The Palliser Novels (41 page)

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 Palliser entered. “The carriage is ordered for you at a 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 Palliser.

Alice then made some inquiry with reference to the effects of last night’s imprudence, which received only a half-pronounced reply. Mr Palliser was willing to be gracious, but did not intend to be understood as having forgiven the offence. The Miss Pallisers then came in together, and after them Mr Bott, 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 Bott 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 Bott 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 Bott’s estimation.

“I hope you do not consider Lady Glencora delicate,” said Alice to Mr Palliser.

“She is not robust,” said the husband.

“By no means,” said Mrs Marsham.

“Indeed, no,” said Mr Bott.

Alice knew that she was being accused of being robust herself; but she bore it in silence. Ploughboys and milkmaids 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 Palliser, who felt that after last night she owed something to Miss Vavasor.

“As some of us,” said Mr Bott, determined to persevere in his accusation.

At this moment Lady Glencora entered, and encountered the eager inquiries of her two duennas. 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 Palliser 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.

“Obliged!” 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 Palliser.

“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 Gatherum, — or from Monkshade.”

Alice could not help looking around and catching Miss Palliser’s eye. Miss Palliser 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 Palliser 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 Palliser; 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, could not but wish that she had never gone there.

On the night before Christmas Eve two men were sitting together in George Vavasor’s rooms in Cecil Street. It was past twelve o’clock, and they were both smoking; there were square bottles on the table containing spirits, with hot water and cold water in jugs, and one of the two men was using, and had been using, these materials for enjoyment. Vavasor had not been drinking, nor did it appear as though he intended to begin. There was a little weak brandy and water in a glass by his side, but there it had remained untouched for the last twenty minutes. His companion, however, had twice in that time replenished his beaker, and was now puffing out the smoke of his pipe with the fury of a steamer’s funnel when she has not yet burned the black off her last instalment of fresh coals. This man was Burgo Fitzgerald. He was as handsome as ever; — a man whom neither man nor woman could help regarding as a thing beautiful to behold; — but not the less was there in his eyes and cheeks a look of haggard dissipation, — of riotous living, which had become wearisome, by its continuance, even to himself, — that told to all who saw him much of the history of his life. Most men who drink at nights, and are out till cockcrow doing deeds of darkness, become red in their faces, have pimpled cheeks and watery eyes, and are bloated and not comfortable to be seen. It is a kind dispensation of Providence who thus affords to such sinners a visible sign, to be seen day by day, of the injury which is being done. The first approach of a carbuncle on the nose, about the age of thirty, has stopped many a man from drinking. No one likes to have carbuncles on his nose, or to appear before his female friends with eyes which look as though they were swimming in grog. But to Burgo Fitzgerald Providence in her anger had not afforded this protection. He became at times pale, sallow, worn, and haggard. He grew thin, and still thinner. At times he had been ill to death’s door. Among his intimate friends there were those who heard him declare frequently that his liver had become useless to him; and that, as for gastric juices, he had none left to him. But still his beauty remained. The perfect form of his almost god-like face was the same as ever, and the brightness of his bright blue eye was never quenched.

On the present occasion he had come to Vavasor’s room with the object of asking from him certain assistance, and perhaps also some amount of advice. But as regarded the latter article he was, I think, in the state of most men when they seek for counsellors who shall counsel them to do evil. Advice administered in accordance with his own views would give him comfortable encouragement, but advice on the other side he was prepared to disregard altogether. These two men had known each other long, and a close intimacy had existed between them in the days past, previous to Lady Glencora’s engagement with Mr Palliser. When Lady Glencora endeavoured, vainly as we know, to obtain aid from Alice Vavasor, Burgo had been instigated to believe that Alice’s cousin might assist him. Any such assistance George Vavasor would have been quite ready to give. Some pecuniary assistance he had given, he at that time having been in good funds. Perhaps he had for a moment induced Burgo to think that he could obtain for the pair the use of the house in Queen Anne Street as a point at which they might meet, and from whence they might start on their journey of love. All that was over. Those hopes had been frustrated, and Lady Glencora M’Cluskie had become Lady Glencora Palliser and not Lady Glencora Fitzgerald. But now other hopes had sprung up, and Burgo was again looking to his friend for assistance.

“I believe she would,” Burgo said, as he lifted the glass to his mouth. “It’s a thing of that sort that a man can only believe, — perhaps only hope, — till he has tried. I know that she is not happy with him, and I have made up my mind that I will at least ask her.”

“But he would have her fortune all the same?”

“I don’t know how that would be. I haven’t inquired, and I don’t mean to inquire. Of course I don’t expect you or any one else to believe me, but her money has no bearing on the question now. Heaven knows I want money bad enough, but I wouldn’t take away another man’s wife for money.”

“You don’t mean to say you think it would be wicked. I supposed you to be above those prejudices.”

