 CHAPTER XXV In which much of the history of the Palacers is told. At the end of ten days Alice found herself quite comfortable at matching priory. She had now promised to remain there till the second week of December, at which time she was to go to Vavasor Hall, there to meet her father and Kate. The Palacers were to pass their Christmas with the Duke of Omnium in Barsature. "'We always are to do that,' said Glencora. It is the State Occasion at Gatherham Castle, but it only lasts for one week. Then we go somewhere else. Oh, dear! Why do you say, oh, dear? Because I don't think I mean to tell you. Then I'm sure I won't ask. That's so like you, Alice, but I can be as firm as you, and I'm sure I won't tell you unless you do ask.' But Alice did not ask, and it was not long before Lady Glencora's firmness gave way. But as I have said, Alice had become quite comfortable at matching priory. Perhaps she was already growing upwards towards the light. At any rate she could listen with pleasure to the few words the Duke would say to her. She could even chat a little to the Duchess, so that her grace had observed to Lady Glencora that—her cousin was a very nice person—a very nice person indeed. What a pity it was that she had been so ill-treated by that gentleman in Oxfordshire! Lady Glencora had to explain that the gentleman lived in Cambridgeshire, and that he at any rate had not treated anybody ill. Do you mean that she— "'Jilted him?' said the Duchess, almost whistling, and opening her eyes very wide. Dear me, I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have thought it.' And when she next spoke to Alice she assumed rather a severe tone of emphasis. But this was soon abandoned when Alice listened to her with complacency. Alice also had learned to ride, or rather had resumed her riding, which for years had been abandoned. Geoffrey Palliser had been her squire, and she had become intimate with him, so as to learn to quarrel with him and to like him, to such an extent that Lady Glencora had laughingly told her that she was going to do more. "'I rather think not,' said Alice. "'But what has thinking to do with it? Who ever thinks about it?' I don't, just at present, at any rate. Upon my word it would be very nice, and then perhaps some day you'd be the Duchess.' Glencora, don't talk such nonsense. Those are the speculations which people make. Only I should spite you by killing myself so that he might marry again. How can you say such horrid things? I think I shall, some day. What right have I to stand in his way? He spoke to me the other day about Geoffrey's altered position, and I knew what he meant, or rather what he didn't mean to say, but what he thought, but I shan't kill myself. I should think not. "'I only know one other way,' said Lady Glencora. "'You are thinking of things which should never be in your thoughts,' said Alice vehemently. Have you no trust in God's providence? Cannot you accept what has been done for you?' Mr. Botte had gone away, much to Lady Glencora's delight, but had unfortunately come back again. On his return Alice heard more of the feud between the Duchess and Mrs. Conway's sparks. "'I did not tell you,' said Lady Glencora to her friend. "'I did not tell you before he went that I was right about his tail-bearing.' "'And did he bear tails?' "'Yes. I did get the scolding, and I know very well that it came through him, though Mr. Palacere did not say so. But he told me that the Duchess had felt herself hurt by that other woman's way of talking. But it was not your fault.' "'No, that's what I said. It was he who desired me to ask Mrs. Conway's sparks to come here. I didn't want her. She goes everywhere, and it is thought a catch to get her. But if she had been drowned in the Red Sea, I shouldn't have minded. When I told him that, he said it was nonsense, which of course it was. And then he said I ought to make her hold her tongue. Of course I said I couldn't. Mrs. Conway's sparks wouldn't care for me. If she quizzed me, myself, I told him that I could take care of myself, though she were ten times Mrs. Conway's sparks, and had written finer poetry than Tennyson. "'It is fine, some of it,' said Alice. "'Oh, I dare say, I know a great deal of it by heart. Only I wouldn't give her the pleasure of supposing that I had ever thought so much about her poetry. And then I told him that I couldn't take care of the Duchess. And he told me that I was a child. He only meant that in love. I am a child, I know that. Why didn't he marry some strong-minded, ferocious woman that could keep his house in order and frown Mrs. Sparks out of her impudence? It wasn't my fault. You didn't tell him that. But I did. Then he kissed me, and said it was all right, and told me that I should grow older. And Mrs. Sparks will grow more impudent, I said, and the Duchess more silly. And after that I went away. Now this horrid Mr. Botte has come back again, and only that it would be mean in me to condescend so far. I would punish him. He grins and smiles at me and rubs his big hands more than ever, because he feels that he has behaved badly. Is it not horrid to have to live in the house with such people? I don't think you need mind him much. Yes, but I am the mistress here, and I am told that I am to entertain the people. Fancy, entertaining the Duchess of St. Bunga and Mr. Botte. Alice had now become so intimate with Lady Glencora that she did not scruple to read her wise lectures, telling her that she allowed herself to think too much of little things, and too much also of some big things. As regards Mr. Botte, said Alice, I think you should bear it as though there were no such person. But that would be pretense, especially to you. No, it would not be pretense. It would be the reticence which all women should practice, and you in your position more almost than any other woman. Then Lady Glencora pouted, told Alice that it was a pity she had not married Mr. Palacere, and left her. That evening, the evening of Mr. Botte's return to matching, that gentleman found a place near to Alice in the drawing-room. He had often come up to her, rubbing his hands together, and saying little words as though there was some reason from their positions that they too should be friends. Alice had perceived this, and had endeavored with all her force to shake him off. But he was a man who, if he understood a hint, never took it. A cold shoulder was nothing to him, if he wanted to gain the person who shouted him. His code of perseverance taught him that it was a virtue to overcome cold shoulders. The man or woman who received his first overtures with grace would probably be one on whom it would be better that he should look down, and waste no further time. Whereas he or she who could afford to treat him with disdain would no doubt be worth gaining. Such men as Mr. Botte are ever gracious to cold shoulders. The colder the shoulders, the more gracious are the Mr. Botte's. What a delightful person is our dear friend, Lady Glencora," said Mr. Botte, having caught Alice in a position from which she could not readily escape. Alice had half a mind to differ, or to make any remark that might rid her from Mr. Botte. But she did not dare to say a word that might seem to have been said playfully. Yes, indeed, she replied. How very cold it is to-night! She was angry with herself for her own stupidity as soon as the phrase was out of her mouth, and then she almost laughed as she thought of the duchess and the hot water pipes at Long Royston. Yes, it is cold. You and her ladyship are great friends, I believe, Miss Vavasor. She is my cousin, said Alice. Ah, yes, that is so pleasant. I have reason to know that Mr. Palacere is very much gratified that you should be so much with her. This was unbearable. Alice could not quite assume sufficient courage to get up from her chair and walk away from him, and yet she felt that she must escape further conversation. I don't know that I am very much with her, and if I were, I can't think it would make any difference to Mr. Palacere. But Mr. Botte was not a man to be put down when he had a purpose in hand. I can assure you that those are his sentiments. Of course we all know that dear Lady Glencora is young. She is very young. Mr. Botte, I really would rather not talk about my cousin. But my dear Miss Vavasor, when we both have her welfare in view— I haven't her welfare in view, Mr. Botte, not in the least. There is no reason why I should. You must excuse me, if I say I cannot talk about her welfare with a perfect stranger. Then she did get up, and went away from the Member of Parliament, leaving him rather astonished at her audacity. But he was a constant man, and his inner resolve was simply to the effect that he would try it again. I wonder whether Jeffrey Palacere did think much of the difference between his present position and that which would have been his had Lady Glencora been the happy possessor of a cradle upstairs with a boy in it. I suppose he must have done so. It is hardly possible that any man should not be alive to the importance of such a chance. His own present position was one of the most unfortunate which can fall to the lot of a man. His father, the Duke's youngest brother, had left him about six hundred a year, and had left him also a taste for living with people of six thousand. The propriety of earning his bread had never been put before him. His father had been in Parliament, and had been the most favored son of the old Duke, who for some years before his death had never spoken to him who now reigned over the house of the Palacers. Jeffrey's father had been brought up at matching priory as scions of ducal houses are brought up, and on the old man's death had been possessed of means sufficient to go on in the same path, though with difficulty. His brother had done something for him, and at various times he had held some place near the throne. But on his death, when the property left behind him was divided between his son and three daughters, Jeffrey Palacere became possessed of the income above stated. Of course he could live on it, and as during the winter months of the year a home was found for him free of cost, he could keep hunters and live as rich men live. But he was a