lady Glancora, speaking to Alice. Ain't they a beautiful match? The Duke gave them to me and named them himself. Did you ever see the Duke?' "'Never,' said Alice. "'He won't be here before Christmas, but you shall be introduced some day in London. He's an excellent creature, and I'm a great pet of his. Though, after all, I never speak half a dozen words to him when I see him. He's one of those people who never talk. I'm one of those who like talking, as you'll find out. I think it runs in families, and the Palisades are non-talkers. That doesn't mean that they are not speakers, for Mr. Palisade has plenty to say in the house, and they declare that he's one of the few public men who've got lungs enough to make a financial statement without breaking down.' Alice was aware that she had, as yet, hardly spoken herself, and began to rethink herself that she didn't know what to say. Had Lady Glencora paused on the subject of dandy and flirt, she might have managed to be enthusiastic about the horses. But she could not discuss freely the general silence of the Palisade family, nor the excellent lungs, as regarded public purposes, of the one who was the husband of her present friend. So she asked how far it was to matching Priory. You're not tired of me already, I hope, said Lady Glencora. I didn't mean that, said Alice. I delight in the drive, but somehow one expects matching station to be near matching. Ah yes, that's a great cheat. It's not matching station at all, but matching road station, and it's eight miles. It is a great bore, for though the omnibus brings our parcels, we have to be constantly sending over, and it's very expensive, I can assure you. I want Mr. Palisade to have a branch, but he says he would have to take all the shares himself, and that would cost more, I suppose. Is there a town at matching? Oh, a little bit of a place. I'll go round by it, if you like, and in at the further gate. Oh, no, said Alice. Ah, but I should like. It was a burrow once, and belonged to the Duke. But they put it out at the reform-bill. They made some kind of bargain. He was to keep either Silverbridge or matching, but not both. Mr. Palisade sits for Silverbridge, you know. The Duke chose Silverbridge, or rather his father did, as he was then going to build his great place in Barsature. That's near Silverbridge. But the matching people haven't forgiven him yet. He was sitting for matching himself when the reform-bill passed. Then his father died, and he hasn't lived there much since. It's a great deal nicer place than Gatherham Castle. Only not half so grand. I hate grandeur, don't you? I never tried much of it, as you have. Come now, that's not fair. There's no one in the world less grand than I am. I mean that I've not had grand people about me. Having cut all your cousins, and Lady Midlothian in particular, like a naughty girl as you are, I was so angry with you when you accused me of selling you about that, you ought to have known that I was the last person in the world to have done such a thing. I did not think you meant to sell me, but I thought— Yes you did, Alice. I know what you thought. You thought that Lady Midlothian was making a tool of me that I might bring you under her thumb, so that she might bully you into Mr. Gray's arms. That's what you thought. I don't know that I was at all entitled to your good opinion, but I was not entitled to that special bad opinion. I had no bad opinion, but it was so necessary that I should guard myself. You shall be guarded. I'll take you under my shield. Mr. Gray shan't be named to you, except that I shall expect you to tell me all about it, and you must tell me all about that dangerous cousin, too, of whom they were saying such terrible things down in Scotland. I had heard of him before— These last words, Lady Glencora spoke in a lower voice and in an altered tone, slowly as though she were thinking of something that pained her. It was from Bergo Fitzgerald that she had heard of George Vavasor. Alice did not know what to say. She found it impossible to discuss all the most secret and deepest of her feelings out in that open carriage, perhaps in the hearing of the servant behind, on this her first meeting with her cousin, of whom, in fact, she knew very little. She had not intended to discuss these things at all, and certainly not in such a manner as this, so she remained silent. This is the beginning of the park, said Lady Glencora, pointing to a grand old ruin of an oak tree, which stood on the wide margin of the road, outside the rounded corner of the park pealings, propped up with a skeleton of supporting sticks all around it. And that is matching oak, under which Côte de Lyon, or Edward III, I forget which, was met by Sir Guy de Palacere as he came from the war, or from hunting, or something of that kind. It was the king, you know, who had been fighting, or whatever it was, and Sir Guy entertained him when he was very tired. Jeffrey Palacere, who is my husband's cousin, says that old Sir Guy luckily pulled out his brandy flask, but the king immediately gave him all the lands of matching. Only there was a priory then, and a lot of monks, and I don't quite understand how that was, but I know one of the younger brothers always used to be abbot and sit in the House of Lords, and the king gave him Littlebury at the same time, which is about seven miles away from here. As Jeffrey Palacere says, it was a great deal of money for a pull at his flask. Jeffrey Palacere is here now, and I hope you'll like him. If I have no child, and Mr. Palacere were not to marry again, Jeffrey would be the heir. And here, again, her voice was low and slow, and altogether changed in its tone. I suppose that's the way most of the old families got their estates. Either so, or by robbery. Many of them were terrible thieves, my dear, and I dare say Sir Guy was no better than he should be. And since that they have always called some of the Palacere's Plantagenet. My husband's name is Plantagenet, the duke is called George Plantagenet, and the king was his godfather. The queen is my godmother, I believe, but I don't know that I'm much the better for it. There's no use in godfathers and godmothers. Do you think there is? Not much as it's managed now. If I had a child, oh Alice, it's a dreadful thing not to have a child when so much depends on it. But you're such a short time married yet. Ah well, I can see it in his eyes when he asks me questions, but I don't think he'd say an unkind word, not if his own position depended on it. Ah well, this is matching. That other gate we passed where Dandy wanted to turn in, that's where we usually go up, but I've brought you round to show you the town. That's the inn. Whoever can possibly come to stay there, I don't know. I never saw anybody go in or out. That's the baker who bakes our bread. We baked it at the house at first, but nobody could eat it. And I know that that man there mends Mr. Palacer's shoes. He's very particular about his shoes. We shall see the church as we go in at the other gate. It is in the park and is very pretty, but not half so pretty as the priori ruins close to the house. The ruins are our great lion. I do so love to wander about them at moonlight. I often think of you when I do. I don't know why. But I do know why, and I'll tell you some day. Come, Miss Flirt. As they drove up through the park, Lady Glencora pointed out first the church, and then the ruins, through the midst of which the road ran, and then they were at once before the front door. The corner of the modern house came within two hundred yards of the gateway of the old priory. It was a large building, very pretty, with two long fronts, but it was no more than a house. It was not a palace, nor a castle, nor was it hardly to be called a mansion. It was built with gabled roofs, four of which formed the side from which the windows of the drawing-rooms opened out upon a lawn, which separated the house from the old ruins, and which indeed surrounded the ruins and went inside them, forming