 43 Mrs. Marsham That Lady Glencora was not brought to repentance by her husband's last words. It seemed to her to be so intolerably cruel. This demand of his that she should be made to pass the whole of her first evening in town was an old woman for whom it was impossible that she should entertain the slightest regard that she resolved upon rebellion. Had he positively ordered Mrs. Marsham she would have sent for that lady and have contented herself with enduring her presence in disdainful silence. But Mr. Palliser had not given any order. He had made a request, and a request from its very nature admits of no obedience. The compliance with a request must be voluntary, and she would not send for Mrs. Marsham except upon compulsion. Had not she also made a request to him, and had not he refused it, it was his prerogative undoubtedly to command. But in that matter of requests she had a right to expect that her voice should be as potent as his own. She wrote a line therefore to Alice before she went to bed, begging her cousin to come to her early on the following day so that they might go out together and then afterwards dine in company with Mr. Bott. I know that will be an inducement to you, Lady Glencora said, because your generous heart will feel of what service you may be to me. Nobody else will be here unless indeed Mrs. Marsham should be asked, unknown to myself. Then she sat herself down to think, to think especially about the cruelty of husbands. She had been told over and over again, in the days before her marriage, that Bergo would ill use her if he became her husband. The marquee of Old Rikki had gone so far as to suggest that Bergo might probably beat her. But what hard treatment, even what beating, could be so unendurable as this total want of sympathy, as this deadness in life which her present lot entailed upon her. As for that matter of beating, she ridiculed the idea in her very soul. She sat smiling at the absurdity of the thing as she thought of the beauty of Bergo's eyes, of the softness of his touch, of the loving almost worshipping tones of his voice. Would it not even be better to be beaten by him than to have politics explained to her at one o'clock at night by such a husband as Plantagenet Palacere? The British constitution, indeed. Had she married Bergo, they would have been in sunny Italy, and he would have told her some other tale than that as they sat together under the pale moonlight. She had a little watercolor drawing called Raphael and Fornarina, and she was infantile enough to tell herself that the so-called Raphael was like her Bergo. No, not her Bergo, but the Bergo that was not hers. At any rate, all the romance of the pictures she might have enjoyed had they allowed her to dispose as she wished of her own hand. She might have sat in marble balconies while the vines clustered over her head, and he would have been at her knee, hardly speaking to her, but making his presence felt by the halo of its divinity. He would have called upon her for no hard replies. With him near her she would have enjoyed the soft air, and would have sat happy without trouble lapped in the delight of loving. It was thus that Fornarina sat. And why should not such a lot have been hers? Her Raphael would have loved her, let them say what they would about his cruelty. Poor wretched, overburden child to whom the commonest lessons of life had not yet been taught, and who had now fallen into the hands of one who was so ill-fitted to teach them. Who would not pity her? Who could say that the fault was hers? The world had laden her with wealth till she had had no limb free for its ordinary uses, and then had turned her loose to run her race. Have you written to your cousin? Her husband asked her the next morning. His voice, as he spoke, clearly showed that his anger was either over or suppressed. Yes, I have asked her to come and drive, and then to stay for dinner. I shall send the carriage for her if she can come. The man is to wait for an answer. Very well, said Mr. Palacere, mildly, and then, after a short pause, he added, as that has settled, perhaps you would have no objection to ask Mrs. Marsham also. Won't she probably be engaged? No, I think not, said Mr. Palacere. And then he added, being ashamed of the tinge of falsehood of which he would otherwise have been guilty. I know she is not engaged. She expects to come, then, said Lady Lencora. I have not asked her if you mean that, Lencora. Had I done so, I should have said so. I told her that I did not know what your engagements were. I will write to her, if you please, said the wife, who felt that she could hardly refuse any longer. Do, my dear, said the husband. So Lady Lencora did write to Mrs. Marsham, who promised to come, as did also Alice Vavasor. Lady Lencora would, at any rate, have Alice to herself for some hours before dinner. At first she took comfort in that reflection, but after a while she bethought herself that she would not know what to tell Alice or what not to tell. Did she mean to show that letter to her cousin? If she did show it, then, so she argued with herself, she must bring herself to endure the wretchedness of her present lot, and must give up forever all her dreams about Raphael and for Narina. If she did not show it, or at any rate tell of it, then it would come to pass that she would leave her husband under the protection of another man, and she would become what she did not dare to name even to herself. She declared that so it must be. She knew that she would go with Bergo, should he ever come to her with the means of going at his and her instant command. But should she bring herself to let Alice know that such a letter had been conveyed to her, Bergo would never have such power. I remember the story of a case of abduction in which a man was tried for his life and was acquitted because the lady had acquiesced in the carrying away while it was in progress. She had, as she herself declared, armed herself with a sure and certain charm or talisman against such dangers which she kept suspended round her neck. But while she was in the post-chase she opened the window and threw the charm from her, no longer desiring, as the learned counsel for the defense efficiently alleged, to be kept under the bonds of such protection. Lady Glengora's state of mind was, in its nature, nearly the same as that of the lady in the post-chase. Whether or no she would use her charm she had not yet decided, but the power of doing so was still hers. Alice came and the greeting between the cousins was very affectionate. Lady Glengora received her as though they had been playmates from early childhood and Alice, though such impulsive love was not natural to her as to the other, could not bring herself to be cold to one who was so warm to her. Indeed, had she not promised her love in that meeting at matching story in which her cousin had told her of all her wretchedness. I will love you, Alice had said, and though there was much in Lady Glengora that she could not approve, much even that she could not bring herself to like, still she would not allow her heart to contradict her words. They sat so long over the fire in the drawing-room that at last they agreed that the driving should be abandoned. What's the use of it, said Lady Glengora? There's nothing to see and the wind is as cold as charity. We are much more comfortable here, are we not? Alice quite acquiesced in this, having no great desire to be driven through the parks in the gloom of a February afternoon. If I had dandy and flirt up here there would be some fun in it, but Mr. Palacere doesn't wish me to drive in London. I suppose it would be dangerous? Not in the least. I don't think it's that he minds, but he has an idea that it looks fast. So it does. If I were a man I'm sure I shouldn't like my wife to drive horses about London. And why not? Just because you'd be a tyrant, like other husbands, what's the harm of looking fast if one doesn't do anything improper? Poor dandy and dear flirt, sure they'd like it. Perhaps Mr. Palacere doesn't care for that. I can tell you something else he doesn't care for. He doesn't care whether dandy's mistress likes it. Don't say that, Glengora. Why not say it to you? Don't teach yourself to think it. That's what I mean. I believe he would consent to anything that he didn't think wrong, such as lectures about the British Constitution. But never mind about that, Alice. Of course the British Constitution is everything to him, and I wish I knew more about it. That's all. But I haven't told you who you are to meet at dinner. Yes, you have, Mr. Botte. But there's another guest, a Mrs. Marsham. I thought I'd got rid of her for today when I wrote to you, but I hadn't. She's coming. She won't hurt me at all, said Alice. She will hurt me very much. She'll destroy the pleasure of our whole evening. I do believe that she hates you, and that she thinks you instigate me to all manner of inequity. What fools they all are. Who are they all, Glengora? She and that man? And never mind. It makes me sick when I think that they should be so blind. Alice, I hardly know how much I owe to you. I don't indeed. Everything, I believe. Lady Glengora, as she spoke, put her hand into her pocket and grasped the letter which lay there. That's nonsense, said Alice. No, it's not nonsense. Who do you think came to matching when I was there? What, to the house? said Alice, feeling almost certain that Mr. Fitzgerald was the person to whom Lady Glengora was eluding. No, not to the house. If it is the person of whom I am thinking, said Alice solemnly, let me implore you not to speak of him. And why should I not speak of him? Did I not speak of him before to you, and was it not for good? How are you to be my friend if I may not speak to you of everything? But you should not think of him. What nonsense, you talk, Alice, not think of him. How is one to help one's thoughts? Look here. Her hand was on the letter, and it would have been out in a moment, and thrown upon Alice's lap, had not the servant opened the door and announced Mrs. Marsham. Oh, how I do wish we had gone to drive, said Lady Glengora, in a voice which the servant certainly heard, and which Mrs. Marsham would have heard had she not been a little hard of hearing in her bonnet. How do, my dear, said Mrs. Marsham, I thought I'd just come across from Norfolk Street and see you, though I am coming to dinner in the evening. It's only just a step, you know. How do you do, Miss Vavasore? And she made a salutation to Alice, which was nearly as cold as it could be. Mrs. Marsham was a woman who had many good points. She was poor and bore her poverty without complaint. She was connected by blood and friendship with people rich and titled, but she paid to none of them egregious respect on account of their wealth or titles. She was staunch in her friendships and staunch in her enmities. She was no fool and knew well what was going on in the world. She could talk about the last novel or, if need be, about