poor, embarrassed man, without prospects, until this fine ducal prospect became opened to him by the want of that cradle at matching priory. But the prospect was no doubt very distant. Lady Glencora might yet have as many sons as Hecuba, or she might die, and some other more fortunate lady might become the mother of his cousin's heir, or the Duke might marry and have a son. And moreover his cousin was only one year older than himself, and the great prize, if it came his way, might not come for forty years as yet. Nevertheless his hand might now be acceptable in quarters where it would certainly be rejected, had Lady Glencora possessed that cradle upstairs. We cannot but suppose that he must have made some calculations of this nature. It is a pity you should do nothing all your life, his cousin Plantagenet said to him one morning just at this time. Jeffrey had sought the interview in his cousin's room, and I fear had done so with some slight request for ready money. What am I to do? said Jeffrey. At any rate you might marry. Oh yes, I could marry. There's no man so poor but what he can do that. The question would be how I might like the subsequent starvation. I don't see that you need starve, though your own fortune is small, it is something, and many girls have fortunes of their own. Jeffrey thought of Lady Glencora, but he made no allusion to her in speech. I don't think I'm very good at that kind of thing, he said. When the father and mother came to ask of my house and my home, I should break down. I don't say it as praising myself—indeed quite the reverse—but I fear I have not a mercenary tendency. That's nonsense. Oh yes, quite so, I admit that. Men must have mercenary tendencies, or they would not have bread. The man who plows that he may live does so because he, luckily, has a mercenary tendency. Just so, but you see, I am less lucky than the plowmen. There is no vulgar error so vulgar, that is to say, common or erroneous, as that by which men have been taught to say, that mercenary tendencies are bad. A desire for wealth is the source of all progress. Civilization comes from what men call greed. Let your mercenary tendencies be combined with honesty, and they cannot take you astray. This the future Chancellor of the Exchequer said, with much of that air and tone of wisdom, which a Chancellor of the Exchequer ought to possess. But I haven't got any such tendencies, said Jeffrey. Would you like to occupy a farm in Scotland? said Plantagenet Palisare. And pay rent? You would have to pay rent, of course. Thank you. No, it would be dishonest. As I know I should never pay it. You are too old, I fear, for the public service. Do you mean a desk in the Treasury, with a hundred a year? Yes, I think I am too old. But have you no plan of your own? Not much of one. Sometimes I have thought I would go to New Zealand. You would have to be a farmer there. No, I shouldn't do that. I should get up in opposition to the Government, and that sort of thing, and then they would buy me off, and give me a place. That does very well here, Jeffrey, if a man can get into Parliament, and has capital enough to wait. But I don't think it would do out there. Would you like to go into Parliament? What? Here? Of course I should. Only I should be sure to get terribly into debt. I don't owe very much, now. Not to speak of, except what I owe you. You owe nothing to me," said Plantagenet, with some little touch of magniliquence in his tone. No, don't speak of it. I have no brother. And between you and me it means nothing. You see, Jeffrey, it may be that I shall have to look to you as my—my—my air, in short. Hereupon Jeffrey muttered something, as to the small probability of such necessity, and as to the great remoteness of any result, even if it were so. "'That's all true,' said the elder heir of the Palisades. But still, in short, I wish you would do something. Do you think about it? And then some day speak to me again.' Jeffrey, as he left his cousin with a check for five hundred pounds in his waistcoat pocket, thought that the interview which had at one time taken important dimensions, had not been concluded altogether satisfactorily. "'A seat in Parliament?' Yes, indeed, if his cousin would so far use his political, monetary, or dookal interests as to do that for him, as to give him something of the status properly belonging to the younger son of the house. And indeed life would have some charms for him. But as for the farm in Scotland, or a desk at an office in London, his own New Zealand plan would be better than those. And then, as he went along, of course, he bethought himself that it might be his lot yet to die, and at least to be buried in the purple as a dook of omnium. If so, certainly it would be his duty to prepare another heir, and leave a dook behind him, if it were possible. "'Are you going to ride with us after lunch?' said Lady Glencora to him, as he strolled into the drawing-room. "'No,' said Jeffrey. "'I'm going to study.' "'To do what?' said Lady Glencora. "'To study, or rather I shall spend to-day in sitting down and considering what I will study. My cousin has just been telling me that I ought to do something.' "'So you ought,' said Iphigenia, energetically, from her writing-desk. But he didn't seem to have any clear opinion what it ought to be. You see, there can't be two chancellors of the ex-checker at the same time. Mrs. Sparks, what ought a young man like me to set about doing?' "'Go into Parliament, I should say,' said Mrs. Sparks. "'Ah, yes, exactly. He had some notion of that kind, too. But he didn't name any particular place. I think I'll try the city of London. They've four there, and, of course, the chance of getting in would thereby be doubled. I thought that commercial men were generally preferred in the city,' said the duchess, taking a strong and good-natured interest in the matter. "'Mr. Palacere means to make a fortune in trade, as a preliminary,' said Mrs. Sparks. "'I don't think he meant anything of the kind,' said the duchess. "'At any rate, I have got to do something, so I can't go and ride,' said Geoffrey. "'And you ought to do something,' said Iphigenia, from her desk. At least during this little conversation Lady Glencora had looked up, catching Alice's eye, and Alice had well known what she had meant. "'You see,' the glance had said, Plantagenet is beginning to take an interest in his cousin, and you know why. The man who is to be the father of the future duchess must not be allowed to fritter away his time in obscurity. Had I that cradle upstairs, Geoffrey might be as idle as he pleased.' Alice understood it well. Of course Geoffrey did join the writing-party. "'What is a man like me to do? Who wants to do something?' he said to Alice. Alice was quite aware that Lady Glencora had contrived some little scheme that Mr. Palacere should be writing next to her. She liked Mr. Palacere, and therefore had no objection, but she declared to herself that her cousin was a goose for her pains. Miss Sparks says you ought to go into Parliament.' "'Yes, and the dear duchess would perhaps suggest a house in Belgrave Square. I want to hear your advice now. I can only say ditto to Miss Palacere. What, iffy, about procrastination? But you see, the more of my time he steals, the better it is for me. That's the evil you have got to cure.' My cousin, Plantagenet, suggested—marriage. "'A very good thing, too, I'm sure,' said Alice. Only, it depends something on the sort of wife you get. You mean, of course, how much money she has. Not altogether. Looking at it from my cousin's point of view, I suppose that it is the only important point. Who are there, coming up this year, in the way of heiresses? On my word, I don't know. In the first place, how much money makes an heiress? For such a fellow as me, I suppose, ten thousand pounds ought to do. "'That's not much,' said Alice, who had exactly that amount of her own. No, perhaps that's too moderate. But the lower one went, in the money speculation, the greater would be the number to choose some, and the better the chance of getting something decent in the woman herself. I have something of my own—not much, you know, so with the ladies ten thousand pounds we might be able to live—in some second-rate French town, perhaps? But I don't see what you would gain by that. My people here would have got rid of me. That seems to be the great thing. If you hear of any girl with about that sum, moderately good-looking, not too young, so that she might know something of the world, decently born, and able to read and write, perhaps you will bear me in mind. "'Yes, I will,' said Alice, who was quite aware that he had made an accurate picture of her own position. "'When I meet such a one, I will send for you at once. You know no such person now?' "'Well, no, not just at present.' "'I declare I don't think he could do anything better,' her cousin said to her that night. Lady Glencora was now in the habit of having Alice with her in what she called her dressing room every evening, and then they would sit till the small hours came upon them. Mr. Palacere always burnt the midnight oil, and came to bed with the owls. They would often talk of him and his prospects till Alice had perhaps inspired his wife with more of interest in him and them than she had before felt. And Alice had managed generally to drive her friend away from those topics which were so dangerous, those allusions to her childlessness and those hints that Bergo Fitzgerald was still in her thoughts. And sometimes, of course, they had spoken of Alice's own prospects, till she got into a way of telling her cousin freely all that she felt. On such occasions Lady Glencora would always tell her that she had been right. If she did not love the man, though your finger were put out for the ring, said Lady Glencora on one such occasion, you should go back if you did not love him. But I did love him, said Alice. Then I don't understand it, said Lady Glencora. And in truth, close as was their intimacy, they did not perfectly understand each other. But on this occasion they were speaking of Geoffrey Palacere. I declare I don't think he could do any better, said Lady Glencora. If you talk such nonsense I will not stay, said Alice. But why should it be nonsense? You would be very comfortable with your joint incomes. He is one of the best fellows in the world. It is clear that he likes you, and then we should be so near to each other. I am sure Mr. Palacere would do something for him if he married. And especially if I asked him. I only know of two things against it. And what are they? That he would not take me for his wife, and that I would not take him for my husband. Why not? What do you dislike in him? I don't dislike him at all. I like him very much indeed. But one can't marry all the people one likes. But what reason is there why you shouldn't marry him? Alice chiefly, said Alice after a pause, that I have just separated myself from a man whom I certainly did love truly, and that I cannot transfer my affections quite so quickly as that. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew that they should not have been spoken. It was exactly what Glencora had done. She had loved a man, and had separated herself from him, and had married another all within a month or two. Lady Glencora first became red as fire over her whole face and shoulders, and Alice afterwards did the same as she looked up, as though searching in her cousin's eyes for pardon. It is an unmaidenly thing to do, certainly, said Lady Glencora very slowly, and in her lowest voice. Nay, it is unwomanly. But one may be driven. One may be so driven that all gentleness of womanhood is driven out of one. Oh, Glencora! I did not propose that you should do it as a sudden thing. Glencora! I did do it suddenly. I know it. I did it like a beast that is driven, as its owner chooses. I know it. It was a beast. Oh, Alice, if you know how I hate myself— But I love you with all my heart, said Alice. Glencora, I have learned to love you so dearly. Then you are the only being that does. He can't love me. How is it possible? You and perhaps another. There are many who love you. He loves you. Mr. Palacere loves you. It is impossible. I have never said a word to him that could make him love me. I have never done a thing for him that can make him love me. The mother of his child he might have loved because of that. Why should he love me? We were told to marry each other and did it. When could he have learned to love me? But Alice, he requires no loving, either to take it or to give it. I wish it were so with me. Alice said what she could to comfort her, but her words were but of little avail as regarded those marriage sorrows. Forgive you, at last, Glencora said. What have I to forgive? You don't suppose I do not know it all, and think of it all without the chance of some straight word like that. Forgive you. I am so grateful that you love me. Someone's love I must have found. Or I could not have remained here." CHAPTER XXVI. A week or ten days after this, Alice, when she came down to the breakfast parlour one morning, found herself alone with Mr. Botte. It was the fashion at matching priory for people to assemble rather late in the day. The nominal hour for breakfast was ten, and none of the ladies of the party were ever seen before that. Some of the gentlemen would breakfast earlier, especially on hunting mornings, and on some occasions the ladies, when they came together, would find themselves altogether deserted by their husbands and brothers. On this day it was fated that Mr. Botte alone should represent the sterner's sex, and when Alice entered the room he was standing on the rug with his back to the fire, waiting till the appearance of some other guest should give him the sanction necessary for the commencement of his morning meal. Alice, when she saw him, would have retreated had it been possible, for she had learned to dislike him greatly, and was, indeed, almost afraid of him. But she could not do so without making her flight too conspicuous. "'Do you intend to prolong your stay here, Miss Vavisore?' said Mr. Botte, taking advantage of the first moment at which she looked up from a letter which she was reading. For a few more days, I think," said Alice. "'Ah, I am glad of that. Mr. Palacere has pressed me so much to remain, till he goes to the Dukes, that I cannot get away sooner. As I am an unmarried man myself, I can employ my time as well in one place as in another. At this time of the year, at least. You must find that very convenient," said Alice. "'Yes, it is convenient. You see, in my position—parliamentary position, I mean—I am obliged, as a public man, to act in concert with others. A public man can be of no service, unless he is prepared to do that. We must give and take, you know, Miss Vavisore.' As Miss Vavisore made no remark in answer to this, Mr. Botte continued. "'I always say to the men of my party—of course, I regard myself as belonging to the extreme radicals.' "'Oh, indeed,' said Alice. "'Yes. I came into parliament on that understanding, and I have never seen any occasion as yet to change any political opinion that I have expressed. But I always say to the gentlemen with whom I act, that nothing can be done if we don't give and take. I don't mind saying to you, Miss Vavisore, that I look upon our friend, Mr. Palacere, as the most rising man in the country. I do indeed.' "'I am happy to hear you say so,' said his victim, who found herself driven to make some remark. And I, as an extreme radical, do not think I can serve my party better than by keeping in the same boat with him, as long as it will hold the two. "'He'll make a government hack of you,' a friend of mine said to me the other day. "'And I'll make a Manchester school prime minister of him,' I replied. "'I rather think I know what I am about, Miss Vavisore.' "'No doubt,' said Alice. And so does he, and so does he. Mr. Palacere is not the man to be led by the nose by any one. But it's a fair system of give and take. You can't get on in politics without it.' "'What a charming woman is your relative, Lady Glen Cowherr. I remember well what you said to me the other evening.' "'Do you?' said Alice. "'And I quite agree with you that confidential intercourse regarding dear friends should not be lightly made.' "'Certainly not,' said Alice. "'But there are occasions, Miss Vavisore. There are occasions when the ordinary laws by which we govern our social conduct must be made somewhat elastic.' "'I don't think this is one of them, Mr. Botte.' "'Is it not? Just listen to me for one moment, Miss Vavisore. Your friend, Mr. Palacere, I am proud to say, relies much upon my humble friendship. Our first connection has, of course, been political. But it has extended beyond that, and has become pleasantly social. I may say, very pleasantly social.' "'What a taste, Mr. Palacere must have,' Alice thought to herself. "'But I need not tell you that Lady Glencour is—' "'Very young,' we may say, very young indeed. "'Mr. Botte, I will not talk to you about Lady Glencour of Palacere.' "'This,' Alice said, in a determined voice, and with all the power of resistance at her command. She frowned, too, and looked savagely at Mr. Botte. But he was a man of considerable courage, and knew how to bear such opposition without flinching. When I tell you, Miss Vavisore, that I speak solely with a view to her domestic happiness, I don't think that she wishes to have any such guardian of her happiness. But if he wishes it, Miss Vavisore, now I have the means of knowing that he has the greatest reliance on your judgment. Hereupon Alice got up with the intention of leaving the room. But she was met at the door by Mrs. Conway-Sparks. "'Are you running from your breakfast, Miss Vavisore?' said she. "'No, Mrs. Sparks, I am running from Mr. Botte,' said Alice, who was almost beside herself with anger. "'Mr. Botte, what is this?' said Mrs. Sparks. "'Ah, ah, ah,' laughed Mr. Botte. Alice returned to the room, and Mrs. Sparks immediately saw that she had, in truth, been running from Mr. Botte. "'I hope I shall be able to keep the peace,' said she. "'I trust his offence was not one that requires special punishment.' "'Ah, ah, ah,' again laughed Mr. Botte, who rather liked his position.' Alice was very angry with herself, feeling that she had told more of the truth to Mrs. Sparks than she should have done, unless she was prepared to tell the whole. As it was she wanted to say something and did not know what to say. But her confusion was at once stopped by the entrance of Lady Glyncora. "'Mrs. Sparks, good morning,' said Lady Glyncora. "'I hope nobody has waited breakfast. Good morning, Mr. Botte.' "'Oh, Alice!' "'What is the matter?' said Alice, going up to her. "'Oh, Alice, such a blow!' But Alice could see that her cousin was not quite in earnest, that the new trouble, though it might be vexatious, was no great calamity. "'Come here,' said Lady Glyncora, and they both went into an embrasure of the window. "'Now I shall have to put your confidence in me to the test. This letter is from—' "'Whom do you think?' "'How can I guess? From Lady Midlothian, and she's coming here on Monday, on her road to London. Unless you tell me that you are quite sure this is as unexpected by me as by you, I will never speak to you again. I am quite sure of that. Ah! Then we can consult, but first we'll go and have some breakfast.' Then more ladies swarmed into the room, the Duchess and her daughter, and the two Miss Palacers, and others, and Mr. Botte had his hands full in attending, or rather in offering to attend to their little wants. The morning was nearly gone before Alice and her cousin had any further opportunity of discussing, in private, the approach of Lady Midlothian. But Mr. Palacere had come in, among them, and had been told of the good thing which was in store for him. "'We shall be delighted to see Lady Midlothian,' said Mr. Palacere. "'But there is somebody here who will not be at all delighted to see her,' said Lady Glencora, to her husband. "'Is there indeed?' said he. "'Who is that?' "'Her most undutiful cousin, Alice Bavisaur. But Alice, Mr. Palacere knows nothing about it. And it is too long to explain.' "'I am extremely sorry,' began Mr. Palacere. "'I can assure you it does not signify in the least,' said Alice. "'It will only be taking me away three days earlier.' Upon hearing this Mr. Palacere looked very