the present flooring of the old chapel, and the old refectory, and the old cloisters. Much of the cloisters indeed was standing, and there the stone pavement remained, but the square of the cloisters was all turfed, and in the middle of it stood a large modern stone vase, out of the broad basin of which hung flowering creepers and green tendrils. As Lady Glencora drove up to the door, a gentleman, who had heard the sound of the wheels, came forth to meet them. "'There's Mr. Palliser,' said she. "'That shows that you are an honoured guest, for you may be sure that he is hard at work, and would not have come out for anybody else. Plantagenet, here is Miss Bavisaur, perished. Alice, my husband.' Then Mr. Palliser put forth his hand and helped her out of the carriage. "'I hope you've not found it very cold,' said he. "'The winter has come upon us quite suddenly.' He said nothing more to her than this till he met her again before dinner. He was a tall, thin man, apparently not more than thirty years of age, looking in all respects like a gentleman, but with nothing in his appearance that was remarkable. It was a face that you might see and forget and see again and forget again, and yet when you looked at it and pulled it to pieces you found that it was a fairly good face, showing intellect in the forehead and much character in the mouth. The eyes too, though not to be called bright, had always something to say for themselves, looking as though they had a real meaning. But the outline of the face was almost insignificant, being too thin, and he wore no beard to give it character. But indeed Mr. Palliser was a man who had never thought of assisting his position in the world by his outward appearance. Not to be looked at, but to be read about in the newspapers, was his ambition. Men said that he was to be chancellor of the exchequer, and no one thought of suggesting that the insignificance of his face would stand in his way. "'Are the people all out?' his wife asked him. "'The men have not come in from shooting—at least I think not. And some of the ladies are driving, I suppose. But I haven't seen anybody since you went.' "'Of course you haven't. He never has time, Alice, to see any one. But we'll go upstairs, dear. I told them to let us have tea in my dressing-room, as I thought you'd like that better than going into the drawing-room before you had taken off your things. You must be famished, I know. Then you can come down, or if you want to avoid two dressings, you can sit over the fire upstairs till dinnertime.' So saying, she skipped upstairs, and Alice followed her. "'Here's my dressing-room, and here's your room all but opposite. You look out into the park. It's pretty, isn't it? But come into my dressing-room and see the ruins out of the window.' Alice followed Lady Glankora across the passage into what she called her dressing-room, and there found herself surrounded by an infinitude of feminine luxuries. The prettiest of tables were there, the easiest of chairs, the most costly of cabinets, the quaintest of old China ornaments. It was bright with the gayest colors, made pleasant to the eye with the binding of many books, having nymphs painted on the ceiling and little cupids on the doors. "'Isn't it pretty?' she said, turning quickly on Alice. I call it my dressing-room, because in that way I can keep people out of it. But I have my brushes and soap in a little closet there, and my clothes. My clothes are everywhere, I suppose. Only there are none of them here. Isn't it pretty?' Very pretty. The Duke did it all. He understands such things thoroughly. Now, to Mr. Palacere, a dressing-room is a dressing-room, and a bedroom a bedroom. He cares for nothing being pretty. Not even his wife, or he wouldn't have married me. You wouldn't say that if you meant it. Well, I don't know. Sometimes when I look at myself, when I simply am myself, with no making up or grimacing you know, I think I'm the ugliest young woman the sun ever shone on, and in ten years time I shall be the ugliest old woman. Only think, my hair is beginning to get gray, and I'm not twenty-one yet. Look at it! And she lifted up the wavy locks just above her ear. But there's one comfort. He doesn't care about beauty. How old are you?" Over five and twenty, said Alice. Nonsense! Then I oughtn't to have asked you. I am so sorry. That's nonsense at any rate. Why should you think I should be ashamed of my age? I don't know why. Only somehow, people are. And I didn't think you were so old. Five and twenty seems so old to me. It would be nothing if you were married. Only, you see, you won't get married. Perhaps I may yet, some day. Of course you will. You will have to give way. You'll find that they'll get the better of you. Your father will storm at you, and Lady MacLeod will preach at you, and Lady Midlothian will jump upon you. I'm not a bit afraid of Lady Midlothian. I know what it is, my dear, to be jumped upon. We talked with such horror of the French people giving their daughters in marriage. Just as they might sell a house or a field. But we do exactly the same thing ourselves. When they all come upon you in earnest, how are you to stand against them? How can any girl do it? I think I shall be able. To be sure, you're older, and you are not so heavily weighted. But, never mind. I didn't mean to talk about that. Not yet at any rate. Well, now, my dear, I must go down. The Duchess of St. Bungae is here, and Mr. Palliser will be angry if I don't do pretty to her. The Duke is to be the new President of the Council, or rather, I believe he is President now. I try to remember it all, but it is so hard when one doesn't really care two pence how it goes. Not but what I'm very anxious that Mr. Palliser should be Chancellor of the Exchequer. And now, will you remain here, or will you come down with me, or will you go to your own room, and I'll call for you when I go down to dinner? We dine at eight. Alice decided that she would stay in her own room till dinner time, and was taken there by Lady Glencora. She found her maid unpacking her clothes, and for a while employed herself in assisting at the work. But that was soon done, and then she was left alone. I shall feel so strange, ma'am, among all those people downstairs," said the girl. They all seemed to look at me as though they didn't know who I was. You'll get over that soon, Jane. I suppose I shall, but you see, they're all like knowing each other, Miss. Alice, when she sat down alone, felt herself to be very much in the same condition as her maid. What would the Duchess of St. Bungay or Mr. Geoffrey Palliser, who himself might live to be a duke if things went well for him, care for her? As to Mr. Palliser, the master of the house, it was already evident to her that he would not put himself out of his way for her. Had she not done wrong to come there? If it were possible for her to fly away, back to the dullness of Queen Anne Street, or even to the preachings of Lady MacLeod, would she not do so immediately? What business had she, she asked herself, to come to such a house as that? Lady Glencora was very kind to her, but frightened her even by her kindness. Moreover, she was aware that Lady Glencora could not devote herself especially to any such guest as she was. Lady Glencora must of course look after her duchesses, and do pretty, as she called it, to her husband's important political alliances. And then she began to think about Lady Glencora herself. What a strange, weird nature she was! With her round blue eyes and wavy hair, looking sometimes like a child, and sometimes almost like an old woman. And how she talked! What things she said, and what terrible foreboding she uttered of stranger things that she meant to say! Why had she, at their first meeting, made that allusion to the mode of her own betrothal? And then, checking herself for speaking of it so soon, almost declare that she meant to speak more of it hereafter. She should never mention it to any one, said Alice to herself. If her lot in life