standing with his master’s umbrella in his hand, looking as though he would fain be of some use to somebody, if any such utility were compatible with the purposes of his existence. Now had come this knock at the door, while the umbrella was still in his hand, and the nature of his visage changed, and it was easy to see that he was oppressed by the temporary multiplicity of his duties. “Give me the umbrella, John,” said Mr Palliser. John gave up the umbrella, and opening the door disclosed Burgo Fitzgerald standing upon the doorstep. “Is Lady Glencora at home?” asked Burgo, before he had seen the husband. John turned a dismayed face upon his master, as though he knew that the comer ought not to be making a morning call at that house,—as no doubt he did know very well,—and made no instant reply. “I am not sure,” said Mr Palliser, making his way out as he had originally purposed. “The servant will find out for you.” Then he went on his way across Park Lane and into the Park, never once turning back his face to see whether Burgo had effected an entrance into the house. Nor did he return a minute earlier than he would otherwise have done. After all, there was something chivalrous about the man.
“Yes; Lady Glencora was at home,” said the porter, not stirring to make any further inquiry. It was no business of his if Mr Palliser chose to receive such a guest. He had not been desired to say that her ladyship was not at home. Burgo was therefore admitted and shown direct up into the room in which Lady Glencora was sitting. As chance would have it, she was alone. Alice had left her and was in her own chamber, and Lady Glencora was sitting at the window of the small room upstairs that overlooked the Park. She was seated on a footstool with her face between her hands when Burgo was admitted, thinking of him, and of what the world might have been to her had “they left her alone,” as she was in the habit of saying to Alice and to herself.
She rose quickly, so that he saw her only as she was rising. “Ask Miss Vavasor to come to me,” she said, as the servant left the room; and then she came forward to greet her lover.
“Cora,” he said, dashing at once into his subject—hopelessly, but still with a resolve to do as he had said that he would do. “Cora, I have come to you, to ask you to go with me.”
“I will not go with you,” said she.
“Do not answer me in that way, without a moment’s thought. Everything is arranged—”
“Yes, everything is arranged,” she said. “Mr Fitzgerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr Palliser and I, and my friend, are starting tomorrow. Wish me Godspeed and go, and be generous.”
“And is this to be the end of everything?” He was standing close to her, but hitherto he had only touched her hand at greeting her. “Give me your hand, Cora,” he said.
“No;—I will never give you my hand again. You should be generous to me and go. This is to be the end of everything,—of everything that is common to you and to me. Go, when I ask you.”
“Cora; did you ever love me?”
“Yes; I did love you. But we were separated, and there was no room for love left between us.”
“You are as dear to me now,—dearer than ever you were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell me when we last parted that I might come to you again? Are we children, that others should come between us and separate us like that?”
“Yes, Burgo; we are children. Here is my cousin coming. You must leave me now.” As she spoke the door was opened and Alice entered the room. “Miss Vavasor, Mr Fitzgerald,” said Lady Glencora. “I have told him to go and leave me. Now that you have come, Alice, he will perhaps obey me.”
Alice was dumbfounded, and knew not how to speak either to him or to her; but she stood with her eyes riveted on the face of the man of whom she had heard so much. Yes; certainly he was very beautiful. She had never before seen man’s beauty such as that. She found it quite impossible to speak a word to him then—at the spur of the moment, but she acknowledged the introduction with a slight inclination of the head, and then stood silent, as though she were waiting for him to go.
“Mr Fitzgerald, why do you not leave me and go?” said Lady Glencora.
Poor Burgo also found it difficult enough to speak. What could he say? His cause was one which certainly did not admit of being pleaded in the presence of a strange lady; and he might have known from the moment in which he heard Glencora’s request that a third person should be summoned to their meeting—and probably did know, that there was no longer any hope for him. It was not on the cards that he should win. But there remained one thing that he must do. He must get himself out of that room; and how was he to effect that?
“I had hoped,” said he, looking at Alice, though he addressed Lady Glencora—”I had hoped to be allowed to speak to you alone for a few minutes.”
“No, Mr Fitzgerald; it cannot be so. Alice do not go. I sent for my cousin when I saw you, because I did not choose to be alone with you. I have asked you to go—”
“You perhaps have not understood me?”
“I understand you well enough.”
“Then, Mr Fitzgerald,” said Alice, “why do you not do as Lady Glencora has asked you? You know—you must know, that you ought not to be here.”
“I know nothing of the kind,” said he, still standing his ground.
“Alice,” said Lady Glencora, “we will leave Mr Fitzgerald here, since he drives us from the room.”
In such contests, a woman has ever the best of it at all points. The man plays with a button to his foil, while the woman uses a weapon that can really wound. Burgo knew that he must go,—felt that he must skulk away as best he might, and perhaps hear a low titter of half-suppressed laughter as he went. Even that might be possible. “No, Lady Glencora,” he said, “I will not drive you from the room. As one must be driven out, it shall be I. I own I did think that you would at any rate have been—less hard to me.” He then turned to go, bowing again very slightly to Miss Vavasor.
He was on the threshold of the door before Glencora’s voice recalled him. “Oh my God!” she said, “I am hard,—harder than flint. I am cruel. Burgo!” And he was back with her in a moment, and had taken her by the hand.
“Glencora,” said Alice, “pray,—pray let him go. Mr Fitzgerald, if you are a man, do not take advantage of her folly.”
“I will speak to him,” said Lady Glencora. “I will speak to him, and then he shall leave me.” She was holding him by the hand now and turning to him, away from Alice, who had taken her by the arm. “Burgo,” she said, repeating his name twice again, with all the passion that she could throw into the word,—”Burgo, no good can come of this. Now, you must leave me. You must go. I shall stay with my husband as I am bound to do. Because I have wronged you, I will not wrong him also. I loved you;—you know I loved you.” She still held him by the hand, and was now gazing up into his face, while the tears were streaming from her eyes.
“Sir,” said Alice, “you have heard from her all that you can care to hear. If you have any feeling of honour in you, you will leave her.”
“I will never leave her, while she tells me that she loves me!”
“Yes, Burgo, you will;—you must! I shall never tell you that again, never. Do as she bids you. Go, and leave us;—but I could not bear that you should