serious. What quarrel could Miss Bavisaur have had with Lady Midlothian, which should make it impossible for them to be visitors at the same house?' "'It will do no such thing,' said Lady Glencora. "'Do you mean to say that you are coward enough to run away from her?' "'I am afraid, Miss Bavisaur, that we can hardly bid her not come,' said Mr. Palacere. In answer to this, Alice protested that she would not for worlds have been the means of keeping Lady Midlothian away from matching. I should tell you, Mr. Palacere, that I have never seen Lady Midlothian, though she is my faraway cousin. Nor have I ever quarreled with her. But she has given me advice by letter, and I did not answer her because I thought she had no business to interfere. I shall go away, not because I am afraid of her, but because, after what has passed, our meeting would be unpleasant to her.' "'You could tell her that Miss Bavisaur is here,' said Mr. Palacere, and then she need not come unless she pleased.' The matter was so managed at last that Alice found herself unable to leave matching, without making more of Lady Midlothian's coming than it was worth. It would undoubtedly be very disagreeable, this unexpected meeting with her relative. But as Lady Glankora said, Lady Midlothian would not eat her. In truth she felt ashamed of herself and that she was afraid of her relative. No doubt she was afraid of her. So much she was forced to admit to herself. But she resolved at last that she would not let her drive her out of the house. Miss Mr. Botte, an admirer of your cousin, Mrs. Sparks said that evening to Lady Glankora. "'A very distant one, I should think,' said Lady Glankora. "'Goodness gracious!' exclaimed an old lady, who had been rather awed by Alice's intimacy and co-zanship with Lady Glankora. "'It's the very last thing I should have dreamt of.' "'But I didn't dream it, first or last,' said Mrs. Sparks. "'Why do you ask?' said Lady Glankora. "'Don't suppose that I am asking whether Miss Vabasor is an admirer of his,' said Mrs. Sparks. "'I have no suspicion of that nature. I rather think that when he plays Bacchus she plays Ariadne, with full intention of flying from him in earnest.' "'Is Mr. Botte inclined to play Bacchus?' asked Lady Glankora. "'I rather thought he was this morning. If you observe, he has something of a godlike and triumphant air about him.' "'I don't think his godship will triumph there,' said Lady Glankora. "'I really think she would be throwing herself very much away,' said the old lady. "'Miss Vabasor is not at all disposed to do that,' said Mrs. Sparks. Then that conversation was allowed to drop. On the following Monday Lady Midlothian arrived. The carriage was sent to meet her at the station about three o'clock in the afternoon, and Alice had to choose whether she would undergo her first introduction immediately on her relative's arrival, or whether she would keep herself out of the way till she should meet her in the drawing-room before dinner. "'I shall receive her when she comes,' said Lady Glankora, and, of course, will tell her that you are here. "'Yes, that will be best, and, dear me, I declare I don't know how to manage it. I'll bring her to you in my room, if you like it.' "'No, that would be too solemn,' said Alice. That would make her understand that I thought a great deal about her. "'Then we'll let things take their chance, and you shall come across her just as you would any other stranger.' It was settled at last that this would be the better course, but that Lady Midlothian was to be informed of Alice's presence at the priory as soon as she should arrive. Alice was in her own room when the carriage in which sat the unwelcome old lady was driven up to the hall-door. She heard the wheels plainly, and knew well that her enemy was within the house. She had striven hard all the morning to make herself feel indifferent to this arrival, but had not succeeded, and was angry with herself at finding that she sat upstairs with an anxious heart, because she knew that her cousin was in the room downstairs. What was Lady Midlothian to her that she should be afraid of her? Yet she was very much afraid of Lady Midlothian. She questioned herself on the subject over and over again, and found herself bound to admit that such was the fact. At last, about five o'clock, having reasoned much with herself and rebuked herself for her own timidity, she descended into the drawing-room. Lady Glencora having promised that she would at that hour be there, and on opening the door became immediately conscious that she was in the presence of her August relative. There sat Lady Midlothian in a great chair opposite the fire, and Lady Glencora sat near to her on a stool. One of the Miss Palacers was reading in a further part of the room, and there was no one else present in the chamber. The Countess of Midlothian was a very little woman, between sixty and seventy years of age, who must have been very pretty in her youth. At present she made no pretension either to youth or beauty, as some ladies above sixty will still do. But sat, confessedly, an old woman in all her external relations. She wore a round bonnet which came much over her face, being accustomed to continue the use of her bonnet till dinner-time, when once she had been forced by circumstances to put it on. She wore a short cloak which fitted close to her person, and though she occupied a great arm-chair, sat perfectly upright, looking at the fire. Very small she was, but she carried in her gray eyes and sharp-cut features a certain look of importance, which saved her from being considered as small in importance. Alice, as soon as she saw her, knew that she was a lady over whom no easy victory could be obtained. "'Here is Alice,' said Lady Glencora, rising as her cousin entered the room. "'Alice, let me introduce you to Lady Midlothian.' Alice, as she came forward, was able to assume an easy demeanor, even though her heart within was failing her. She put out her hand, leaving it to the elder lady to speak the first words of greeting. "'I am glad, at last, to be able to make your acquaintance, my dear,' said Lady Midlothian. Very glad. But still Alice did not speak. Your aunt, Lady MacLeod, is one of my oldest friends, and I have heard her speak of you very often. "'And Lady MacLeod has often spoken to me of your ladyship,' said Alice. "'Then we know each other's names,' said the Countess. "'And it will be well that we should be acquainted with each other's persons. I am becoming an old woman, and if I did not learn to know you now, or very shortly, I might never do so.' Alice could not help thinking that even under those circumstances neither might have had, so far as that was concerned, much cause of sorrow, but she did not say so. She was thinking altogether of Lady Midlothian's letter to her, and trying to calculate whether or no it would be well for her to rush away at once to the subject. But Lady Midlothian would mention the letter, Alice felt well assured, and when could it be better mentioned than now in Glencora's presence, when no other person was near them to listen to her. "'You are very kind,' said Alice. "'I would wish to be so,' said Lady Midlothian. "'Blood is thicker than water, my dear, and I know no earthly ties that can bind people together if those of family connection will not do so. Your mother, when she and I were young, was my dearest friend.' "'I never knew my mother,' said Alice, feeling, however, as she spoke, that the strength of her resistance to the old woman was beginning to give way. "'No, my dear, you never did. And that is to my thinking another reason why they who loved her should love you. But Lady MacLeod is your nearest relative, on your mother's side, I mean, and she has done her duty by you well. Indeed, she has, Lady Midlothian. She has, and others, therefore, have been the less called upon to interfere. I only say this, my dear, in my own vindication, feeling perhaps that my conduct needs some excuse. "'I am sure Alice does not think that,' said Lady Glencora. It is what I think rather than what Alice thinks that concerns my own shortcomings,' said Lady Midlothian, with a smile which was intended to be pleasant, but I have wished to make up for former lost opportunities. Alice knew that she was about to refer to her letter, and trembled. I am very anxious now to be reckoned one of Alice Vavisora's friends, if she will allow me to become so. I can only be too proud, if—if what, my dear,' said the old lady. I believe that she meant to be gracious, but there was something in her manner, or perhaps rather in her voice, so repellent that Alice felt that they could hardly become true friends. "'If what, my dear?' "'Alice means,' began Lady Glencora. "'Let Alice say what she means herself,' said Lady Midlothian. "'I hardly know how to say what I do mean,' said Alice, whose spirit within her was rising higher as the occasion for using it came upon her. I am assured that you and I, Lady Midlothian, differ very much as to a certain matter, and as it is one in which I must be guided by my own opinion, and not that of any other person—perhaps—'You mean about Mr. Gray?' "'Yes,' said Alice, I mean about Mr. Gray. "'I think so much about that matter, and your happiness, as they are in concern, that when I heard that you were here I was determined to take matching in my way to London, so that I might have an opportunity of speaking to you. Then you knew that Alice was here,' said Lady Glencora. "'Of course I did. I suppose you have heard all the history, Glencora?' Lady Glencora was forced to acknowledge that she had heard the history—the history being poor Alice's treatment of Mr. Gray. And what do you think of it?' Both Alice and her hostess looked round to the further end of the room, in which Miss Palliser was reading, intending thus to indicate that the lady knew as yet none of the circumstances, and that there could be no good reason why she should be instructed in them at this moment. "'Perhaps another time and another place may be better,' said Lady Midlothian. But I must go the day after to-morrow—indeed, I thought of going to-morrow.' "'Oh, Lady Midlothian!' exclaimed Lady Glencora. You must regard this as merely a passing