has not satisfied her, there is so much the more reason why she should not mention it. Then Alice protested to herself that no father, no aunt, no Lady Midlothian should persuade her into a marriage of which she feared the consequences. But Lady Glencora had made for herself excuses, which were not altogether untrue. She had been very young, and had been terribly weighted with her wealth. And it seemed to Alice that her cousin had told her everything in that hour and a half that they had been together. She had given a whole history of her husband and of herself. She had said how indifferent he was to her pleasures, and how vainly she strove to interest herself in his pursuits. And then, as yet, she was childless and without prospect of a child, when, as she herself had said, so much depended on it. It was very strange to Alice that all this should have been already told to her, and why should Lady Glencora think of Alice when she walked out among the priory ruins by moonlight? The two hours seemed to her very long, as though she were passing her time in absolute seclusion at matching. Of course she did not dare to go downstairs, but at last her maid came to dress her. How do you get on below, Jane? her mistress asked her. Why, miss, they are uncommon civil, and I don't think after all it will be so bad. We had our teas very comfortable in the housekeeper's room. There are five or six of us altogether. All ladies' maids miss, and there's nothing on earth to do all the day long. Only sit and do a little needlework over the fire. A few minutes before eight, Lady Glencora knocked at Alice's door, and took her arm to lead her to the drawing-room. Alice saw that she was magnificently dressed, with an enormous expanse of robe, and that her locks had been so managed that no one could suspect the presence of a gray hair. Indeed, with all her magnificence she looked almost a child. Let me see, she said, as they went downstairs together. I'll tell Geoffrey to take you in to dinner. He's about the easiest young man we have here. He rather turns up his nose at everything, but that doesn't make him the less agreeable, does it, dear? Unless he turns up his nose at you, you know. But perhaps he will. No, he won't do that. That would be uncourteous. And he's the most courteous man in the world. There's nobody here, you see," she said, as they entered the room. And I didn't suppose there would be. It's always proper to be first in one's own house. I do so try to be proper, and it is such trouble. Talking of people earning their bread, Alice, I'm sure I earn mine. Oh, dear, what fun it would be to be sitting somewhere in Asia, eating a chicken with one's fingers, and lighting a big fire outside one's tent to keep off the lions and tigers. Fancy your being on one side of the fire and the lions and tigers on the other, grinning at you through the flames. Then Lady Glencora strove to look like a lion, and grinned at herself in the glass. That sort of grin wouldn't frighten me, said Alice. I dare say not. I have been reading about it in that woman's travels. Oh, here they are, and I mustn't make any more faces. Duchess, do come to the fire. I hope you've got warm again. This is my cousin, Miss Vavasor. The Duchess made a stiff little bow of condescension, and then declared that she was charmingly warm. I don't know how you manage in your house, but the staircases are so comfortable. Now at Long Royston we've taken all the trouble in the world, put down hot water pipes, all over the house, and everything else that could be thought of and yet you can't move about the place without meeting with draughts at every corner of the passages. The Duchess spoke with an enormous emphasis on every other word, sometimes putting so great a stress on some special syllable as almost to bring her voice to a whistle. This she had done with the word pipes, to a great degree, so that Alice never afterwards forgot the hot water pipes of Long Royston. I was telling Lady Glencora, Miss Palacere, that I never knew a house so warm as this, or I'm sorry to say—and here the emphasis was very strong on the word sorry—so cold as Long Royston. And the tone in which Long Royston was uttered would almost have drawn tears from a critical audience in the pit of a playhouse. The Duchess was a woman of about forty, very handsome, but with no meaning to her beauty, carrying a good fixed colour in her face, which did not look like paint, but which probably had received some little assistance from the art. She was a well-built, sizeable woman with good proportions and fine health. But a fool. She had addressed herself to one Miss Palacere, but two Miss Palacers, cousins of Plantagenet Palacere, had entered the room at the same time, of whom I may say, whatever other traits of character they may have possessed, that at any rate they were not fools. It's always easy to warm a small house like this, said Miss Palacere, whose Christian names, unfortunately for her, were Iphigenia Theodata, and who by her cousin and sister was called Iphi. And I suppose equally difficult to warm a large one such as Long Royston. The other Miss Palacere had been christened Euphemia. We've got no pipes, Duchess, at any rate, said Lady Glencora, and Alice, as she sat listening, thought she discerned in Lady Glencora's pronunciation of the word pipes, an almost hidden imitation of the Duchess's whistle. It must have been so, for at the moment Lady Glencora's eye met Alice's for an instant, and was then withdrawn, so that Alice was compelled to think that her friend and cousin was not always quite successful in those struggles she made to be proper. Then the gentlemen came in one after another, and other ladies, till about thirty people were assembled. Mr. Palacere came up and spoke another word to Alice in a kind voice, meant to express some sense of connection, if not cousinship. My wife has been thinking so much of your coming. I hope we shall be able to amuse you. Alice, who had already begun to feel desolate, was grateful and made up her mind that she would try to like Mr. Palacere. Geoffrey Palacere was almost the last in the room, but directly he entered, Lady Glencora got up from her seat, and met him as he was coming into the crowd. You must take my cousin, Alice Vavasor, into dinner, she said, and will you oblige me to-day?" Yes, as you ask me like that. Then try to make her comfortable. After that she introduced them, and Geoffrey Palacere stood opposite to Alice, talking to her till dinner was announced. End of Chapter 22. Recording by Laura Koskinen. Chapter 23. 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 Laura Koskinen. Can You Forgive Her? by Antony Trollop. Chapter 23. Dinner at Matching Priory. Alice found herself seated near to Lady Glencora's end of the table, and, in spite of her resolution to like Mr. Palacere, she was not sorry that such an arrangement had been made. Mr. Palacere had taken the duchess out to dinner, and Alice wished to be as far removed as possible from her grace. She found herself seated between her bespoken friend, Geoffrey Palacere, and the duch, and as soon as she was seated Lady Glencora introduced her to her second neighbor. My cousin duch, Lady Glencora said, and a terrible radical. Oh, indeed! I'm glad of that. We're sadly in want of a few leading radicals, and perhaps I may be able to gain one now. Alice thought of her cousin George, and wished that he, instead of herself, was sitting next to the Duke of St. Bungay. But I'm afraid I never shall be a leading radical, she said. You shall lead me at any rate, if you will, said he. As the little dogs lead the blind men, said Lady Glencora. No, Lady Glencora, not so. But as the pretty women lead the men who have eyes in their head. There is nothing I want so much, Miss Fabasor, as to become a radical, if only I knew how. I think it's very easy to know how, said Alice. Do you? I don't. I voted for every liberal measure that has come seriously before Parliament since I had a seat in either house, and I've