the Constitution. She had been a true wife, though sometimes too strong-minded, and a painstaking mother, whose children, however, had never loved her as most mothers liked to be loved. The catalogue of her faults must be quite as long as that of her virtues. She was one of those women who are ambitious of power and not very scrupulous as to the manner in which they obtain it. She was hard-hearted and capable of pursuing an object without much regard to the injury she might do. She would not flatter wealth or fawn before a title, but she was not above any artifice by which she might ingratiate herself with those whom it suited her purpose to conciliate. She thought evil rather than good. She was herself untrue in action, if not absolutely in word. I do not say that she would coin lies, but she would willingly leave false impressions. She had been the bosom friend and in many things the guide in life of Mr. Palliser's mother, and she took a special interest in Mr. Palliser's welfare. When he married she heard the story of the loves of Bergo and Lady Lencora, and though she thought well of the money she was not disposed to think very well of the bride. She made up her mind that the young lady would want watching, and she was of opinion that no one would be so well able to watch Lady Lencora as herself. She had not plainly opened her mind on this matter to Mr. Palliser. She had not made any distinct suggestion to him that she would act as argous to his wife. Mr. Palliser would have rejected any such suggestion, and Mrs. Sparsham knew that he would do so. But she had led a word or two drop, hinting that Lady Lencora was very young, hinting that Lady Lencora's manners were charming in their childlike simplicity. But hinting also that precaution was, for that reason, the more necessary. Mr. Palliser, who suspected nothing as to Bergo or as to any other special peril, whose whole disposition was void of suspicion, whose dry nature realized neither the delights nor the dangers of love, acknowledged that Lencora was young, he especially wished that she should be discreet and matronly. He feared no lovers, but he feared that she might do silly things, that she would catch cold and not know how to live a life becoming the wife of a chancellor of the Exchequer. Therefore he submitted Lencora, and to a certain extent himself, into the hands of Mrs. Sparsham. Lady Lencora had not been twenty-four hours in the house with this lady before she recognized in her Buena. In all such matters no one could be quicker than Lady Lencora. She might be very ignorant about the British Constitution and alas very ignorant also as to the real elements of right and wrong in a woman's conduct, but she was no fool. She had an eye that could see and an ear that could understand, and an abundance of that feminine instinct which teaches a woman to know her friend or her enemy at a glance, at a touch, at a word. In many things Lady Lencora was much quicker, much more clever than her husband, though he was to be chancellor of the Exchequer and though she did know nothing of the Constitution. She knew too that he was easily to be deceived, that though his intelligence was keen, his instincts were dull, that he was drifted with no fineness of touch, with no subtle appreciation of the characters of men and women, and to a certain extent she looked down upon him for his obtuseity. He should have been aware that burglar was a danger to be avoided, and he should have been aware also that Mrs. Sparsham was a duena not to be employed. When a woman knows that she is guarded by a watch woman, she is bound to deceive her Cerberus, if it be possible, and is usually not ill-disposed to deceive also the owner of Cerberus. Lady Lencora felt that Mrs. Sparsham was her Cerberus, and she was heartily resolved that if she was to be kept in the proper line at all, she would not be so kept by Mrs. Sparsham. Alice rose and accepted Mrs. Sparsham's salutation quite as coldly as it had been given, and from that time forward those two ladies were enemies. Mrs. Sparsham, roping quite in the dark, partly guessed that Alice had in some way interfered to prevent Lady Lencora's visit to Monkshade, and though such prevention was no doubt good in that lady's eyes, she resented the interference. She had made up her mind that Alice was not the sort of friend that Lady Lencora should have about her. Alice recognized and accepted the feud. I thought I might find you at home, said Mrs. Sparsham, as I know you are lazy about going out in the cold unless it be for a foolish midnight ramble, and Mrs. Sparsham shook her head. She was a little woman, with sharp small eyes, with a permanent color in her face, and two short, crisp gray curls at each side of her face, always well dressed, always in good health, and as Lady Lencora believed, altogether incapable of fatigue. The ramble you speak of was very wise, I think, said Lady Lencora, but I never could see the use of driving about in London in the middle of winter. One ought to go out of the house every day, said Mrs. Sparsham. I hate all those rules, don't you, Alice? Alice did not hate them, therefore she said nothing. My dear Lencora, one must live by rules in this life. You might as well say that you hate it sitting down to dinner. So I do, very often, almost always when there's company. You'll get over that feeling after another season in town, said Mrs. Sparsham, pretending to suppose that Lady Lencora alluded to some remaining timidity in receiving her own guests. Upon my word I don't think I shall. It's a thing that seems always to be getting more grievous instead of less so. Mr. Bott is coming to dine here tonight. There was no mistaking the meaning of this. There was no pretending even to mistake it. Now Mrs. Sparsham had accepted the right hand of fellowship from Mr. Bott, not because she especially liked him, but in compliance with the apparent necessities of Mr. Palacere's position. Mr. Bott had made good his ground about Mr. Palacere, and Mrs. Sparsham, as she was not strong enough to turn him off from it, had given him the right hand of fellowship. Mr. Bott is a member of Parliament, and a very serviceable friend of Mr. Palacere's, said Mrs. Sparsham. All the same we do not like Mr. Bott, do we, Alice? He has Dr. Fell to us, only I think we could tell why. I certainly do not like him, said Alice. It can be but of small matter to you, Miss Vavasor, said Mrs. Sparsham, as you will not probably have to see much of him. Of the very smallest moment, said Alice, he did annoy me once, but will never, I daresay, have an opportunity of doing so again. I don't know what the annoyance may have been. Of course you don't, Mrs. Sparsham. But I shouldn't have thought it likely that a person so fully employed as Mr. Bott, and employed, too, on matters of such vast importance, would have gone out of his way to annoy a young lady whom he chanced to meet for a day or two in a country house. I don't think that Alice means that he attempted to flirt with her, said Lady Glencora, laughing. Fancy Mr. Bott flirtation. Perhaps he did not attempt, said Mrs. Sparsham, and the words, the tone, and the innuendo together were more than Alice was able to bear with equanimity. Glencora, said she, rising from her chair, I think I'll leave you alone with Mrs. Sparsham. I'm not disposed to discuss Mr. Bott's character, and certainly not to hear his name mentioned in disagreeable connection with my own. But Lady Glencora would not let her go. Nonsense, Alice, she said. If you and I can't fight our little battles against Mr. Bott and Mrs. Sparsham without running away, it is odd. There is a warfare in which they who run away never live to fight another day. I hope, Glencora, you do not count me as your enemy, said Mrs. Sparsham, drawing herself up. But I shall, certainly, if you attack Alice. Love me, love my dog. I beg your pardon, Alice, but what I mean was this, Mrs. Sparsham, love me, love the best friend I have in the world. I did not mean to offend Miss Favassore, said Mrs. Sparsham, looking at her very grimly. Alice merely bowed her head. She had been offended, and she would not deny it. After that, Mrs. Sparsham took herself off, saying that she would be back to dinner. She was angry, but not unhappy. She thought that she could put down Miss Favassore, and she was prepared to bear a good deal from Lady Glencora for Mr. Palacere's sake, as she said to herself, with some attempt at a sentimental remembrance of her old friend. She's a nasty old cat, said Lady Glencora, as soon as the door was closed. And she said these words, with so droll a voice, with such a childlike shaking of her head, with so much comedy in her grimace, that Alice could not but laugh. She is, said Lady Glencora, I know her, and you'll have to know her, too, before you've done with her. It won't at all do for you to run away when she spits at you. You must hold your ground, and show your claws, and make her know that if she spits, you can scratch. But I don't want to be a cat myself. She'll find I'm of the genus, but of the tiger kind, if she persecutes me. Alice, there's one thing I have made up my mind about. I will not be persecuted. If my husband tells me to do anything, as long as he is my husband, I'll do it, but I won't be persecuted. You should remember that she was a very old friend of Mr. Palser's mother. I do remember, and that may be a very good reason why she should come here occasionally, or go to matching, or to any place in which we may be living. It's a bore, of course, but it's a natural bore, and one that ought to be born. And that will be the beginning and the end of it. I'm afraid not, my dear. It may perhaps be the end of it, but I fear it won't be the beginning. I won't be persecuted. If she gives me advice, I shall tell her to her face that it's not wanted, and if she insults any friend of mine, as she did you, I shall tell her that she had better stay away. She'll go and tell him, of course, but I can't help that. I've made up my mind that I won't be persecuted. After that, Lady Glencora felt no further inclination to show Burgos' letter to Alice on that occasion. They sat over the drawing-room fire, talking chiefly of Alice's affairs, till it was time for them to dress. But Alice, though she spoke much of Mr. Gray, said no word as to her engagement with George Vavasor. How could she speak of it, in as much as she had already resolved, already almost resolved, that that engagement also should be broken? Alice, when she came down to the drawing-room before dinner, found Mr. Botte there alone. She had dressed more quickly than her friend, and Mr. Palliser had not yet made his appearance. I did not expect the pleasure of meeting Miss Vavasor today, he said, as he came up, offering his hand. She gave him her hand, and then sat down, merely muttering some word of reply. We spent a very pleasant month down at matching together, didn't you think so? I spent a pleasant month there, certainly. You left, if I remember, the