visit, made upon business. But as I was saying, when shall I get an opportunity of speaking to Alice where we need not be interrupted?' Lady Glencora suggested her room upstairs, and offered the use of it then, or on that night, when the world should be about to go to bed. But the idea of this premeditated lecture was terrible to Alice, and she determined that she would not endure it. Lady Midlothian, it would really be of no use—of no use, my dear? No, indeed, I did get your letter, you know. And as you have not answered it, I have come all this way to see you. I shall be so sorry if I give offence. But it is a subject which I cannot bring myself to discuss. She was going to say, with a stranger, but she was able to check herself before the offensive word was uttered, which I cannot bring myself to discuss with anyone. But you don't mean to say that you won't see me. I will not talk upon that matter, said Alice. I will not do it, even with Lady MacLeod. No, said Lady Midlothian, and her sharp gray eyes now began to kindle with anger, and therefore it is so very necessary that other friends should interfere. But I will endure no interference, said Alice, either from persons who are friends or who are not friends. And as she spoke she rose from her chair. You must forgive me, Lady Midlothian, if I say that I can have no conversation with you on this matter. Then she walked out of the room, leaving the Countess and Lady Glencora together. As she went Miss Palacere lifted her eyes from her book, and knew that there had been a quarrel. But I doubt if she had heard any of the words which had been spoken. The most self-willed young woman I ever met in my life, said Lady Midlothian, as soon as Alice was gone. I knew very well how it would be, said Lady Glencora. But it is quite frightful, my dear, she has been engaged, with the consent of all her friends to this young man. I know all about it. But you must think she is very wrong. I don't quite understand her. But I suppose she fears they would not be happy together. Understand her? I should think not. Nobody can understand her. A young woman to become engaged to a gentleman in that way, before all the world as one may say, to go to his house, as I am told, and talk to the servants and give orders about the furniture, and then turn round and simply say that she has changed her mind? She hasn't given the slightest reason to my knowledge. And Lady Midlothian, as she insisted on the absolute iniquity of Alice's proceedings, almost startled Lady Glencora by the eagerness of her countenance. Lady Midlothian had been one of those who, even now, not quite two years ago, had assisted in obtaining the submission of Lady Glencora herself. Lady Midlothian seemed on the present occasion to remember nothing of this. But Lady Glencora remembered it very exactly. I shall not give it up, continued Lady Midlothian. I have the greatest possible objection to her father, who contrived to connect himself with our family in a most shameful manner, without the slightest encouragement. I don't think I have spoken to him since, but I shall see him now and tell him my opinion. Alice held her ground, and avoided all further conversation with Lady Midlothian. A message came to her through Lady Glencora, imploring her to give way, but she was quite firm. Good-bye to you, Lady Midlothian said to her as she went. Even yet I hope that things may go right, and if so, you will find that I can forget and forgive." If perseverance merits success, said Lady Glencora to Alice, she ought to succeed, but she won't succeed, said Alice. CHAPTER 27 THE PRIORI RUINS Lady Midlothian went away on her road to London on the Wednesday morning, and Alice was to follow her on the next day. It was now December, and the weather was very clear and frosty, but at night there was bright moonlight. On this special night the moon would be full, and Lady Glencora had declared that she and Alice would go out amidst the ruins. It was no secret engagement, having been canvassed in public, and having been met with considerable discouragement by some of the party. Mr. Palacere had remarked that the night air would be very cold, and Mr. Botte had suggested all manner of evil consequences. Had Mr. Palacere alone objected, Lady Glencora might have given away, but Mr. Botte's word riveted her purpose. We are not going to be frightened, Lady Glencora said. People do not generally walk out at night in December, Mr. Palacere observed. That's just the reason why we want to do it, said Lady Glencora. But we shall wrap ourselves up, and nobody need be afraid. Jeffrey, we shall expect you to stand sentinel at the old gate, and guard us from the ghosts." Mr. Palacere, bargaining that he might be allowed a cigar, promised that he would do as he was bidden. The party at matching priory had by this time become very small. There were indeed no guests left, not counting those of the Palacere family, excepting Miss Vavasor, Mr. Botte, and an old lady who had been a great friend of Mr. Palacere's mother. It was past ten in the evening, when Lady Glencora declared, that the time had arrived for them to carry out their purpose. She invited the two Miss Palaceres to join her, but they declined, urging their fear of the night air, and showing by their manner that they thought the proposition a very imprudent one. Mr. Botte offered to accompany them, but Lady Glencora declined his attendance very stoutly. No, indeed, Mr. Botte, you were one of those who preached a sermon against my dissipation in the morning, and I'm not going to allow you to join it. Now the time for its enjoyment has come. My dear Lady Glencora, if I were you, indeed I wouldn't," said the old lady, looking round towards Mr. Palacere. My dear Mrs. Marsham, if you were me, indeed you would. And Lady Glencora also looked at her husband. I think it a foolish thing to do, said Mr. Palacere sternly. If you forbid it, of course we won't go, said Lady Glencora. Forbid it? No, I shall not forbid it. Allons, don't, said Lady Glencora. She and Alice were already muffled in cloaks and thick shawls, and Alice now followed her out of the room. There was a door which opened from the billiard room out onto the grand terrace, which ran in front of the house, and here they found Jeffrey Palacere already armed with his cigar. Alice, to tell the truth, would much have preferred to abandon the expedition, but she had felt that it would be cowardly in her to desert Lady Glencora. There had not arisen any very close intimacy between her and Mr. Palacere, but she entertained a certain feeling that Mr. Palacere trusted her, and liked her to be with his wife. She would have wished to justify this supposed confidence, and was almost sure that Mr. Palacere expected her to do so in this instance. She did say a word or two to her cousin upstairs, urging that perhaps her husband would not like it. Let him say so plainly, said Lady Glencora, and I'll give it up instantly, but I'm not going to be lectured out of my purposes secondhand by Mr. Botte or Old Mother Marsham. I understand all these people, my dear, and if you throw me over, Alice, I'll never forgive you," Lady Glencora added. After this, Alice resolved that she would not throw her friend over. She was afraid to do so, but she was also becoming a little afraid of her friend, afraid that she would be driven some day either to throw her over, or to say words to her that would be very unpalatable. Now, Jeffrey, said Lady Glencora, as they walked abreast along the broad terrace towards the ruins. When we get under the old gateway, you must let me and Alice go round the dormitory and the chapel alone. Then we'll come back by the cloisters, and we'll take another turn outside with you. The outside is the finest by this light. Only I want to show Alice something by ourselves. You're not afraid, I know, and if Miss Vavasor is not, Miss Vavasor, who, I think, would have allowed you to call her by her other name on such an occasion as this, is never afraid. Glencora, how dare you say so? said Alice. I really think we had better go back. She felt herself to be very angry with her cousin. She almost began to fear that she had mistaken her, and had thought better of her than she had deserved. What she had now said struck Alice as being vulgar, as being premeditated vulgarity, and her annoyance was excessive. Of course Mr. Palacere would think that she was a consenting party to the proposition made to him. Go back, said Glencora. No, indeed. We'll go on, and leave him here. Then he can call nobody anything. Don't be angry with me, she said, as soon as they were out of hearing. The truth is, if you choose to have him for your husband you may. But if I do not choose, then there can be no harm done, and I will tell him so. But Alice, think of this. Whom will you meet that would suit you better? And you need not decide now. You need not say a word, but leave me to tell him. That if it is to be thought of at all, it cannot be thought of till he meets you in London. Trust me, you will be safe with me. You shall tell him nothing of the kind, said Alice. I believe you to be joking throughout, and I think the joke is a bad one. No, there you wrong me. Indeed, I am not joking. I know that in what I am saying I am telling you the simple truth. He has said enough to me to justify me in saying so. Alice, think of it all. It would reconcile me too much. And it would be something to be the mother of the future Duke of Omnium. To me it would be nothing, said Alice. Less than nothing. I mean to say that the temptation is one so easily resisted, that it acts in the other way. Don't say anything more about it, Glencora. If you don't wish it, I will not. No, I do not wish it. I don't think I ever saw moonlight so bright as this. Look at the lines of that window against the light. They are clearer than you ever see them in the day. They were now standing just within the gateway of the old cruciform chapel, having entered the trancept from a ruined passage which was supposed to have connected the church with the dormitory. The church was altogether ruthless, but the entire walls were standing. The small clear story windows of the nave were perfect, and the large windows