not been able to get beyond wiggory yet. Have you voted for the ballot? asked Alice, almost trembling at her own audacity, as she put the question. Well, no, I've not, and I suppose that is the crux. But the ballot has never been seriously brought before any house in which I have sat. I hate it, with so keen a private hatred, that I doubt whether I could vote for it. But the radicals love it, said Alice. Palacere, said the Duke speaking loudly from his end of the table, I'm told you can never be entitled to call yourself a radical till you voted for the ballot. I don't want to be called a radical, said Mr. Palacere, or to be called anything at all. Except Chancellor of the Exchequer, said Lady Glencora in a low voice. And that's about the finest ambition by which a man can be moved, said the Duke. The man who can manage the purse strings of this country can manage anything. But then that conversation dropped, and the Duke ate his dinner. I was especially commissioned to amuse you, said Mr. Jeffrey Palacere to Alice. But when I undertook the task I had no conception that you would be calling Cabinet Ministers over the coals about their politics. I did nothing of the kind, surely, Mr. Palacere. I suppose all radicals do vote for the ballot, and that's why I said it. Your definition was perfectly just. I dare say, only—only what? Lady Glencora need not have been so anxious to provide specially for your amusement. Not but what I'm very much obliged to her, of course. But, Miss Vavasor, unfortunately I'm not a politician. I haven't a chance of a seat in the house. And so I despise politics. Women are not allowed to be politicians in this country. Thank God! They can't do much in that way. Not directly, I mean. Only think where we should be if we had a feminine House of Commons. With feminine debates. Carried on, of course, with feminine courtesy. My cousins, Iffy and Femi, there would, of course, be members. You don't know them yet? No, not yet. Are they politicians? Not especially. They have their tendencies, which are decidedly liberal. There has never been a Tory Palacere known, you know. But they are too clever to give themselves up to anything in which they can do nothing. Being women, they live a depressed life, devoting themselves to literature, fine arts, social economy and the abstract sciences. They write wonderful letters, but I believe their correspondence lists are quite full, so that you have no chance at present of getting on either of them. I haven't the slightest pretension to ask for such an honour. Oh, if you mean because you don't know them, that has nothing to do with it. But I have no claim either private or public. That has nothing to do with it either. They don't at all seek people of note as their correspondence. Free communication with all the world is their motto. And Roland Hill is the God they worship. Only they have been forced to guard themselves against too great an accession of paper and ink. Are you fond of writing letters, Miss Vavasor? Yes, to my friends, but I like getting them better. I shrewdly suspect they don't read half what they get. Is it possible any one should go through two sheets of paper filled by our friend the Duchess there? No, their delight is in writing. They sit each at her desk after breakfast and go on till lunch. There is a little rivalry between them, not expressed to each other, but visible to their friends. Ify certainly does get off the greater number, and I'm told crosses quite as often as Femme, but then she has the advantage of a bolder and larger hand. Do they write to you? Oh, dear no, I don't think they ever write to any relative. They don't discuss family affairs and such topics as that. Architecture goes a long way with them. And whether women ought to be clerks in public offices. Ify has certain American correspondence that take up much of her time, but she acknowledges she does not read their letters. Then I certainly shall not write to her. But you are not American, I hope. I do hate the Americans. It's the only strong political feeling I have. I went there once, and found I couldn't live with them on any terms. But they please themselves. I don't see they are to be hated because they don't live after our fashion. Oh, it's jealousy, of course. I know that. I didn't come across a cab driver who wasn't a much better educated man than I am. And as for their women, they know everything. But I hated them, and I intend to hate them. You haven't been there? Oh, no. Then I will make bold to say that any English lady who spent a month with them and didn't hate them would have very singular tastes. I began to think they'll eat each other up, and then there'll come an entirely new set of people of a different sort. I always regarded the States as a Sodom and Gomorrah, prospering in wickedness, on which fire and brimstone were sure to fall sooner or later. I think that's wicked. I am wicked, as Topsy used to say. Do you hunt? No. Do you shoot? Shoot? What, with a gun? Yes. I was staying in a house last week with a lady who shot a good deal. No. I don't shoot. Do you ride? No. I wish I did. I have never ridden, because I've no one to ride with me. Do you drive? No. I don't drive either. Then what do you do? I sit at home and... mend your stockings? No. I don't do that, because it's disagreeable. But I do work a good deal. Sometimes I have amused myself by reading. Ah! They never do that here. I have heard that there is a library, but the clue to it has been lost, and nobody now knows the way. I don't believe in libraries. Nobody ever goes into a library to read any more than you would into a larder to eat. But there is this difference. The food you consume does come out of the larders, but the books you read never come out of the libraries. Except muddies, said Alice. Ah, yes, he is the Great Librarian. And you mean to read all the time you are here, Miss Vavasor? I mean to walk about the priory ruins sometimes. Then you must go by moonlight, and I'll go with you. Only isn't it rather late in the year for that? I should think it is, for you, Mr. Palacere. Then the Duke spoke to her again, and she found that she got on very well during dinner. But she could not but feel angry with herself in that she had any fear on the subject. And yet she could not divest herself of that fear. She acknowledged to herself that she was conscious of a certain inferiority to Lady Glencora and to Mr. Geoffrey Palacere, which almost made her unhappy. As regarded the Duke on the other side of her, she had no such feeling. He was old enough to be her father, and was a cabinet minister. Therefore he was entitled to her reference. But how was it that she could not help accepting the other people round her as being indeed superior to herself? Was she really learning to believe that she could grow upwards by their sunlight? Geoffrey is a pleasant fellow. Is he not? said Lady Glencora to her as they passed back through the billiard room to the drawing-room. Very pleasant, a little sarcastic perhaps. I should think you would soon find yourself able to get the better of that if he tries it upon you, said Lady Glencora, and then the ladies were all in the drawing-room together. It is quite deliciously warm coming from one room to another, said the Duchess, putting her emphasis on the one and the other. Then we had better keep continually moving, said a certain Mrs. Conway Sparks, a literary lady who had been very handsome, who was still very clever, who was not perhaps very good-natured, and of whom the Duchess of St. Bungie was rather afraid. I hope we may be warm here, too, said Lady Glencora. But not deliciously warm, said Mrs. Conway Sparks. It makes me tremble in every limb when Mrs. Sparks attacks her, Lady Glencora said to Alice in Alice's own room that night, for I know she'll tell the Duke, and he'll tell that tall man with red hair whom you see standing about, and the tall man with red hair will tell Mr. Palacere, and then I shall catch it. And who is the tall man with red hair? He's