morning after that late walk out among the ruins. That was unfortunate, was it not? Poor Lady Glencora. It made her very ill, so much so that she could not go to monk-shade as she particularly wished. It was very sad. Lady Glencora is very delicate, very delicate indeed. We who have the privilege of being near her ought always to remember that. I don't think she is at all delicate. Oh, don't you? I'm afraid that's your mistake, Miss Vavasor. I believe she has very good health, which is the greatest blessing in the world. By delicate, I suppose you mean weak and infirm. Oh dear, no, not in the least. Not infirm, certainly. I should be very sorry to be supposed to have said that Lady Glencora is infirm. What I mean is, not robust, Miss Vavasor. Her general organization, if you understand me, is exquisitely delicate. One can see that, I think, in every glance of her eye. Alice was going to protest that she had never seen it at all when Mr. Palliser entered the room along with Mrs. Martiam. The two gentlemen shook hands, and then Mr. Palliser turned to Alice. She perceived at once by his face that she was unwelcome and wished herself away from his house. It might be all very well for Lady Glencora to fight with Mrs. Martiam and with her husband, too, in regard to the Martiam persecution, but there could be no reason why she should do so. He just touched her hand, barely closing his thumb upon her fingers, and asked her how she was. Then he turned away from her side of the fire and began talking to Mrs. Martiam on the other. There was that in his face and in his manner which was positively offensive to her. He made no allusion to his former acquaintance with her, spoke no word about matching, no word about his wife, as he would naturally have done to his wife's friend. Alice felt the blood mount into her face and regretted greatly that she had ever come among these people. Had she not long since made up her mind that she would avoid her great relations and did not all this prove that it would have been well for her to have clung to that resolution? What was Lady Glencora to her that she should submit herself to be treated as though she were a poor companion, a dependent who received a salary for her attendance, an indigent cousin hanging on to the bounty of her rich connection? Alice was proud to a fault. She had nursed her pride till it was very faulty. All her troubles and sorrows in life had come from an overfed craving for independence. Why, then, should she submit to be treated with open want of courtesy by any man? But of all men, why should she submit to it from such a one as Mr. Palacir, the heir of a ducal house, rolling in wealth, and magnificent with all the magnificence of British pomp and pride? No, she would make Lady Glencora understand that the close intimacies of daily life were not possible to them. I declare I'm very much ashamed, said Lady Glencora, as she entered the room. I shan't apologize to you, Alice, for it was you who kept me talking, but I do beg Mrs. Marsham's pardon. Mrs. Marsham was all smiles and forgiveness and hoped that Lady Glencora would not make a stranger of her. Then dinner was announced and Alice had to walk downstairs by herself. She did not care a doigt for that, but there had been a disagreeable little contest when the moment came. Lady Glencora had wished to give up Mr. Botte to her cousin, but Mr. Botte had stuck manfully to Lady Glencora's side. He hoped to take Lady Glencora down to dinner very often and was not at all disposed to abate his privilege. During dinner time Alice said very little, nor was there given to her opportunity of saying much. She could not but think of the day of her first arrival at matching priory when she had sat between the Duke of St. Bungay and Geoffrey Palisair and when everybody had been so civil to her. She now occupied one side of the table by herself, away from the fire where she felt cold and desolate in the gloom of the large half-lighted room. Mr. Palisair occupied himself with Mrs. Marsham, who talked politics to him, and Mr. Botte never lost the moment in his endeavours to say some civil word to Lady Glencora. Lady Glencora gave him no encouragement, but she hardly dared to snub him openly in her husband's immediate presence. Twenty times during dinner she said some little word to Alice, attempting at first to make the time pleasant, and then when the matter was too far gone for that, attempting to give some relief. But it was of no avail. There are moments in which conversation seems to be impossible, in which the very gods interfered to put a seal upon the lips of the unfortunate one. It was such a moment now with Alice. She had never as yet been used to snubbing. Whatever position she had hitherto held in that she had always stood foremost much more so than had been good for her. When she had gone to matching she had trembled for her position, but there all had gone well with her. Their Lady Glencora's kindness had at first been able to secure for her a reception that had been flattering and almost better than flattering. Geoffrey Palisair had been her friend, and Wood had she so welled it, have been more than her friend. But now she felt that the halls of the Palisairs were too cold for her, and that the sooner she escaped from their gloom and hard discourtesy the better for her. Mrs. Martian, when the three ladies had returned to the drawing-room together, was a little triumphant. She felt that she had put Alice down, and with the energetic prudence of a good general who knows that he should follow up a victory, let the cost of doing so be what it may, she determined to keep her down. Alice had resolved that she would come as seldom as might be to Mr. Palisair's house in Park Lane. That resolution on her part was in close accordance with Mrs. Martian's own views. Is Mrs. Vavasor going to walk home? She asked. Walk home? All the long Oxford Street? Good gracious, no. Why should she walk? The carriage will take her. Or a cab, said Alice. I am quite used to go about London in a cab by myself. I don't think they are nice for young ladies after dark, said Mrs. Martian. I was going to offer my servant to walk with her. She is an elderly woman and would not mind it. I'm sure Alice is very much obliged, said Lady Lancora, but she will have the carriage. You are very good natured, said Mrs. Martian, but gentlemen do so dislike having their horses out at night. No gentleman's horses will be out, said Lady Lancora savagely, and as for mine, it's what they're there for. It was not often that Lady Lancora made any allusion to her own property or allowed anyone near her to suppose that she remembered the fact that her husband's great wealth was, in truth, her wealth. As to many matters, her mind was wrong. In some things, her taste was not delicate as should be that of a woman, but as regarded her money, no woman could have behaved with greater reticence or a pure delicacy. But now, when she was twitted by her husband's special friend with ill usage to her husband's horses, because she chose to send her own friend home in her own carriage, she did find it hard to bear. I dare say it's all right, said Mrs. Martian. It is all right, said Lady Lancora. Mr. Pouncer has given me my horses for my own use to do as I like with them, and if he thinks I take them out when they ought to be left at home, he can tell me so. Nobody else has a right to do it. Lady Lancora, by this time, was almost in a passion and showed that she was so. My dear Lady Lancora, you have mistaken me, said Mrs. Martian. I did not mean anything of that kind. I am so sorry, said Alice, and it is such a pity as I am quite used to going about in cabs. Of course you are, said Lady Lancora. Why shouldn't you? I'd go home in a wheel-barrow if I couldn't walk and had no other conveyance. That's not the question. Mrs. Martian understands that. Upon my word I don't understand anything, said that lady. I understand this, said Lady Lancora, that in all such matters as that I intend to follow my own pleasure. Come, Alice, let us have some coffee. And she rang the bell. What a fuss we have made about a stupid old carriage. The gentleman did not return to the drawing-room that evening, having no doubt joint work to do in arranging the great financial calculations of the nation, and at an early hour Alice was taken home in Lady Lancora's braum, leaving her cousins still in the hands of Mrs. Martian. End of Chapter 43 Reading by Mary Rody in Willow, Alaska Chapter 44 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 Rody. Can You Forgive Her by Anthony Trellop. Chapter 44 The Election for the Chelsea Districts March came, and still the Chancellor of the Exchequer held his position. In the early days of March there was given in the House a certain parliamentary explanation on the subject, which, however, did not explain very much to any person. A statement was made, which was declared by the persons making it to be altogether satisfactory, but nobody else seemed to find any satisfaction in it. The big wigs of the Cabinet had made an arrangement, which, from the language used by them on this occasion, they must be supposed to have regarded as hardly less permanent than the stars. But everybody else protested that the government was going to pieces, and Mr. Bott was hurt to declare in clubs and lobbies, and wherever he could get a semi-public political hearing, that this kind of thing wouldn't do. Lord Brock must either blow hot or cold if he chose to lean upon Mr. Palliser, he might lean upon him, and Mr. Palliser would not be found wanting. In such case no opposition could touch Lord Brock or the government. That was Mr. Bott's opinion. But if Lord Brock did not so choose, why, in that case, he must expect that Mr. Palliser and Mr. Palliser's friends would... Mr. Bott did not say what they would do, but he was supposed, by those who understood the matter, to hint at an opposition lobby and adverse divisions, and to threaten Lord Brock with the open enmity of Mr. Palliser and of Mr. Palliser's great follower. This kind of thing won't do long, you know, repeated Mr. Bott for the second or third time, as he stood upon the rug before the fire at his club with one or two of his young friends around him. I suppose not, said Calder Jones, the hunting member of Parliament whom we once met at Roebury. Planty Pall won't stand it, I should say. But what can he do? asked another, an un-pledged member who was not as yet quite settled as to the leadership under which he intended to work. What can he do? said Mr. Bott, who on such an occasion as this could be very great, who for a moment could almost feel that he might become a leader of a party for himself and someday institute a Bott ministry. What can he do? You will very shortly see what he can do. He can make himself the master of the occasion. If Lord Brock doesn't look about him, he'll find that Mr. Palastair will be in the cabinet without his help. You don't mean to say that the Queen will send