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.
“Goodbye, 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.
Chapter XXIX.
Burgo Fitzgerald
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 godlike 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,