a political link between the Duke and Mr. Palacere. His name is Botte, and he's a Member of Parliament. But why should he interfere? I suppose it's his business. I don't quite understand all the ins and outs of it. I believe he's to be one of Mr. Palacere's private secretaries if he becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer. Perhaps he doesn't tell. Only I think he does, all the same. He always calls me Lady Glencora. He comes out of Lancashire and made Calico as long as he could get any cotton. But this happened in the bedroom, and we must go back for a while to the drawing-room. The Duchess had made no answer to Mrs. Sparks, and so nothing further was said about the warmth, nor, indeed, was there any conversation that was comfortably general. The number of ladies in the room was too great for that, and ladies do not divide themselves nicely into small parties as men and women do when they are mixed. Lady Glencora behaved pretty by telling the Duchess all about her pet pheasants. Mrs. Conway Sparks told ill-natured tales of someone to Miss Euphemia Palacere. One of the Duchess's daughters walked off to a distant piano with an admiring friend and touched a few notes, while Iphigenia Palacere boldly took up a book and placed herself at a table. Alice, who was sitting opposite to Lady Glencora, began to speculate whether she might do the same, but her courage failed her, and she sat on, telling herself that she was out of her element. Alice Fabasor, said Lady Glencora after a while, suddenly, and in a somewhat loud voice, can you play billiards? No, said Alice, rather startled. Then you shall learn to-night, and if nobody else will teach you, you shall be my pupil. We're upon Lady Glencora rang the bell and ordered that the billiard-table might be got ready. You'll play Duchess, of course, said Lady Glencora. It is so nice and warm that I think I will, said the Duchess, but as she spoke she looked suspiciously to that part of the room where Mrs. Conway Sparks was sitting. Let us all play, said Mrs. Conway Sparks, and then it will be nicer. And perhaps warmer, too? The gentlemen joined them just as they were settling themselves round the table, and as many of them stayed there, the billiard-room became full. Alice had first a cue put into her hand, and making nothing of that was permitted to play with a mace. The duty of instructing her devolved on Geoffrey Palacere, and the next hour passed pleasantly. Not so pleasantly, she thought afterwards, as did some of those hours in Switzerland, when her cousins were with her. After all, she could get more out of her life with such associates as them, than she could with any of these people at matching. She felt quite sure of that, though Geoffrey Palacere did take great trouble to teach her the game, and twice made her laugh heartily by quizzing the Duchess's attitude as she stood up to make her stroke. I wish I could play billiards, said Mrs. Sparks, on one of these occasions. I do indeed. I thought you said you were coming to play, said the Duchess, almost majestically, and with a tone of triumph evidently produced by her own success. Only to see your grace, said Mrs. Sparks. I don't know that there is anything more to see in me than in anybody else, said the Duchess. Mr. Palacere, that was a cannon. Will you mark that for our side? Oh, no, Duchess, you hit the same ball twice. Very well. Then I suppose Miss Vavasor plays now. That was a miss. Mark that, if you please. This latter demand was made with great stress as though she had been defrauded in the matter of the cannon and was obeyed. Before long the Duchess, with her partner, Lady Glencora, won the game. Which fact, however, was, I think, owing rather to Alice's ignorance than to her grace's skill. The Duchess, however, was very triumphant and made her way back into the drawing-room with a step, which seemed to declare loudly that she had trumped Mrs. Sparks at last. Not long after this the ladies went upstairs on their way to bed. Many of them perhaps did not go to their pillows at once, as it was as yet not eleven o'clock, and it was past ten when they all came down to breakfast. At any rate, Alice, who had been up at seven, did not go to bed then, nor for the next two hours. I'll come into your room just for one minute," Lady Glencora said as she passed on from the door to her own room, and in about five minutes she was back with her cousin. Would you mind going into my room? It's just there, and sitting with Ellen for a minute? This, Lady Glencora said in the sweetest possible tone to the girl who was waiting on Alice. And then, when they were alone together, she got into a little chair by the fireside and prepared herself for conversation. I must keep you up for a quarter of an hour while I tell you something. But first of all, how do you like the people? Will you be able to be comfortable with them? Alice, of course, said that she thought she would. And then there came that little discussion in which the duties of Mr. Botte, the man with the red hair, were described. But I've got something to tell you, said Lady Glencora, when they had already been there some twenty minutes. Sit down opposite to me and look at the fire while I look at you. Is it anything terrible? It's nothing wrong. Oh, Lady Glencora, if it's— I won't have you call me Lady Glencora. Don't I call you Alice? Why are you so unkind to me? I have not come to you now asking you to do, for me, anything that you ought not to do. But you are going to tell me something. Alice felt sure that the thing to be told would have some reference to Mr. Fitzgerald, and she did not wish to hear Mr. Fitzgerald's name from her cousin's lips. Tell you something? Of course I am. I'm going to tell you that— that in writing to you the other day I wrote a fib, but it wasn't that I wished to deceive you, only I couldn't say it all in a letter. Say all what? You know I confessed that I had been very bad in not coming to you in London last year? I never thought of it for a moment. You did not care whether I came or not, was that it? But never mind. Why should you have cared? But I cared. I told you in my letter that I didn't come because I had so many things on hand. Of course that was a fib. Everybody makes excuses of that kind, said Alice. But they don't make them to the very people of all others whom they want to know and love. I was longing to come to you every day, but I feared I could not come without speaking of him. And I had determined never to speak of him again. This, she said, in that peculiar low voice, which she assumed at times. Then why do it now, Lady Glencora? I won't be called Lady Glencora. Call me Cora. I had a sister once, older than I, and she used to call me Cora. If she had lived— but never mind that now, she didn't live. I'll tell you why I do it now, because I cannot help it. Besides, I've met him. I've been in the same room with him, and have spoken to him. What's the good of any such resolution now? And you have met him? Yes, he—Mr. Palacere—knew all about it. When he talked of taking me to the house, I whispered to him that I thought Bergo would be there. Do not call him by his Christian name, said Alice, almost with a shudder. Why not? Why not his Christian name? I did, when I told my husband. Or perhaps I said Bergo Fitzgerald. Well— and he bade me go. He said it didn't signify, and that I had better learn to bear it. Bear it, indeed. If I am to meet him, and speak to him, and look at him, surely I may mention his name. And then she paused for an answer. May I not? What am I to say? exclaimed Alice. Anything you please, that's not a falsehood. But I've got you here, because I don't think you will tell a falsehood. Oh, Alice, I do so want to go right. And it is so hard— hard indeed, poor creature, for one so weighted as she had been, and sent out into the world with so small advantages of previous training or of present friendship. Alice began to feel now that she had been enticed to matching Priory, because her cousin