for Planty Pall? said the young member. I mean to say that the Queen will send for anyone that the House of Commons may direct her to call upon, said Mr. Bott, who conceived himself to have gauged the very depths of our glorious constitution. How hard is it to make anyone understand that the Queen has really nothing to do with it? Come, Bott, draw it mild, said Calder Jones, whose loyalty was shocked by the utter Manchester realism of his political friend. Not if I know it, said Mr. Bott, with something of grandeur in his tone and countenance. I never drew it mild yet, and I shan't begin now. All our political offenses against civilization have come from men drawing it mild, as you call it. Why is it that Englishmen can't read and write as Americans do? Why can't they vote as they do even in Imperial France? Why are they serfs, less free than those whose chains were broken the other day in Russia? Why is the Spaniard more happy, and the Italian more contented? Because men in power have been drawing it mild, and Mr. Bott made an action with his hand as though he were drawing up beer from a patent app. But you can't set aside her majesty like that, you know, said the young member, who had been presented, and whose mother's old world notions about the throne still clung to him. I should be very sorry, said Mr. Bott. I'm no Republican. With all his constitutional love Mr. Bott did not know what the word Republican meant. I mean no disrespect to the throne. The throne in its place is very well, but the power of governing this great nation does not rest with the throne. It is contained within the four walls of the House of Commons. That is the great truth which all young members should learn and take to their hearts. And you think Planty Paul will become Prime Minister? said Calder Jones. I haven't said that, but there are more unlikely things. Among young men I know no man more likely, but I certainly think this, that if Lord Brock doesn't take him into the cabinet, Lord Brock won't long remain there himself. In the meantime the election came on in the Chelsea Districts and the whole of the southwestern part of the metropolis was covered with posters bearing George Vavasor's name. Vote for Vavasor and the Riverbank. That was the cry with which he went to the electors, and though it must be presumed that it was understood by some portion of the Chelsea electors, it was perfectly unintelligible to the majority of those who read it. His special acquaintances and his general enemies called him Viscount Riverbank and he was pestered on all sides by questions as to Father Thames. It was Mr. Scrubby who invented the legend and who gave George Vavasor an infinity of trouble by the invention. There was a question in those days as to embanking the river from the Houses of Parliament up to the remote desolations of Further Pimplico and Mr. Scrubby recommended the coming member to pledge himself that he would have the work carried on even to Battersea Bridge. You must have a subject, pleaded Mr. Scrubby. No young member can do anything without a subject and it should be local, that is to say, if you have anything of a constituency. Such a subject as that, if it's well worked, may save you thousands of pounds, thousands of pounds at future elections. It won't save me anything at this one, I take it. But it may secure the seat, Mr. Vavasor, and afterwards make you the most popular metropolitan member in the House, that is, with your own constituency. Only look at the money that would be spent in the districts if that were done. It would come to millions, sir. But it never will be done. What matters that? And Mr. Scrubby almost became eloquent as he explained the nature of a good parliamentary subject. You should work it up, so as to be able to discuss it at all points, get the figures by heart, and then, as nobody else will do so, nobody can put you down. Of course it won't be done. If it were done, that would be an end of it and your bread would be taken out of your mouth. But you can always promise it at the hustings and can always demand it in the House. I've known men who walked into as much as two thousand a year permanent place on the strength of a worse subject than that. Vavasor allowed Mr. Scrubby to manage the matter for him and took up the subject of the river bank. Vavasor and the river bank was carried about by an army of men with iron shoulder straps and huge paste-board placards six feet high on the top of them. You would think, as you saw the long rows, that the men were being marshaled to their several routes, but they always kept together, four and twenty at the heels of each other. One placard at a time would strike the eye, said Mr. Vavasor, counting the expense up to himself. There's no doubt of it, said Mr. Scrubby in reply. One placard will do that, if it's big enough, but it takes four and twenty to touch the imagination. And then sides of houses were covered with that chivaleth. Vavasor and the river bank, the same words repeated in columns down the whole sides of houses. Vavasor himself declared that he was ashamed to walk among his future constituents, so conspicuous had his name become. Grimes saw it and was dismayed. At first Grimes ridiculed the cry with all his publicans' wit. Unless he meant to drown himself in the reach, it's hard to say what he do mean by all that gammon about the river bank, said Grimes, as he canvassed for the other liberal candidate. But after a while Grimes was driven to confess that Mr. Scrubby knew what he was about. He is a shop of that he is, said Grimes in the inside bar of the handsome man, and he almost regretted that he had left the leadership of Mr. Scrubby, although he knew that on this occasion he would not have gotten his odd money. George Vavasor, with much labour, actually did get up the subject of the river bank. He got himself introduced to men belonging to the Metropolitan Board, and went manfully into the matter of pound, shillings and pens. He was able even to work himself into an apparent heat when he was told that the thing was out of the question, and soon found that he had disciples who really believed in him. If he could have brought himself to believe in the thing, if he could have been induced himself to care whether Chelsea was to be embanked or no, the work would not have been so difficult to him. In that case it would have done good to him, if to no one else, but such belief was beyond him. He had gone too far in life to be capable of believing in or of caring for such things. He was ambitious of having a hand in the government of his country, but he was not capable of caring even for that. But he worked, he worked hard, and spoke vehemently, and promised the men of Chelsea, Pimplico and Brompton, that the path of London westwards had hardly commenced as yet. Slum Street should be the new cheap side. Square should arise around the Chelsea barracks, with sides open to the water, for rich Belgravia would be deserted. There should be palaces there for the rich, because the rich spend their riches. But no rich man's palace should interfere with the poor man's right to the river bank. Three millions and a half should be spent on the noble street to be constructed, the grandest pathway that the world should ever yet have seen. Three millions and a half to be drawn from, to be drawn from anywhere except from Chelsea. From the bloated money bags of the City Corporation, Vavasor once ventured to declare, amidst the encouraging shouts of the men of Chelsea. Mr. Scrubby was forced to own that his pupil worked the subject well. Upon my word, that was uncommon good, he said, almost patting Vavasor on the back, after a speech in which he had vehemently asserted that his ambition to represent the Chelsea districts had all come of his long-fixed idea that the glory of future London would be brought about by the embankment of the river at Chelsea. But armies of men carrying big boards and public houses open at every corner and placards in which the letters are three feet long cost money. Those few modest hundreds which Mr. Scrubby had already received before the work began had been paid on the supposition that the election would not take place till September. Mr. Scrubby made an early request, a very early request, that a further sum of fifteen hundred pounds should be placed in his hands, and he did this in a tone which clearly signified that not a man would be sent about through the streets or a poster put upon a wall till this request had been conceded. Mr. Scrubby was in possession of two very distinct manners of address. In his jovial moods, when he was instigating his clients to fight their battles well, it might almost be thought that he was doing it really for the love of the thing. And some clients, so thinking, had believed for a few hours that Scrubby in his jolly, passionate eagerness would pour out his own money like dust, trusting implicitly to future days for its return. But such clients had soon encountered Mr. Scrubby's other manner and had perceived that they were mistaken. The thing had come so suddenly upon George Vavasor that there was not time for him to carry on his further operations through his sister. Had he written to Kate, let him have written in what language he would, she would have first rejoined by a negative and there would have been a correspondence before he had induced her to comply. He thought of sending for her by telegram, but even in that there would have been too much delay. He resolved therefore to make his application to Alice himself, and he wrote to her explaining his condition. The election had come upon him quite suddenly, as she knew, he said. He wanted two thousand pounds instantly and felt little scruple in asking her for it. As he was aware that the old squire would be only too glad to saddle the property with a legacy to Alice for the repayment of this money, though he would not have advanced a shilling himself for the purpose of the election. Then he said a word or two as to his prolonged absence from Queen Anne Street. He had not been there because he had felt from her manner when they last met that she would for a while prefer to be left free from the unavoidable excitement of such interviews. But should he be triumphant in his present contest, he should go to her to share his triumph with her, or should he fail, he should go to her to console him in his failure. Within three days he heard from her saying that the money would be at once placed to his credit. She sent him also her candid good wishes for success in his enterprise, but beyond this her letter said nothing. No word of love, no word of welcome, no expression of a desire to see him. Vavasor, as he perceived all this in the reading of her note, felt a triumph in the possession of her money. She was ill-using him by her coldness and there was comfort in revenge. It serves her right, he said to himself, she should have married me at once when she said she would do so and I have been my own. When Mr. Tombi