of the two trancepts and of the west end were nearly so. Of the opposite window, which had formed the back of the choir, very little remained. The top of it, with all its tracery, was gone, and three broken upright mullions of uneven heights alone remained. This was all that remained of the old window, but a transom or crossbar of stone had been added to protect the carved stonework of the sides, and save the form of the aperture from further ruin. That this transom was modern was to be seen from the magnificent height and light grace of the workmanship in the other windows, in which the long slender mullions rose from the lower stage or foundation of the hall up into the middle tracery of the arch without protection or support, and then lost themselves among the curves not running up into the roof or soffit, and there holding on as though unable to stand alone. Such weakness as that had not as yet shown itself in English church architecture when matching priory was built. "'Is it not beautiful?' said Glencora. "'I do love it so. And there is a peculiar feeling of cold about the chill of the moon, different from any other cold. It makes you wrap yourself up tight, but it does not make your teeth chatter, and it seems to go into your senses rather than into your bones. But I suppose that's nonsense,' she added after a pause. "'Not more so than what people are supposed to talk by moonlight. That's unkind. I like what I say on such an occasion to be more poetical, or else more nonsensical than what other people say under the same circumstances. And now I'll tell you why I always think of you when I come here by moonlight. But I suppose you don't often come. Yes, I do. That is to say, I did come very often when we had the full moon in August. The weather wasn't like this, and I used to run out through the open windows, and nobody knew where I was gone. I made him come once, but he didn't seem to care about it. I told him that part of the refectory wall was falling, so he looked at that, and had a mason sense the next day. If anything is out of order he has it put to rights at once. There would have been no ruins if all the palisairs had been like him. So much the better for the world. No. I say no. Things may live too long. But now I'm going to tell you. Do you remember that night I brought you home from the play to Queen Anne Street? Indeed I do. Very well. Alice had occasion to remember it, for it had been in the carriage on that evening that she had positively refused to give any aid to her cousin in that matter relating to Bergo Fitzgerald. And do you remember how the moon shone then? Yes, I think I do. I know I do. As we came round the corner, out of Cavendish Square, he was standing there, and a friend of yours was standing with him. What friend of mine? Never mind that. It does not matter now. Do you mean my cousin George? Yes, I do mean your cousin. And oh, Alice, dear Alice, I don't know why I should love you, for if you had not been hard-hearted that night, stony cruel in your hard propriety, I should have gone with him then. And all this icy coldness would have been prevented. She was standing quite close to Alice, and as she spoke she shook with shivering, and wrapped her furs closer and still closer about her. You are very cold, said Alice. We had better go in. No, I am not cold. Not in that way. I won't go in yet. Jeffrey will come to us directly. Yes, we should have escaped that night if you would have allowed him to come into your house. Ah, well, we didn't. And there's an end of it. But, Glencora, you cannot regret it. Not regret it? Alice, where can your heart be? Or have you a heart? Not regret it? I would give everything I have in the world to have been true to him. They told me that he would spend my money. Though he should have spent every farthing of it, I regret it. Though he should have made me a beggar, I regret it. They told me that he would ill-use me, and desert me, perhaps beat me. I do not believe it. But even though that should have been so, I regret it. It is better to have a false husband than to be a false wife. Glencora, do not speak like that. Do not try to make me think that anything could tempt you to be false to your vows. Tempt me to be false? My child, it has been all false throughout. I never loved him. How can you talk in that way, when you know that I never loved him? They browbeat me and frightened me till I did as I was told. And now? What am I now? You are his honest wife. Glencora, listen to me. And Alice took hold of her arm. No, she said. No, I am not honest. By law I am his wife. But the laws are liars. I am not his wife. I will not say the thing that I am. When I went to him at the altar, I knew that I did not love the man that was to be my husband. But him, Bergo, I love him with all my heart and soul. I could stoop at his feet and clean his shoes for him, and think at no disgrace. Oh, Cora, my friend, do not say such words as those. Remember what you owe your husband and yourself, and come away. I do know what I owe him, and I will pay at him. Alice, if I had a child, I think I would be true to him. Think, I know I would, though I had no hour of happiness left to me in my life. But what now is the only honest thing that I can do? Why, leave him. So leave him that he may have another wife, and be the father of a child. What injury shall I do him by leaving him? He does not love me. You know yourself that he does not love me. I know that he does. Alice, that is untrue. He does not. And you have seen clearly that it is so. It may be that he can love no woman. But another woman would give him a son, and he would be happy. I tell you that every day and every night, every hour of every day and of every night, I am thinking of the man I love. I have nothing else to think of. I have no occupation, no friends, no one to whom I care to say a word. But I am always talking to Bergo in my thoughts, and he listens to me. I dream that his arm is round me. Oh, Glencora! Well, do you begrudge me that I should tell you the truth? You have said that you would be my friend, and you must bear the burden of my friendship. And now this is what I want to tell you. Immediately after Christmas we are to go to Monkshade, and he will be there. Lady Monk is his aunt. You must not go. No power should take you there. That is easily said, child. But all the same I must go. I told Mr. Palacere that he would be there, and he said it did not signify. He actually said that it did not signify. I wonder whether he understands what it is for people to love each other, whether he has ever thought about it. You must tell him plainly that you will not go. I did. I told him plainly as words could tell him. Glencora, he said, and you know the way he looks when he means to be Lord and Master, and put on the very husband indeed. This is an annoyance which you must bear and overcome. It suits me that we should go to Monkshade, and it does not suit me that there should be any one whom you are afraid to meet. Could I tell him that he would lose his wife if I did go? Could I threaten him that I would throw myself into Bergo's arms if that opportunity were given to me? You are very wise, and very prudent. What would you have had me say? I would have you now tell him everything rather than go to that house. Alice, look here. I know what I am, and what I am like to become. I loathe myself, and I loathe the thing that I am thinking of. I could have clung to the outside of a man's body, to his very trappings, and loved him ten times better than myself. I, even though he had ill-treated me, if I had been allowed to choose a husband for myself, Bergo would have spent my money, all that it would have been possible for me to give him. But there would have been something left, and I think that by that time I could have won even him to care for me. But with that, man, Alice, you are very wise. What am I to do? Alice had no doubt as to what her cousin should do. She should be true to her marriage vow, whether that vow, when made, were true or false. She should be true to it as far as truth would now carry her. And in order that she might be true, she should tell her husband as much as might be necessary, to induce him to spare her the threatened visit to Monkshade. All that she said to Lady Glencora as they walked slowly across the chapel. But Lady Glencora was more occupied with her own thoughts than with her friend's advice. Here's Geoffrey, she said. What an unconscionable time we have kept him! Don't mention it, he said, and I shouldn't have come to you now, only that I thought I should find you both freezing into marble. We are not such cold-blooded creatures as that, are we, Alice? said Lady Glencora. And now we'll go round the outside. Only we must not stay long, or we shall frighten those two delicious old duenas, Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Botte. These last words were said, as it were, in a whisper to Alice. But they were so whispered that there was no real attempt to keep them from the ears of Mr. Geoffrey Palliser. Glencora, Alice thought, should not have allowed the word duena to have passed her lips in speaking to any one. But, above all, she should not have done so in the hearing of Mr. Palliser's cousin. They walked all round the ruin on a raised gravel path which had been made there, and Alice, who could hardly bring herself to speak, so full was her mind of that which had just been said to her, was surprised to find that Glencora could go on, in her usual light humor, chatting as though there were no weight within her to depress her spirits. CHAPTER XXVIII Alice leaves the priory. As they came in at the billiard-room door, Mr. Palliser was there to meet them. "'You must be very cold,' he said to Glencora, who entered first. "'No, indeed,' said Glencora. But her teeth were chattering, and her whole appearance gave the lie to her words. "'Jeffrey,' said Mr. Palliser, turning to his cousin, "'I am angry with you. You at least should have known better than to have allowed her to remain so long.' Then Mr. Palliser turned away, and walked his wife off, taking no notice whatsoever of Miss Vavasor. Alice felt the slight and understood it all. He had told her plainly