wanted a friend, and of course she could not refuse to give the friendship that was asked from her. She got up from her chair, and kneeling down at the other's feet, put up her face, and kissed her. I knew you would be good to me, said Lady Glencora. I knew you would. And you may say whatever you like. But I could not bear that you should not know the real reason why I neither came to you, nor sent for you, after we went to London. You'll come to me now, won't you, dear? Yes, and you'll come to me, said Alice, making in her mind a sort of bargain that she was not to be received into Mr. Palacere's house after the fashion in which Lady Midlothian had proposed to receive her. But it struck her at once that this was unworthy of her and ungenerous. But I'll come to you, she added, whether you come to me or not. I will go to you, said Lady Glencora. Of course. Why shouldn't I? But you know what I mean. We shall have dinners and parties and lots of people. And we shall have none, said Alice, smiling. And therefore there is so much more excuse for your coming to me, or rather I mean so much more reason, for I don't want excuses. Well, dear, I'm so glad I've told you. I was afraid to see you in London. I should hardly have known how to look at you then. But I've got over that now. Then she smiled and returned the kiss which Alice had given her. It was singular to see her standing on the bedroom rug with all her magnificence of dress, but with her hair pushed back behind her ears and her eyes red with tears, as though the burden of the magnificence remained to her after its purpose was over. I declare it's ever so much past twelve. Good night now, dear. I wonder whether he's come up. But I should have heard his step if he had. He never tread slightly. He seldom gives over work until after one, and sometimes goes on till three. It's the only thing he likes, I believe. God bless you. Good night. I've such a deal more to say to you, and Alice, you must tell me something about yourself too, won't you, dear? Then, without waiting for an answer, Lady Glencora went, leaving Alice in a maze of bewilderment. She could hardly believe that all she had heard and all she had done had happened since she left Queen Anne Street that morning. End of Chapter 23 Recording by Laura Koskinen Chapter 24 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 Mary Rodie Can You Forgive Her by Anthony Trollop Chapter 24 Three Politicians Mr. Palliser was one of those politicians in possessing whom England has perhaps more reason to be proud than of any other of her resources and who, as a body, give to her that exquisite combination of conservatism and progress, which is her present strength and best security for the future. He could afford to learn to be a statesman and had the industry wanted for such training. He was born in the purple, noble himself, and heir to the highest rank as well as one of the greatest fortunes of the country, already very rich, surrounded by all the temptations of luxury and pleasure. And yet he devoted himself to work with the grinding energy of a young, penniless barrister, laboring for a penniless wife, and did so without any motive more selfish than that of being counted in the role of the public servants of England. He was not a brilliant man and understood well that such was the case. He was now listened to in the house, as the phrase goes, but he was listened to as a laborious man who was in earnest in what he did, who got up his facts with accuracy and who, dull though he be, was worthy of confidence. And he was very dull. He rather prided himself on being dull and on conquering in spite of his dullness. He never allowed himself a joke in his speeches nor attempted even the smallest flourish of rhetoric. He was very careful in his language, laboring night and day to learn to express himself with accuracy, with no needless repetition of words, perspicuously with regard to the special object he might have in view. He had taught himself to believe that oratory as oratory was a sin against that honesty and politics by which he strove to guide himself. He desired to use words for the purpose of teaching things which he knew and which others did not know, and he desired also to be honored for his knowledge. But he had no desire to be honored for the language in which his knowledge was conveyed. He was an upright, thin, laborious man who by his parts alone could have served no political party materially, but whose parts were sufficient to make his education, integrity and industry useful in the highest degree. It is the trust which such men inspire which makes them so serviceable. Trust not only in their labor, for any man rising from the mass of the people may be equally laborious, nor yet simply in their honesty and patriotism. The confidence is given to their labor, honesty and patriotism joined to such a personal stake in the country as gives them a weight and ballast which no politician in England can possess without it. If he was dull as a statesman, he was more dull in private life and it may be imagined that such a woman as his wife would find some difficulty in making his society the source of her happiness. Their marriage, in a point of view regarding business, had been a complete success and a success too when on the one side that of Lady Glencora there had been terrible dangers of shipwreck and when on his side also there had been some little fears of a mishap. As regards her it has been told how near she went to throwing herself with all her vast wealth into the arms of a young man whom no father, no guardian could have regarded as a well chosen husband for any girl, one who as yet had shown no good qualities, who had been a spendthrift, unprincipled and debauched, alas she had loved him. It is possible that her love and her wealth might have turned him from evil to good, but who would have ventured to risk her? I will not say her and her vast inheritances on such a chance. That evil however had been prevented and those about her had managed to marry her to a young man, very steady by nature, with worldly prospects as brilliant as her own and with a station than which the world offers nothing higher. His little threatened mischance, a passing fancy for a married lady who was too wise to receive vows which were proffered not in the most ardent manner, had from special reasons given some little alarm to his uncle, which had just sufficed at the time to make so very judicious a marriage doubly pleasant to that noble duke, so that all things and all people had conspired to shower substantial comforts on the heads of this couple when they were joined together and men and women had not yet seized to declare how happy were both in the accumulated gifts of fortune. And as regards Mr. Palacere, I think that his married life and the wife whom he certainly had not chosen, but who had dropped upon him, suited him admirably. He wanted great wealth for that position at which he aimed. He had been rich before his marriage with his own wealth, so rich that he could throw thousands away if he wished it. But for him and his career was needed that colossal wealth which would make men talk about it, which would necessitate an expensive expenditure reaching far and wide, doing nothing or less than nothing for his own personal comfort, but giving to him at once that rock-like solidity which is so necessary to our great aristocratic politicians. And his wife was, as far as he knew, all that he desired. He had not dabbled much in the fountains of Venus, though he had forgotten himself once and sinned in coveting another man's wife, but his sin then had hardly polluted his natural character and his desire had been of a kind which was almost more gratified in its disappointment than it would have been in its fruition. On the morning after the lady had frowned on him, he had told himself that he was very well out of that trouble. He knew that it would never be for him to hang up on the walls of a temple, a well-worn loot as a vote of