had communicated with John Gray on the matter of this increased demand, this demand which Mr. Tombi began to regard as carrying a love affair rather too far, Gray had telegraphed back that Vavasor's demand for money, if made through Mr. John Vavasor, was to be honored to the extent of five thousand pounds. Mr. Tombi raised his eyebrows and expected that some men were very foolish but John Gray's money matters were of such a nature as to make Mr. Tombi know that he must do as he was bidden and the money was paid to George Vavasor's account. He told Kate nothing of this. Why should he trouble himself to do so? Indeed, at this time he wrote no letters to his sister though she twice sent to him knowing what his exigencies would be and made further tenders of her own money. He could not reply to these offers without telling her that money had been forthcoming from that other quarter and so he left them unanswered. In the meantime the battle went on gloriously. Mr. Travers, the other liberal candidate, spent his money freely or else some other person did so on his behalf. When Mr. Scrubby mentioned this last alternative to George Vavasor, George cursed his own luck in that he had never found such backers. I don't call a man half a member when he's brought in like that," said Mr. Scrubby comforting him. He can't do what he likes with his vote. He ain't independent. You never hear of those fellows getting anything good. Pay for the article yourself, Mr. Vavasor and then it's your own. That's what I always say. Mr. Grimes went to work strenuously, almost fiercely in the opposite interest, telling all that he knew and perhaps more than he knew of Vavasor's circumstances. He was at work morning, noon, and night, not only in his own neighborhood, but among those men on the riverbank of whom he had spoken so much in his interview with Vavasor in Cecil Street. The entire Vavasorian army with its placards was entirely upset on more than one occasion and was once absolutely driven ignominiously into the river mud. And all this was done under the direction of Mr. Grimes. Vavasor himself was pelted with awful from the sinking tide so that the very name of the riverbank became odious to him. He was a man who did not like to have his person touched and when they hustled him he became angry. Lord, love you, Mr. Vavasor, said Scrubby. That's nothing. I've had a candidate so mauled. It was in the Hamlets, I think, that there wasn't a spot on him that wasn't painted with rotten eggs. The smell was something quite awful. But I brought him in through it all. And Mr. Scrubby at last did as much for George Vavasor as he had done for the hero of the Hamlets. At the close of the pole Vavasor's name stood at the head by a considerable majority and Scrubby comforted him by saying that Travers certainly wouldn't stand the expense of a petition as the seat was to be held only for a few months. And you've done it very cheap, Mr. Vavasor, said Scrubby. Considering that the seat is metropolitan I do say that you have done it cheap. Another thousand or twelve hundred will cover everything. Say thirteen perhaps at the outside. And when you shall have fought the battle once again you'll have paid your footing and the fellows will let you in almost for nothing after that. A further sum of thirteen hundred pounds was wanted at once and then the whole thing was to be repeated over again in six months' time. This was not consolatory. But nevertheless there was a triumph in the thing itself which George Vavasor was man enough to enjoy. It would be something to have sat in the House of Commons though it should only have been for half a session. End of Chapter 44 Reading by Mary Rode in Willow, Alaska Chapter 45 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 Rode Can You Forgive Her by Anthony Trollop Chapter 45 George Vavasor takes his seat. George Vavasor's feeling of triumph was not unjustifiable. It is something to have sat in the House of Commons though it has been but for one session. There is on the left hand side of our great national hall on the left hand side as one enters it and opposite to the doors leading to the law courts a pair of gilded lamps with a door between them near to which a privileged old dame sells her apples and oranges solely as I presume for the accommodation of the members of the House and of the great policeman who guards the pass. Between those lamps is the entrance to the House of Commons and none but members may go that way. It is the only gate before which I have ever stood filled with envy sorrowing to think that my steps might never pass under it. There are many portals forbidden to me as there are many forbidden to all men and forbidden fruit they say is sweet. But my lips have watered after no other fruit but that which grows so high within the sweep of that great policeman's truncheon. Ah, my male friend and reader, who earnest thy bread perhaps as a country vicar or sittest maybe at some weary desk in Somerset House or who perhaps rulest the yard behind the cheap side counter hast thou never stood there and longed, hast thou never confessed when standing there that fate has been unkind to thee and denying thee the one thing that thou hast wanted. I have done so, and as my slow steps have led me up that more than royal staircase to those passages and halls which require the hallowing breath of centuries to give them the glory in British eyes which they shall one day possess, I have told myself in anger and in grief that to die and not to have won that right away, though but for a session, not to have passed by the narrow entrance through those lamps is to die and not to have done that which it most becomes an Englishman to have achieved. There are doubtless some who come out by that road, the loss of whose society is not to be regretted. England does not choose her 654 best men, one comforts oneself sometimes with remembering that. The George Vavasores, the Calder Joneses and the bots are admitted. Dishonest the ignorance and vulgarity do not close the gate of that heaven against aspirants. And it is a consolation to the ambition of the poor to know that the ambition of the rich can attain that glory by the strength of its riches alone. But though England does not send tither none but her best men, the best of her commoners do find their way there. It is the highest and most legitimate pride of an Englishman to have the letters MP written after his name. No selection from the alphabet, no doctorship, no fellowship, be it of ever so learned or royal a society, no nightship, not though it be of the garter, confers so fair an honour. Mr. Botte was right when he declared that this country is governed from between the walls of that house, though the truth was almost defiled by the lips which uttered it. He might have added that from thence flow the waters of the world's progress, the fullest fountain of advancing civilisation. George Vavasore, as he went in by the lamps and the apple stall under the guardianship of Mr. Botte, felt all the pride of which I have been speaking. He was a man quite capable of feeling such pride as it should be felt, capable in certain dreamy moments of looking at the thing with pure and almost noble eyes, of understanding the ambition of serving with truth so great a nation as that which fate had made his own. Nature, I think, has so fashioned George Vavasore that he might have been a good and perhaps a great man whereas Mr. Botte had been born small. Vavasore had educated himself to badness with his eyes open. He had known what was wrong and had done it, having taught himself to think that bad things were best. But poor Mr. Botte had meant to do well and thought that he had done very well indeed. He was a tough hunter and a toady, but he did not know that he was doing a miss in seeking to rise by tough hunting and toadying. He was both mean and vain, both a bully and a coward, and in politics I fear quite unscrupulous in spite of his grand dogmas. But he believed that he was progressing in public life by the proper and usual means and was troubled by no idea that he did wrong. Vavasore, in those dreamy moments of which I have spoken, would sometimes feel tempted to cut his throat and put an end to himself because he knew that he had taught himself a miss. Again he would sadly ask himself whether it was yet too late, always, however, answering himself that it was too late. Even now, at this moment, as he went in between the lamps and felt much of the honest pride of which I have spoken, he told himself that it was too late. What could he do now hampered by such a debt as that which he owed to his cousin and with the knowledge that it must be almost indefinitely increased unless he meant to give up the seat in Parliament which had cost him so dearly almost before he had begun to enjoy it. But his courage was good and he was able to resolve that he would go on with the business that he had in hand and play out his game to the end. He had achieved his seat in the House of Commons and was so far successful. Men who had ever been gracious to him were now more gracious than ever and they who had not hitherto treated him with courtesy now began to smile and to be very civil. It was no doubt a great thing to have the privilege of that entrance between the lamps. Mr. Baud had the new member now in hand, not because there had been any old friendship between them, but Mr. Baud was on the lookout for followers and Vavasor was on the lookout for a party. A man gets no great thanks for attaching himself to existing power. Our friend might have enrolled himself among the general supporters of the government without attracting much attention. He would in such case have been at the bottom of a long list, but Mr. Palacere was a rising man round whom almost without wish of his own a party was forming itself. If he came into power, as come he must according to Mr. Baud and many others, then they who had acknowledged the new light before its brightness had been declared might expect their reward. Vavasor as he passed through the lobby to the door of the house leaning on Mr. Baud's arm was very silent. He had spoken but little since they had left their cab in Palacere and was not very well pleased by the gorility of his companion. He was going to sit among the first men of his nation and to take his chance of making himself one of them. He believed in his own ability. He believed thoroughly in his own courage but he did not believe in his own conduct. He feared that he had done, feared still more strongly that he would be driven to do that which would shut men's ears against his words and would banish him from high places. No man believes in himself, who knows himself to be a rascal, however great may be his talent or however high his pluck. Of course you have heard a debate, said Mr. Baud. Yes, answered Vavasor, who wished to remain silent. Many probably? No. But you have heard debates from the gallery. Now you'll hear them from the body of the house and