enough, though not in words, that he had trusted his wife with her, and that she had betrayed the trust. She might have brought Glencora in within five or six minutes, instead of allowing her to remain out there in the freezing night air for nearly three quarters of an hour. That was the accusation which Mr. Palliser made against her, and he made it with the utmost severity. He asked no question of her whether she were cold. He spoke no word to her, nor did he even look at her. She might get herself away to her bedroom as she pleased. Alice understood all this completely, and though she knew that she had not deserved such severity, she was not inclined to resent it. There was so much in Mr. Palliser's position that was to be pitied, that Alice could not find it in her heart to be angry with him. He is provoked with us now, said Geoffrey Palliser, standing with her for a moment in the billiard-room, as he handed her a candle. He is afraid that she will have caught cold. Yes, and he thinks it wrong that she should remain out at night so long. You can easily understand, Miss Vavasor, that he has not much sympathy for romance. I daresay he is right, said Alice, not exactly knowing what to say, and not being able to forget what had been said about herself and Geoffrey Palliser when they first left the house. Romance usually means nonsense, I believe. That is not Glyn Cora's doctrine. No, but she is younger than I am. My feet are very cold, Mr. Palliser, and I think I will go up to my room. Good night, said Geoffrey, offering her his hand. I think it so hard that you should have incurred his displeasure. It will not hurt me, said Alice, smiling. No, but he does not forget. Even that will not hurt me. Good night, Mr. Palliser. As it is the last night, may I say good night, Alice? I shall be away to-morrow, before you are up. He still held her hand, but it had not been in his for half a minute, and she had thought nothing of that. Nor did she draw it away, even now, suddenly. No, she said. Glyn Cora was very wrong there, doing an injury without meaning it to both of us. There can be no possible reason why you should call me otherwise and is customary. Can there never be a reason? No, Mr. Palliser, good night. And if I am not to see you to-morrow morning—good-bye—you will certainly not see me to-morrow morning. Good-bye. Had it not been for this folly of Glyn Cora's, our acquaintance would have been very pleasant. To me it has been very pleasant. Good night. Then she left him, and went up alone to her own room. Whether or no other guests were still left in the drawing-room she did not know. But she had seen that Mr. Palliser took his wife upstairs, and therefore she considered herself right in presuming that the party was broken up for the night. Mr. Palliser, Plantaginate Palliser, according to all rules of courtesy, should have said a word to her as he went. But, as I have said before, Alice was disposed to overlook his want of civility on this occasion. So she went up alone to her room and was very glad to find herself able to get close to a good fire. She was, in truth, very cold—cold to her bones, in spite of what Lady Glyn Cora had said on behalf of the moonlight. They, too, had been standing all but still during the greater part of that time they had been talking, and Alice, as she sat herself down, found that her feet were numbed with the damp that had penetrated through her boots. Certainly Mr. Palliser had reason to be angry that his wife should have remained out in the night air so long, though perhaps not with Alice. And then she began to think of what had been told her, and to try to think of what, under such circumstances, it behooved her to do. She could not doubt that Lady Glyn Cora had intended to declare that, if opportunity offered itself, she would leave her husband and put herself under the protection of Mr. Fitzgerald. And Alice, moreover, had become painfully conscious that the poor, deluded, unreasoning creature had taught herself to think that she might excuse herself for this sin to her own conscience, by the fact that she was childless, and that she might thus give to the man who had married her an opportunity of seeking another wife who might give him an heir. Alice well knew how insufficient such an excuse would be even to the wretched woman who had framed it for herself. But still it would operate, manifestly had already operated, on her mind, teaching her to hope that good might come out of evil. Alice, who was perfectly clear-sighted as regarded her cousin, however much impaired her vision might have been with reference to herself, saw nothing but absolute ruin, ruin of the worst and most intolerable description, in the plan which Lady Glencora seemed to have formed. To her it was black in the depths of hell, and she knew that to Glencora also it was black. I loathe myself, Glencora had said, and the thing that I am thinking of. What was Alice to do under these circumstances? Mr. Palacere, she was aware, had quarreled with her, for in his silent way he had first shown that he had trusted her as his wife's friend, and then on this evening he had shown that he had ceased to trust her. But she cared little for this. If she told him that she wished to speak to him he would listen, let his opinion of her be what it might, and having listened he would surely act in some way that would serve to save his wife. What Mr. Palacere might think of herself, Alice cared but little. But then there came to her an idea that was in every respect feminine, that in such a matter she had no right to betray her friend. When one woman tells the story of her love to another woman the confidant always feels that she will be a traitor if she reveals the secret. Had Lady Glencora made Alice believe that she meditated murder or robbery Alice would have had no difficulty in telling the tale, and thus preventing the crime. But now she hesitated, feeling that she would disgrace herself by betraying her friend, and after all was it not more than probable that Glencora had no intention of carrying out a threat, the very thought of which must be terrible to herself. As she was thinking of all this, sitting in her dressing gown close over the fire, there came a loud knock at the door, which, as she had turned the key, she was forced to answer in person. She opened the door and there was if Eugenia Palacere, Jeffery's cousin, and Mr. Palacere's cousin. Miss Vavasor, she said, I know that I am taking a great liberty, but may I come into your room for a few minutes? I so much wish to speak to you. Alice, of course, bade her enter, and placed a chair for her by the fire. Alice Vavasor had made very little intimacy with either of the two Miss Palacere's. It had seemed to herself as though there had been two parties in the house, and that she had belonged to the one which was headed by the wife, whereas the Miss Palacere's had been naturally attached to that of the husband. These ladies, as she had already seen, almost idolized their cousin, and though Plantagenet Palacere had till lately treated Alice with the greatest personal courtesy, there had been no intimacy of friendship between them, and consequently none between her and his special adherence, nor was either of these ladies prone to sudden friendship with such one as Alice Vavasor. A sudden friendship with a snuffy president of a foreign learned society, with some personally unknown lady employed on female emigration, was very much in their way. But Alice had not shown herself to be useful or learned, and her special intimacy with Lady Glencora had marked her out as in some sort separated from them and their ways. "'I know that I am intruding,' said Miss Palacere, as though she were almost afraid of Alice. "'Oh, dear, no,' said Alice. "'If I can do anything for you, I shall be very happy.' "'You are going to-morrow, and if I did not speak to you now, I should have no other opportunity. Glencora seems to be very much attached to you, and we all thought it so good a thing that she should have such a friend.' "'I hope you have not all changed your minds,' said Alice, with a faint smile, thinking, as she spoke, that the all must have been specially intended to include the master of the house. "'Oh, no, by no means. I did not mean that. My cousin, Mr. Palacere, I mean, liked you so much when you came. And he does not like me quite so much now, because I went out in the moonlight with his wife. Isn't that it?' "'Well, no, Miss Vavasor. I had not intended to mention that at all. I had not indeed. I have seen him certainly since you came in, just for a minute, and he is vexed. But it is not about that that I would speak to you.' I saw plainly enough that he was angry with me. He thought you would have brought her in earlier. And why should he think that I can manage his wife? She was the mistress out there, as she is in here. Mr. Palacere has been unreasonable. Not that it signifies. I don't think he has been unreasonable. I don't indeed, Miss Vavasor. He has certainly been vexed. Sometimes he has much to vex him. You see, Glyncora is very young." Mr. Botte also had declared that Lady Glyncora was very young. It was probable, therefore, that that special phrase had been used in some discussion among Mr. Palacere's party as to Glyncora's foibles. So thought Alice as the remembrance of the word came upon her. "'She is not younger than when Mr. Palacere married her,' Alice said. "'You mean that if a man marries a young wife he must put up with the trouble. That is a matter of course. But their ages, in truth, are very suitable. My cousin himself is not yet thirty. When I say that Glyncora is young, you mean that she is younger in spirit and perhaps in conduct than he had expected to find her. But you are not to suppose that he complains, Miss Vavasor. He is much too proud for that." "'I should hope so,' said Alice, thinking of Mr. Botte. I hardly know how to explain to you what I wish to say, or how far I may be justified in supposing that you will believe me, to be acting solely on Glyncora's behalf. I think you have some influence with her, and I know no one else that has any. My friendship with her is not a very long date, Miss Palacere. I know it, but still