offering when leaving the pursuits of love, Idoneus Puelis, he never could have been. So he married Lady Clangora and was satisfied. The story of Bergo Fitzgerald was told to him, and he supposed that most girls had some such story to tell. He thought little about it, and by no means understood her when she said to him, with all the impressiveness which she could throw into the words, you must know that I have really loved him. You must love me now," he had replied with a smile, and then as regarded his mind the thing was over, and since his marriage he had thought that things matrimonial had gone well with him and with her too. He gave her almost unlimited power of enjoying her money and interfered but little in her way of life. Sometimes he would say a word of caution to her with reference to those childish ways which hardly became the dull dignity of his position, and his words then would have in them something of unintentional severity, whether an instigated or not by the red-haired radical member of Parliament I will not pretend to say. But on the whole he was contented and loved his wife as he thought very heartily and at least better than he loved anyone else. One cause of unhappiness or rather one doubt as to his entire good fortune was beginning to make itself felt as his wife had to her sorrow already discovered. He had hoped that before this he might have heard that she would give him a child, but the days were young yet for that trouble and the care had not become a sorrow. But this judicious arrangement as to properties, this well-ordered alliance between families, had not perhaps suited her as well as it had suited him. I think that she might have learned to forget her early lover or to look back upon it with a soft melancholy hardly amounting to regret had her new lord been more tender in his ways with her. I do not know that Lady Glencora's heart was made of that stern stuff which refuses to change its impressions, but it was a heart and it required food. To love and fondle someone, to be loved and fondled, were absolutely necessary to her happiness. She wanted the little daily assurance of her supremacy in the man's feelings, the constant touch of love, half accidental, half contrived, the passing glance of the eye, telling perhaps of some little joke understood only between them two, rather than of love, the softness of an occasional kiss given here and there when chance might bring them together. Some half pretended interest in her little doings, a nod, a wink, a shake of the head, or even a pout. It should have been given to her to feed upon such food as this daily, and then she would have forgotten Bergo Fitzgerald. But Mr. Palacera understood none of these things, and therefore the image of Bergo Fitzgerald and all his beauty was ever before her eyes. But not the less was Mr. Palacera a prosperous man as to the success of whose career few who knew him had much doubt. It might be written in the book of his destiny that he would have to pass through some violent domestic trouble, some ruin in the hopes of his home, of a nature to destroy then and forever the worldly prospects of other men. But he was one who would pass through such violence should it come upon him without much scathe. To lose his influence with his party would be worse to him than to lose his wife, and public disgrace would hit him harder than private dishonor. And the present was the very moment in which success was, as was said, coming to him. He had already held laborious office under the crown, but had never sat in the cabinet. He had worked much harder than cabinet ministers generally work, but hitherto had worked without any reward that was worth his having. For the stipend which he had received had been nothing to him, as the great stipend which he would receive, if his hopes were true, would also be nothing to him. To have ascendancy over other men, to be known by his countrymen as one of their real rulers, to have an actual and acknowledged voice in the management of nations, those were the rewards for which he looked, and now, in truth, it seemed as though they were coming to him. It was all but known that the existing Chancellor of the Exchequer would separate himself from the government, carrying various others with him, either before or immediately consequent on the meeting of the parliament. And it was all but known also that Mr. Palacere would fill his place taking that high office at once, although he had never hitherto sat in that August assembly which men call the cabinet. He could thus afford to put up with the small everyday calamity of having a wife who loved another man better than she loved him. The presence of the Duke of St. Bungae at Matching was assumed to be a sure sign of Mr. Palacere's coming triumph. The Duke was a statesman of a very different class, but he also had been eminently successful as an aristocratic pillar of the British Constitutional Republic. He was a minister of very many years standing, being as used to cabinet sittings as other men are to their own armchairs. But he had never been a hard-working man, though a constant politician he had ever taken politics easy, whether in office or out. The world had said before now that the Duke might be premier only that he would not take the trouble. He had been consulted by a very distinguished person, so the papers had said more than once as to the making of prime ministers. His voice in council was esteemed to be very great. He was regarded as a strong rock of support to the liberal cause, and yet nobody ever knew what he did, nor was there much record of what he said. The offices which he held, or had held, were generally those to which no very arduous duties were attached. In severe debates he never took upon himself the brunt of opposition oratory. What he said in the House was generally short and pleasant, with some slight drolling undercurrent of uninjurious satire running through it. But he was a walking miracle of the wisdom of common sense. He never lost his temper. He never made mistakes. He never grew either hot or cold in a cause. He was never reckless in politics and never cowardly. He snubbed no man and took snubbings from no man. He was a knight of the garter, a Lord Lieutenant of his county, and at sixty-two had his digestion unimpaired and his estate in excellent order. He was a great buyer of pictures which perhaps he did not understand and a great collector of books which certainly he never read. All the world respected him and he was a man to whom the respect of all the world was as the breath of his nostrils. But even he was not without his peacock on the wall, his skeleton in the closet, his thorn in his side. Though the peacock did not scream loud, the skeleton was not very terrible in his anatomical arrangement, nor was the thorn likely to fester to a gangrene. The duke was always in awe about his wife. He was ever uneasy about his wife, but it must not be supposed that he feared the machinations of any burglar Fitzgerald being destructive of his domestic comfort. The duchess was and always had been all that is proper. Ladies in high rank, when gifted with excelling beauty, have often been made the marks of undeserved calamity. But no breath of slander had ever touched her name. I doubt if any man alive had ever had the courage even to wink at her since the duke had first called her his own. Was she a spendthrift or a gambler? She was not fast in her tastes or given to any pursuit that was objectionable. She was simply a fool, and as a fool was ever fearing that she was the mark of ridicule. In all such misery she would complain sorrowfully, piteously and occasionally very angrily to her dear duke and protector at times her dear duke did not quite know what to do with her or how to protect her. It did not suit him, a knight of the garter and a duke of St. Bungae, to beg mercy for that poor wife of his from such a one as Mrs. Conway Sparks. Nor would it be more in his way to lodge a formal complaint against that lady