you'll find how very different it is. There's no man can know what Parliament is who has never had a seat. Indeed no one can thoroughly understand the British Constitution without it. I felt very early in life that that should be my line and though it's hard work and no pay I mean to stick to it. How do Thompson? You know Vavasor? He's just returned from the Chelsea Districts and I'm taking him up. We shan't divide tonight, shall we? Look, there's faring court just coming out. Please listen to better than any man in the house now but he'll borrow half a crown from you if you'll lend him one. How do you do, my lord? I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you well and bought Baud low to a lord who was hurrying through the lobby as fast as his shuffling feet would carry him. Of course you know him. Vavasor, however, did not know the lord in question and was obliged to say so. I thought you were up to all these things, said Baud. Taking the peerage generally I am not up to it, said Vavasor, with a curl on his lip. But you ought to have known him. That was Viscount Middlesex. He has got something on tonight about the Irish Church. His father is past ninety and he's over sixty. We'll go in now, but let me give you one bit of advice, my dear fellow. Don't think of speaking this session. A member can do no good at that work till he has learned something of the forms of the house. The forms of the house are everything. Upon my word they are... This is Mr. Vavasor, the new member for the Chelsea Districts. Our friend was thus introduced to the doorkeeper who smiled familiarly and seemed to wink his eye. Then George Vavasor passed through into the house itself under the wing of Mr. Baud. Vavasor, as he walked up the house to the clerk's table and took the oath and then walked down again, felt himself to be almost taken aback by the little notice which was accorded to him. It was not that he had expected to create a sensation or that he had for a moment thought on the subject, but the thing which he was doing was so great to him that the total indifference of those around him was a surprise to him. After he had taken his seat, a few men came up by degrees and shook hands with him, but it seemed, as they did so, merely because they were passing that way. He was anxious not to sit next to Mr. Baud, but he found himself unable to avoid this contiguity. That gentleman stuck to him pertinaciously, in the directions which, at the spur of the moment, he hardly knew how not to obey. So he found himself sitting behind Mr. Palasar, a little to the right, while Mr. Baud occupied the ear of the rising man. There was a debate in progress, but it seemed to Vavasor, as soon as he was able to become critical, to be but a dull affair, and yet the Chancellor of the Exchequer was on his legs, and Mr. Palasar was watching him as a cat watches a mouse. The speaker was full of figures, as becomes a Chancellor of the Exchequer, and as every new budget of them fell from him, Mr. Baud, with audible whispers, poured into the ear of his chief certain calculations of his own, most of which went to prove that the financier in office was altogether wrong. Vavasor thought that he could see that Mr. Palasar was receiving more of his assistance than was palatable to him. He would listen, if he did listen, without making any sign that he heard, and would occasionally shake his head with symptoms of impatience. But Mr. Baud was a man not to be repressed by a trifle. When Mr. Palasar shook his head, he became more assiduous than ever, and when Mr. Palasar slightly moved himself to the left, he boldly followed him. No general debate arose on the subject which the Minister had in hand, and when he sat down, Mr. Palasar would not get up, though Mr. Baud counseled him to do so. The matter was over for the night, and the time had arrived for Lord Middlesex. That nobleman got upon his feet with a roll of papers in his hand, and was proceeding to address the house on certain matters of church reform with great energy. But alas for him and for his feelings, before his energy had got itself into full swing, the members were swarming away through the doors like a flock of sheep. Mr. Palasar got up and went and was followed at once by Mr. Baud, who succeeded in getting hold of his arm in the lobby. Had not Mr. Palasar been an even-tempered, calculating man with a mind and spirit well under his command, he must have learned to hate Mr. Baud before this time. Away streamed the members, but still the noble Lord went on speaking, struggling hard to keep up his fire as though no such exodus were in process. There was but little to console him. He knew that the papers would not report one sentence and twenty of those he uttered. He knew that no one would listen to him willingly. He knew that he had worked for weeks and months to get up his facts, and he was beginning to know that he had worked in vain. As he some encouraged to look around, he began to fear that some enemy would count the house and that all would be over. He had given heart and soul to this affair. His cry was not as Vavasor's cry about the river bank. He believed in his own subject with a great face, thinking that he could make men happier and better and bring them nearer to their God. I said that he had worked for weeks and months. I might have said that he had been all his life at this work. Though he shuffled with his feet when he walked and knocked his words together when he talked, he was an earnest man, meaning to do well, seeking no other reward for his work than the appreciation of those whom he desired to serve. But this was never to be his. For him there was in store nothing but disappointment, and yet he will work on to the end, either in this house or in the other, laboring wearily, without visible wages of any kind, and one may say very sadly. But when he has been taken to his long rest, men will acknowledge that he has done something and there will be left on the minds of those who shall remember him, a conviction that he served a good cause diligently and not altogether inefficiently. Invisible are his wages, yet in some coin are they paid. Invisible is the thing he does, and yet it is done. Let us hope that some sense of this tardy appreciation may soothe his spirit beyond the grave. On the present occasion there was nothing to soothe his spirit. The speaker sat, urbane and courteous, with his eyes turned towards the unfortunate orator, but no other ears in the house seemed to listen to him. The core of reporters had dwindled down to two, and they used their pens very listlessly, taking down here a sentence and there a sentence, knowing that their work was not. Vavasor sat it out to the last, as it taught him a lesson in those forms of the house, which Mr. Bott had truly told him it would be well that he should learn. And at last he did learn the form of a count-out. Someone from the back seat muttered something, which the speaker understood, and that high officer, having had his attention called to a fact of which he would never have taken cognizance without such calling, did count the house, and finding that it contained but twenty-three members, he put an end to his own labours and to those of poor Lord Middlesex. With what feelings that noble Lord must have taken himself home, and sat himself down in his study, vainly opening a book before his eyes, can we not all imagine? A man he was with ample means, with children who would do honour to his name, one whose wife believed in him, if no one else would do so, a man, let us say, with a clear conscience to whom all good things had been given, but of whom now was he thinking with envy? Early on that same day, Farron Court had spoken in the house, a man to whom no one would lend a shilling, whom the privilege of that house kept out of Gal, whose word no man believed, who was wifeless, childless, and unloved. But three hundred men had hung listening upon his words. When he laughed in his speech, they laughed. When he was indignant against the minister, they sat breathless as the Spaniard sits in the critical moment of the bull-killing. Whichever way he turned himself, he carried them with him. Crowds of members flocked into the house from libraries and smoking-rooms when it was known that this near-do-well was on his legs. The stranger's gallery was filled to overflowing. The reporters turned their rapid pages, working their fingers wearily till the sweat-drops stood upon their brows. And as the premier was attacked with some special impetus of redoubled irony, men declared that he would be driven to enroll the speaker among his colleagues in spite of dishonored bills and evil reports. A man who could shake the thunderbolts like that must be paked to shake them on the right side. It was of this man and of his success that Lord Middlesex was envious as he sat wretched and respectable in his solitary study. Mr. Bodd had left the house with Mr. Palliser, and Vavasor, after the count-out, was able to walk home by himself and think of the position which he had achieved. He told himself over and over again that he had done a great thing in obtaining that which he now possessed, and he endeavored to teach himself that the price he was paying for it was not too dear. But already there had come upon him something of that feeling, that terribly human feeling which deprives every prize that is gained of half its value. The mere having it robs the diamond of its purity mixes vile alloy with the gold. Lord Middlesex, as he had floundered on into terrible disaster, had not been a subject to envy. There had been nothing of brilliance in the debate, and the members had loomed no larger than ordinary men at ordinary clubs. The very doorkeepers had hardly treated them with respect. The great men with whose names the papers are filled had sat silent, gloomy, and apparently idle as soon as a fair opportunity was given them they escaped out of the house as boys might escape from school. Everybody had rejoiced in the break-up of the evening except that one poor old lord who had worked so hard. Vavasor had spent everything that he had to become a member of that house and now as he went along to his lodgings he could not but ask himself whether the thing purchased was worth the purchase money. But his courage was still high, though he was gloomy, almost sad, he knew that he could trust himself to fight out the battle to the last. On the morrow he would go to Queen Anne Street and would demand sympathy there from her who had professed to sympathize with him so strongly in his political desires. With her at any rate the glory of his membership would not be dimmed by any untoward knowledge of the realities. She had only seen the play acted from the boxes and to her eyes the dresses would still be of silk velvet and the swords of bright steel. When Alice heard of her cousin's success and understood that he was actually a member of Parliament for the Chelsea Districts she resolved that she would be triumphant. She