there is the fact. Am I not right in supposing—in supposing what? In supposing that you had heard the name of Mr. Fitzgerald as connected with Glyncora's before her marriage with my cousin?' Alice paused a moment before she answered. "'Yes, I had,' she then said. And I think you were agreed with her other relations that such a marriage would have been very dreadful. I never spoke of the matter in the presence of any relatives of Glyncora's. You must understand, Miss Palacere, that though I am her faraway cousin, I do not even know her nearest connections. I never saw Lady Midlothian till she came here the other day. But you advised her to abandon Mr. Fitzgerald. Never. I know she was much with you just at that time. I used to see her certainly.' Then there was a pause, and Miss Palacere, in truth, scarcely knew how to go on. There had been a hardness about Alice which her visitor had not expected—an unwillingness to speak or even to listen—which made Miss Palacere almost wish that she were out of the room. She had, however, mentioned Bergo Fitzgerald's name, and out of the room now she could not go without explaining why she had done so. But at this point Alice came suddenly to her assistance. Just then she was often with me, said Alice, continuing her reply. And there was much talk between us about Mr. Fitzgerald. What was my advice then can be of little matter. But in this we shall be both agreed, Miss Palacere, that Glyncora now should certainly not be called upon to be in his company. She has told you, then? Yes, she has told me. That he is to be at Lady Monks? She has told me that Mr. Palacere expects her to meet him at the place to which they are going when they leave the Dukes, and that she thinks it hard that she should be subjected to such a trial. It should be no trial, Miss Vavasor. How can it be otherwise? Come, Miss Palacere, if you are her friend, be fair to her. I am her friend, but I am above everything my cousin's friend. He has told me that she has complained of having to meet this man. He declares that it should be nothing to her, and that the fear is an idle folly. It should be nothing to her, but still the fear may not be idle. Is there any reason? Any real reason why she should not go? Miss Vavasor, I conjure you to tell me. Even though in doing so you must cast so deep reproach upon her name, anything will be better than utter disgrace and sin. I conceive that I cast no reproach upon her in saying that there is great reason why she should not go to Monkshade. You think there is absolute grounds for interference? I must tell him, you know, openly what he would have to fear. I think, nay, Miss Palacere, I know that there is ample reason why you should save her from being taken to Monkshade if you have the power to do so. I can only do it or attempt to do it by telling him just what you tell me. Then tell him. You must have thought of that, I suppose, before you came to me. Yes, yes, Miss Vavasor, I had thought of it. No doubt I had thought of it. But I had believed all through that you would assure me that there was no danger. I believed that you would have said that she was innocent. And she is innocent, said Alice, rising from her chair, as though she might thus give emphasis to words which she hardly dared to speak above a whisper. She is innocent. Who accuses her of guilt? You ask me a question on his behalf, on hers and on his, Miss Vavasor? A question which I feel myself bound to answer truly, to answer with reference to the welfare of them both. But I will not have it said that I accuse her. She had been attached to Mr. Fitzgerald when your cousin married her. He knew that this had been the case. She told him the whole truth. In a worldly point of view her marriage with Mr. Fitzgerald would probably have been very imprudent. It would have been utterly ruinous. So I say nothing about that. But as it turned out she gave up her own wishes and married your cousin. I don't know about her own wishes, Miss Vavasor. It is what she did. She would have married Mr. Fitzgerald had she not been hindered by the advice of those around her. It cannot be supposed that she has forgotten him in so short a time. There can be no guilt in remembrance. There is guilt in loving any other than her husband. Then, Miss Vavasor, it was her marriage that was guilty, and not her love. But all that is done and past. It should be your cousin's object to teach her to forget Mr. Fitzgerald, and he will not do that by taking her to a house where that gentleman is staying. She has said so much to you herself? I do not know that I need declare to you what she has said herself. You have asked me a question, and I have answered it. And I am thankful to you for having asked it. What object can either of us have but to assist her in her position? And to save him from dishonor I had so hoped that this was simply a childish dread on her part. It is not so. It is no childish dread. If you have the power to prevent her going to Lady Monks, I implore you to use it. Indeed, I will ask you to promise me that you will do so. After what you have said, I have no alternative. Exactly. There is no alternative. Either for his sake, or for hers. There is none. Thereupon Miss Palacere got up, and wishing her companion good night, took her departure. Throughout the interview there had been no cordiality of feeling between them. There was no pretense of friendship, even as they were parting. They acknowledged that their objects were different. That of Alice was to save Lady Glencora from ruin. That of Miss Palacere was to save her cousin from disgrace, with perhaps some further honest desire to prevent sorrow and sin. One loved Lady Glencora, and the other clearly did not love her. But nevertheless Alice felt that Miss Palacere in coming to her had acted well, and that to herself this coming had afforded immense relief. Some step would now be taken to prevent that meeting which she had so deprecated, and it would be taken without any great violation of confidence on her part. She had said nothing as to which Lady Glencora could feel herself aggrieved. On the next morning she was down in the breakfast-room soon after nine, and had not been in the room many minutes before Mr. Palacere entered. "'The carriage is ordered for you at quarter before ten,' he said, "'and I have come down to give you your breakfast.' There was a smile on his face as he spoke, and Alice could see that he intended to make himself pleasant. "'Will you allow me to give you yours instead?' said she. But as it happened no giving on either side was needed, as Alice's breakfast was brought to her separately. "'Glencora bids me say that she will be down immediately,' said Mr. Palacere. Alice then made some inquiry with reference to the effects of last night's imprudence, which received only a half-pronounced reply. Mr. Palacere was willing to be gracious, but did not intend to be understood as having forgiven the offence. The Miss Palacere's then came in together, and after them Mr. Botte, closely followed by Mrs. Marsham, and all of them made inquiries after Lady Glencora, as though it was to be supposed that she might probably be in a perilous state after what she had undergone on the previous evening. Mr. Botte was particularly anxious. The frost was so uncommonly severe, said he, that any delicate person like Lady Glencora must have suffered in remaining out so long. The insinuation that Alice was not a delicate person, and that, as regarded her, the severity of the frost was of no moment, was very open, and was duly appreciated. Mr. Botte was aware that his great patron had in some sort changed his opinion about Miss Vavasor, and he was, of course, disposed to change his own. A fortnight since Alice might have been as delicate as she pleased in Mr. Botte's estimation. I hope you do not consider Lady Glencora delicate, said Alice to Mr. Palacere. She is not robust, said the husband. By no means, said Mrs. Marsham. Indeed, no, said Mr. Botte. Alice knew that she was being accused of being robust herself, but she bore it in silence. Cowboys and milk-meats are robust, and the accusation was a heavy one. Alice, however, thought that she would not have minded it if she could have allowed herself to reply, but this, at the moment of her going away, she could not do. I think she is as strong as the rest of us, said Iphigenia Palacere, who felt that after last night she owed something to Miss Vavasor. Some of us, said Mr. Botte, determined to persevere in his accusation. At this moment Lady Glencora entered, and encountered the eager enquiries of her two duenas. These, however, she quickly put aside and made her way up to Alice. The last morning has come, then, she said. Yes, indeed, said Alice. Mr. Palacere must have thought that I was never going. On the other hand, said he, I have felt much obliged to you for staying. But he said it coldly, and Alice began to wish that she had never seen matching Priory. Ablige! exclaimed Lady Glencora. I can't tell you how much obliged I am. Oh, Alice, I wish you were going to stay with us. We are leaving this in a week's time, said Mr. Palacere. Of course we are, said Lady Glencora. With all my heart I wish we were not. Dear Alice, I suppose we shall not meet till we are all in town. You will let me know when you come up, said Alice. I will send to you instantly, and Alice, I will write to you from Gatheram, or from Monkshade. Alice could not help looking around and catching Miss Palacere's eye. Miss Palacere was standing with her foot on the fender, but was so placed that she could see Alice. She made a slight sign with her head, as much as to say that Lady Glencora must have no opportunity of writing from the latter place. But she said nothing. Then the carriage was announced, and Mr. Palacere took Alice out on his arm. Don't come to the door, Glencora, he said. I especially wish you not to do so. The two cousins then kissed each other, and Alice went away to the carriage. Good-bye, Miss Vavasor, said Mr. Palacere. But he expressed no wish that he might see her again as his guest at matching priory. Alice, as she was driven in solitary grandeur to the railway station, did not but wish that she had never gone there.