“It’s all very well for you to chaff.”

“It’s no chaff at all. I tell you fairly I wouldn’t run away with any man’s wife. I have an old-fashioned idea that when a man has got a wife he ought to be allowed to keep her. Public opinion, I know, is against me.”

“I think he ran away with my wife,” said Burgo, with emphasis; “that’s the way I look at it. She was engaged to me first; and she really loved me, while she never cared for him.”

“Nevertheless, marriage is marriage, and the law is against you. But if I did go in for such a troublesome job at all, I certainly should keep an eye upon the money.”

“It can make no difference.”

“It did make a difference, I suppose, when you first thought of marrying her?”

“Of course it did. My people brought us together because she had a large fortune and I had none. There’s no doubt in the world about that. And I’ll tell you what; I believe that old harridan of an aunt of mine is willing to do the same thing now again. Of course she doesn’t say as much. She wouldn’t dare do that, but I do believe she means it. I wonder where she expects to go to!”

“That’s grateful on your part.”

“Upon my soul I hate her. I do indeed. It isn’t love for me now so much as downright malice against Palliser, because he baulked her project before. She is a wicked old woman. Some of us fellows are wicked enough — you and I for
instance — “

“Thank you. I don’t know, however, that I am qualified to run in a curricle with you.”

“But we are angels to such an old she-devil as that. You may believe me or not, as you like. — I dare say you won’t believe me.”

“I’ll say I do, at any rate.”

“The truth is, I want to get her, partly because I love her; but chiefly because I do believe in my heart that she loves me.”

“It’s for her sake then! You are ready to sacrifice yourself to do her a good turn.”

“As for sacrificing myself, that’s done. I’m a man utterly ruined and would cut my throat to-morrow for the sake of my relations, if I cared enough about them. I know my own condition pretty well. I have made a shipwreck of everything, and have now only got to go down among the breakers.”

“Only you would like to take Lady Glencora with you.”

“No, by heavens! But sometimes, when I do think about it at all, — which I do as seldom as I can, — it seems to me that I might still become a different fellow if it were possible for me to marry her.”

“Had you married her when she was free to marry any one and when her money was her own, it might have been so.”

“I think it would be quite as much so now. I do, indeed. If I could get her once, say to Italy, or perhaps to Greece, I think I could treat her well, and live with her quietly. I know that I would try.”

“Without the assistance of brandy and cigars.”

“Yes.”

“And without any money.”

“With only a little. I know you’ll laugh at me; but I make pictures to myself of a sort of life which I think would suit us, and be very different from this hideous way of living, with which I have become so sick that I loathe it.”

“Something like Juan and Haidée, with Planty Pall coming after you, like old Lambro.” By the nickname of Planty Pall George Vavasor intended to designate Lady Glencora’s present husband.

“He’d get a divorce, of course, and then we should be married. I really don’t think he’d dislike it, when it was all done. They tell me he doesn’t care for her.”

“You have seen her since her marriage?”

“Yes; twice.”

“And have spoken to her?”

“Once only, — so as to be able to do more than ask her if she were well. Once, for about two minutes, I did speak to her.”

“And what did she say?”

“She said it would be better that we should not meet. When she said that, I knew that she was still fond of me. I could have fallen at her feet that moment, only the room was full of people. I do think that she is fond of me.”

Vavasor paused a few minutes. “I dare say she is fond of you,” he then said; “but whether she has pluck for such a thing as this, is more than I can say. Probably she has not. And if she has, probably you would fail in carrying out your plan.”

“I must get a little money first,” said Burgo.

“And that’s an operation which no doubt you find more difficult every day, as you grow older.”

“It seems to be much the same sort of thing. I went to Magruin this morning.”

“He’s the fellow that lives out near Gray’s Inn Lane?”

“Just beyond the Foundling Hospital. I went to him, and he was quite civil about it. He says I owe him over three thousand pounds, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

“How much did you ever have from him?”

“I don’t recollect that I ever absolutely had any money. He got a bill of mine from a tailor who went to smash, and he kept on renewing that till it grew to be ever so many bills. I think he did once let me have twenty-four pounds, — but certainly never more than that.”

“And he says he’ll give you money now? I suppose you told him why you wanted it.”

“I didn’t name her, — but I told him what would make him understand that I hoped to get off with a lady who had a lot of tin. I asked him for two hundred and fifty. He says he’ll let me have one hundred and fifty on a bill at two months for five hundred, — with your name to it.”

“With my name to it! That’s kind on his part, — and on yours too.”

“Of course I can’t take it up at the end of two months.”

“I dare say not,” said Vavasor.

“But he won’t come upon you then, — nor for a year or more afterwards. I did pay you what you lent me before.”

“Yes, you did. I always thought that to be a special compliment on your part.”