had sacrificed nearly everything to her desire for his success in public life and now that he had a chance to become a member of the Chelsea Districts he would not be able to do anything for his success in public life and now that he had achieved the first great step towards that success it would have been madness on her part to decline her share in the ovation. If she could not rejoice in that what source of joy would then be left for her? She had promised to be his wife and at present she was under the bonds of that promise. She had so promised to identify her interests with his because she wished to share his risks to assist his struggles and to aid him in his public career. She had done all this and he had been successful. She strove therefore to be triumphant on his behalf but she knew that she was striving ineffectually. She had made a mistake and the days were coming in which she would have to own to herself but she had done so and sat cloth and to repent with ashes. But yet she struggled to be triumphant. The tidings were first brought to her by her servant and then she at once sat down to write him a word or two of congratulations but she found the task more difficult than she had expected and she gave it up. She had written no word to him since the day on which he had left her in anger and now she did not know how she was to address him. I will wait till he comes," she said, putting away from her the paper and pens. It will be easier to speak than to write. But she wrote to Kate and contrived to put some note of triumph into her letter. Kate had written to her at length filling her sheet with a loud pan of sincere rejoicing. To Kate down in Westmoreland it had seemed that her brother had already done everything. He had already tied fortune to his chariot wheels. He had made the great leap and had overcome the only obstacle that fate had placed in his way. In her great joy she almost forgot whence had come the money with which the contest had been won. She was not enthusiastic in many things. About herself she was never so. But now she was elated with an enthusiasm which seemed to know no bounds. I am proud," she said in her letter to Alice. No other thing that he could have done would have made me so proud of him. Had the Queen sent for him and made him an Earl it would have been as nothing to this. When I think that he has forced his way into Parliament without any great friend with nothing to back him but his own wit she had in truth forgotten Alice's money as she wrote. That he has achieved his triumph in the Metropolis among the most wealthy and most fastidious of the richest city in the world. I do feel proud of my brother. And Alice, I hope that you are proud of your lover, poor girl. One cannot but like her pride. Nay almost loved her for it. Though it was so sorely misplaced it must be remembered that she had known nothing of Monsieur's grimes and scrubby and the riverbank and that the means had been wanting to her of learning the principles upon which some metropolitan elections are conducted. And Alice, I hope that you are proud of your lover. He is not my lover, Alice said to herself. He knows that he is not. He understands it, though she may not. And if not your lover, Alice Vavasor, what is he then to you? And what are you to him, if not his love? She was beginning to understand that she had put herself in the way of utter destruction. That she had walked to the brink of a precipice and that she must now topple over it. He is not my lover, she said. And then she sat silent and moody and it took her hours to get her answer written to Kate. On the same afternoon she saw her father for a moment or two. So George has got himself returned, he said, raising his eyebrows. Yes, he has been successful. I'm sure you must be glad, papa. Upon my word, I'm not. He has sought a seat for three months and with whose money has he purchased it? Don't let us always speak of money, papa. When you discuss the value of a thing just purchased, you must mention the price before you know whether the purchaser has done well or badly. They have let him in for his money because there are only a few months left before the general election. Two thousand pounds he has had, I believe. And if as much more as wanted for the next election, he shall have it. Very well, my dear, very well. If you choose to make a beggar of yourself, I cannot help it. Indeed, I shall not complain though he should spend all your money if you do not marry him at last. In answer to this, Alice said nothing. On that point her father's wishes were fast growing to be identical with her own. I tell you fairly what are my feelings and my wishes, he continued. Nothing, in my opinion, would be so deplorable and ruinous as such a marriage. You tell me that you have made up your mind to take him, and I know well that nothing that I can say will turn you, but I believe that when he has spent all your money he will not take you, and that thus you will be saved. Thinking as I do about him, you can hardly expect that I should triumph because he has got himself into Parliament with your money. Then he left her, and it seemed to Alice that he had been very cruel. There had been little, she thought, of a father's loving tenderness in his words to her. If he had spoken to her differently, might she not even now have confessed everything to him? But herein Alice accused him wrongfully. Tenderness from him on the subject had, we may say, become impossible. She had made it impossible, nor could he tell her the extent of his wishes without damaging his own cause. He could not let her know that all that was done was so done with the view of driving her into John Gray's arms. But what words were those for a father to speak to a daughter? Had she brought herself to such a state that her own father desired to see her deserted and thrown aside? And was it probable that this wish of his should come to pass? As to that, Alice had already made up her mind. She thought that she had made up her mind and never become her cousin's wife. It needed not her father's wish to accomplish her salvation if her salvation lay in being separated from him. On the next morning George went to her. The reader will perhaps remember their last interview. He had come to her after her letter to him from Westmoreland and had asked her to seal their reconciliation with a kiss. But she had refused him. He had offered to embrace her and she had shuttered before him, fearing his touch, telling him by science much more clear than any words that she felt for him none of the love of a woman. Then he had turned from her in anger, declaring to her honestly that he was angry. Since that he had borrowed her money, had made two separate assaults upon her purse and was now come to tell her of the results. How was he to address her? I beg that it may also be remembered that he was not a man to forget the treatment he had received. When he entered the room Alice looked at him at first almost furtively. She was afraid of him. It must be confessed that she already feared him. Had there been in the man anything of lofty principle he might still have made her his slave. Though I doubt whether he could ever again have forced her to love him. She looked at him furtively and perceived that the gash on his face was nearly closed. The mark of existing anger was not there. He had come to her intending to be gentle if it might be possible. He had been careful in his dress as though he wished to try once again if the role of lover might be within his reach. Alice was the first to speak. George, I am so glad that you have succeeded. I wish you joy with my whole heart. Thanks, dearest, but before I say another word let me acknowledge my debt. Unless you had aided me with your money I could not have succeeded. Oh George, pray don't speak of that. Let me rather speak of it at once and have done. If you will think of it that I must speak of it sooner or later. He smiled and looked pleasant as he used to do in those Swiss days. Well then speak and have done. I hope you have trusted me and thus giving me the command of your fortune. Oh yes, I do believe that you have. I need hardly say that I could not have stood for this last election without it. I must try to make you understand that if I had not come forward at this vacancy I should have stood no chance for the next. Otherwise I should not have been justified in paying so dearly for a seat for one session. You can understand that, Alice. Yes, I think so. Anybody, even your father would tell you that though probably he regards my ambition to be a member of Parliament as a sign of downright madness. But I was obliged to stand now if I intended to go on with it as that old Lord died so inopportunely. Well, about the money it is quite upon the cards that I may be forced to ask for another loan when the autumn comes. You shall have it, George. Thanks, Alice. And now I will tell you what I propose. You know that I have been reconciled with a sort of reconciliation to my grandfather. Well, when the next affair is over I propose to tell him exactly how you and I then stand. Do not go into that now, George. It is enough for you at present to be assured that such assistance as I can give you is at your command. I want you to feel the full joy of your success and you will do so more thoroughly if you will banish all these money troubles from your mind for a while. They shall at any rate be banished while I am with you," said he. There, let them go. And he lifted up his right hand and blew at the tips of his fingers. Let them vanish," said he. It is always well to be rid of such troubles for a time. It is well to be rid of them at any time or at all times if only they can be banished without danger. But when a man has overused his liver till it will not act for him any longer it is not well for him to resolve that he will forget the weakness of his organ just as he sits down to dinner. It was a pretty bit of acting that of Babasaur's when he blew away his cares and upon the whole I do not know that he could have done better. But Alice saw through it and he knew that she did so. The whole thing was uncomfortable to him except the fact that he had the promise of her further moneys and he did not intend to rest satisfied with this. He must extract from her some meat of approbation, some show of sympathy, some spark of affection, true or pretended, in order that he might at least effect to be satisfied and be able to speak of the future without open embarrassment. How could even he take her money from her unless he might presume that he stood with her upon some ground that belonged mutually to them both? I have already taken my seat, said he. Yes, I saw that in the newspapers. My acquaintance among members of Parliament is very small, but I see that you were introduced, as they call it, by one of the few men that I do know. Has Mr. bought a friend of yours? No, certainly not a friend. I may probably have to act with him in public. Ah, that's