before his host or hostess, as one boy at school may sometimes do as regards another. I don't like the people, my dear, we will go away. He said to her late on that evening of which we have spoken. No, she replied, I do not wish to go away. I have said that we would stay till December and Longwreston won't be ready before that. But I think that something ought to be done to silence that woman. And the accent came strong upon something and then again with terrific violence upon women. The duke did not know how to silence Mrs. Conway Sparks. It was a great principle of his life never to be angry with anyone. How could he get at Mrs. Conway Sparks? I don't think she is worth your attention, said the husband. That's all very well duke, said the wife. And perhaps she is not. I find her in this house and I don't like to be laughed at. I think Lady Glencora should make her know her place. Lady Glencora is very young, my dear. I don't know about being so very young, said the Duchess, whose ear had perhaps caught some little hint of poor Lady Glencora's almost unintentional mimicry. Now, as appeals of this kind were being made frequently to the duke, and as he was often driven to say some word of which he himself hardly approved to someone in protection of his Duchess, he was aware that the matter was an annoyance and at times almost wished that her grace was at Long Royston. And there was a third politician staying at matching Priory, who had never yet risen to the rank of a statesman, but who had his hopes. This was Mr. Botte, the member for St. Helens, whom Lady Glencora had described as a man who stood about with red hair and perhaps told tales of her to her husband. Mr. Botte was a person who certainly had had some success in life and who had won it for himself. He was not very young, being at this time only just on the right side of fifty. He was now enjoying his second session in Parliament, having been returned as a pledged disciple of the Manchester School, nor had he apparently been false to his pledges. At St. Helens he was still held to be a good man and true, but they who sat on the same side with him in the house and watched his political maneuvers knew that he was striving hard to get his finger into the public pie. He was not a rich man, though he had made calico and had got into Parliament, and though he claimed to be a thoroughgoing radical, he was a man who liked to live with aristocrats and was fond of listening to the whispers of such as the Duke of St. Bungae or Mr. Palliser. It was supposed that he did understand something of finance. He was, at any rate, great in figures, and as he was possessed of much industry and was obedient with all, he was a man who might make himself useful to a Chancellor of the Exchequer ambitious of changes. There are men who get into such houses as matching priory and whose presence there is a mystery to many, as to whom the ladies of the house never quite understand why they are entertaining such a guest. And Mr. Botte is coming. Mr. Palliser had said to his wife, Mr. Botte, Lady Glencora had answered, Goodness me, who is Mr. Botte? He is a member for St. Talons, said Mr. Palliser, a very serviceable man in his way. And what am I to do with him, asked Lady Glencora? I don't know that you can do anything with him. He is a man who has a great deal of business and I dare say he will spend most of his time in the library. So Mr. Botte arrived. But though a huge pile of letters and papers came to him every morning by post, he unfortunately did not seem to spend much of his time in the library. Perhaps he had not found the clue to that lost apartment. Twice he went out shooting, but as on the first day he shot the keeper and on the second very nearly shot the Duke, he gave that up. Hunting he declined, though much pressed to make an essay in that art by Geoffrey Palliser. He seemed to spend his time, as Lady Glencora said, in standing about, except at certain times when he was closeted with Mr. Palliser and when it may be presumed he made himself useful. On such days he would be seen at the hour of lunch with fingers much stained with ink and it was generally supposed that on those occasions he had been counting up taxes and calculating the effect of great financial changes. He was a tall, wiry, strong man with a bald head and bristly red beard, which, however, was cut off from his upper and under lip. This was unfortunate, as had he hidden his mouth he would not have been, in so marked a degree, an ugly man. His upper lip was very long and his mouth was mean. But he had found that without the help of a razor to these parts he could not manage his soup to his satisfaction and, preferring cleanliness to beauty, had shaved himself accordingly. I shouldn't dislike Mr. Bott so much, Lady Glencora said to her husband, if he didn't rub his hands and smile so often and seemed to be going to say something when he really is not going to say anything. I don't think you need trouble yourself about him, my dear, Mr. Palacere had answered. But when he looks at me in that way I can't help stopping as I think he is going to speak. And then he always says, can I do anything for you, Lady Glencora? She instantly saw that her husband did not like this. Don't be angry with me, dear, she said. You must admit that he is rather abhor. I am not at all angry, Glencora, said the husband. And if you insist upon it I will see that he leaves and in such case will, of course, never ask him again. But that might be prejudicial to me as he is a man whom I trust in politics and who may perhaps be serviceable to me. Of course Lady Glencora declared that Mr. Bott might remain as long as he and her husband desired and, of course, she mentioned his name no more to Mr. Palacere. But from that time forth she regarded Mr. Bott as an enemy and felt also that Mr. Bott regarded her in the same light. When it was known among outside politicians that the Duke of St. Bungae was staying at matching priory outside politicians became more sure than ever that Mr. Palacere would be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer. The old minister and the young minister were, of course, arranging matters together. But I doubt whether Mr. Palacere and the Duke ever spoke on any such topic during the entire visit. Though Mr. Bott was occasionally closeted with Mr. Palacere, the Duke never troubled himself with such closetings. He went out shooting on his pony, read his newspaper, wrote his notes and looked with the eye of a connoisseur over all Mr. Palacere's farming apparatus. You seem to have a good man, I should say, said the Duke. What? Hobbings? Yes, he was a legacy from my uncle when he gave me up the priory. A very good man, I should say. Of course he won't make it pay, but he'll make it look as though it did, which is the next best thing. I could never get rent out of the land that I farmed myself, never. I suppose not, said Mr. Palacere, who did not care much about it. The Duke would have talked to him by the hour together about farming, had Mr. Palacere been so minded, but he talked to him very little about politics. Nor during the whole time of his stay at matching did the Duke make any other allusion to Mr. Palacere's hopes as regarded the ministry than that in which he had told Lady Lincora at the dinner table that her husband's ambition was the highest by which any man could be moved. But Mr. Bott was sometimes honored by a few words with the Duke. We shall muster pretty strong your grace, Mr. Bott had said to him one day before dinner. That depends on how the changes go, said the Duke. I suppose there will be a change. Oh yes, there will be a change, certainly I should say. And it will be in your direction. In Palacere's? Yes, I should think so. That is, if it suits him. By the by, Mr. Bott. Then there was a little whispered communication in which perhaps Mr. Bott was undertaking some commission of that nature which Lady Lincora had called telling. End of Chapter 24. Recording by Mary Rodie in Willow, Alaska.