just what they said of Mr. Palliser when they felt ashamed of his having such a man as his guest. I think if I were in public life I should try to act with people that I could like. Then you dislike Mr. Botte? I do not like him, but my feelings about him are not violent. He is a vulgar ass, said George, with no more pretensions to rank himself a gentleman than your footman. If I had one. But he will get on in Parliament to a certain extent. I'm afraid I don't quite understand what are the requisites for Parliamentary success or, indeed, of what it consists. Is his ambition, do you suppose, the same as yours? His ambition, I take, it does not go beyond a desire to be Parliamentary flunky to a big man, with wages if possible, but without if the wages are impossible. And yours? Oh, as to mine, there are some things, Alice, that a man does not tell to anyone. Are there? They must be very terrible things. The schoolboy, when he sits down to make his rhymes, dares not say, even to his sister, that he hopes to rival Milton, but he nurses such a hope. The preacher, when he preaches his sermon, does not whisper, even to his wife, his belief that thousands may perhaps be turned to repentance by the strength of his words, but he thinks that the thousand converts are possible. And you, though you will not say so, intend to rival Chatham and to make your thousand converts in politics? I like to hear you laugh at me, I do indeed. It does me good to hear your voice again with some touch of satire in it. It brings back the old days, the days to which I hope we may soon revert without pain. Shall it not be so dearest? Her playful manner at once deserted her. Why had he made this foolish attempt to be tender? I do not know, she said gloomily. For a few minutes he sat silent, fingering some article belonging to her, which was lying on the table. It was a small steel paper knife, of which the handle was cast in guilt. A thing of no great value, of which the price may have been five shillings. He sat with it, passing it through his fingers, while she went on with her work. Who gave you this paper cutter? He said suddenly. Goodness me, why do you ask? And especially, why do you ask in that way? I asked simply because if it is a present to you from any one, I will take up something else. It was given me by Mr. Gray. He let it drop from his fingers onto the table with a noise, and then pushed it from him so that it fell on the other side, near to where she sat. George, she said as she stooped and picked it up, your violence is unreasonable. Pray do not repeat it. I did not mean it, he said, and I beg your pardon. I was simply unfortunate in the article I selected. And who gave you this? In saying which he took up a little ivory foot rule that was folded up so as to bring it within the compass of three inches. It so happens that no one gave me that. I bought it at a stupid bazaar. Then this will do. You shall give it me as a present on the renewal of our love. It is too poor a thing to give, she said, speaking still more gloomily than she had done before. By no means, nothing is too poor if given in that way. Anything will do. A ribbon, a glove, a broken sixpence. Will you give me something that I may take and taking it may know that your heart is given with it? Take the rule, if you please, she said. And about the heart, he asked. He should have been more of a rascal or less. Seeing how very much of a rascal he was already, I think it would have been better that he should have been more, that he should have been able to content his spirit with the simple acquisition of her money, and that he should have been free from all those remains of a finer feeling which made him desire her love also. But it was not so. It was necessary for his comfort that she should, at any rate, say she loved him. Well, Alice, and what about the heart? He asked again. I would so much rather talk about politics, George, said she. The kick-at-trist began to make itself very visible in his face, and the debonair manner was fast vanishing. He had fixed his eyes upon her, and had inserted his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. Alice, that is not quite fair, he said. I do not mean to be unfair. I am not so sure of that. I almost think that you do mean it. You have told me that you intend to become my wife. If after that you willfully make me miserable, will not that be unfair? I am not making you miserable. Certainly not willfully. Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean anything? George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much. If it did, you had better say so at once. But Alice, though she would have said so, had she dared, made no answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze, longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost her own self-respect. Look here, Alice, he said. I find it very hard to understand you. When I look back over all that has passed between us and to that other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character. I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it. When you first loved me, for you did love me, I understood that well enough, there is no young man who in early life does not read with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry. And when you quarreled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offenses, I understood that also, for it is the custom of women to be hard in their judgment of such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that I understood you still, knowing how natural it was that you should seek some cure for your wound. I understood it and accused myself, not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy. Here Alice turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to speak. And then he went on, I understood it well when I heard that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes, there was no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens, if ever women had been driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there. Here she looked at him again and met his eyes. She looked at him with something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were preparing herself to fight with him. But she said nothing at the moment. And then he again went on. And Alice, I understood it also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you and again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our separation and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put yourself in my place and say if you would not have thought so. I told myself that I understood you then and I told myself that in all that you had done you had acted as a true and good and loving woman. I thought of you much and I saw that you conduct as a whole was intelligible and becoming. The last word grated on Alice's ears and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon the floor. Her cousin noted it all but went on as though he had not noted it. But now your present behavior makes all the rest a riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby that you had forgiven my offenses and, as I suppose, reassuring me of your love. And yet you've received me with all imaginable coldness. What am I to think of it? And in what way would you have me behave to you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss. As he said this he looked at her with all his eyes with his mouth just open so as to show the edges of his white teeth with the wound down his face all white and purple. The last word came with the stigmatizing hiss from his lips. Though she did not essay to speak he paused again as if he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a request. I think that in the energy of his speaking a touch of true passion had come upon him that he had forgotten his rascaldom and his need of her money and that he was punishing her with his whole power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from her. I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection? Then he paused again and she found that the time had come in which she must say something to him. I wonder you cannot understand, she said, that I have suffered much. And is that to be my answer? I don't know what answer you want. Come, Alice, do not be untrue. You do know what answer I want and you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable. No one ever told me that I was untrue before, she said. You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the woman who is to be my wife in truth loves me. She was standing up and so was he also but still she said nothing. He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he might take but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with it. Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you? Not now, George. You are angry and I will not speak to you in your anger. Do you not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating me badly? I know that my head aches and that I am very wretched. I wish you would leave me. There, then, is your gift, said he and he threw the rule over to the sofa behind her and there is the trumpery trinket which I had hoped you would have worn for my sake whereupon something which he had taken in his waistcoat pocket was thrown violently into the fender beneath the fire grate. He then walked with quick steps to the door but when his hand was on the handle he turned. Alice, he said, when I am gone try to think honestly of your conduct to me. Then he went and she remained still till she heard the front door closed behind him. When she was sure that he was gone her first movement was made in search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her part but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any desire for the jewel or any curiosity even to see it. She would very much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind to her but she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel and poked among the ashes and found the ring which her cousin had thrown there. It was a valuable ring bearing a ruby on it between two small diamonds. Such at least she became aware had been its bearing but one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this scorching her face and eyes but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the diamond should be lost forever and that it should go out among the cinders into the huge dust heaps of the metropolis. Better that, though it was distasteful to her feminine economy than the other alternative of setting the servants to search and thereby telling them something of what had been done. When her search was over she placed the ring on the mantelpiece but she knew that it would not do to leave it there so she folded it up carefully in a new sheet of note paper and put it in the drawer of her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what she would do but her head was, in truth, wracked with pain and on that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion.