“Well—the word shall be as little unpleasant as I can make it,” said Miss Palliser, already appreciating fully the difficulty of her task.
“But why say anything that is unpleasant? However, if it is to be said, let us have it over at once.”
“You are going to Monkshade, I believe, with Plantagenet.”
“Well;—and what of that?”
“Dear Glencora, I think you had better not go. Do you not think so yourself?”
“Who has been talking to you?” said Lady Glencora, turning upon her very sharply.
“Nobody has been talking to me;—not in the sense you mean.”
“Plantagenet has spoken to you?”
“Not a word,” said Miss Palliser. “You may be sure that he would not utter a word on such a subject to anyone unless it were to yourself. But, dear Glencora, you should not go there;—I mean it in all kindness and love—I do indeed.” Saying this she offered her hand to Glencora, and Glencora took it.
“Perhaps you do,” said she in a low voice.
“Indeed I do. The world is so hard and cruel in what it says.”
“I do not care two straws for what the world says.”
“But he might care.”
“It is not my fault. I do not want to go to Monkshade. Lady Monk was my friend once, but I do not care if I never see her again. I did not arrange this visit. It was Plantagenet who did it.”
“But he will not take you there if you say you do not wish it.”
“I have said so, and he told me that I must go. You will hardly believe me—but I condescended even to tell him why I thought it better to remain away. He told me, in answer, that it was a silly folly which I must live down, and that it did not become me to be afraid of any man.”
“Of course you are not afraid, but—”
“I am afraid. That is just the truth. I am afraid;—but what can I do more than I have done?”
This was very terrible to Miss Palliser. She had not thought that Lady Glencora would say so much, and she felt a true regret in having been made to hear words which so nearly amounted to a confession. But for this there was no help now. There were not many more words between them, and we already know the result of the conversation. Lady Glencora became so ill from the effects of her imprudent lingering among the ruins that she was unable to go to Monkshade.
Mr. Palliser remained three days at Monkshade, and cemented his political alliance with Sir Cosmo much in the same way as he had before done with the Duke of St. Bungay. There was little or nothing said about politics, and certainly not a word that could be taken as any definite party understanding between the men; but they sat at dinner together at the same table, drank a glass of wine or two out of the same decanters, and dropped a chance word now and again about the next session of Parliament. I do not know that anything more had been expected either by Mr. Palliser or by Sir Cosmo; but it seemed to be understood when Mr. Palliser went away that Sir Cosmo was of opinion that that young scion of a ducal house ought to become the future Chancellor of the Exchequer in the Whig Government.
“I can’t see that there’s so much in him,” said one young member of Parliament to Sir Cosmo.
“I rather think that there is, all the same,” said the baronet. “There’s a good deal in him, I believe! I dare say he’s not very bright, but I don’t know that we want brightness. A bright financier is the most dangerous man in the world. We’ve had enough of that already. Give me sound common sense, with just enough of the gab in a man to enable him to say what he’s got to say! We don’t want more than that nowadays.” From which it became evident that Sir Cosmo was satisfied with the new political candidate for high place.
Lady Monk took an occasion to introduce Mr. Palliser to Burgo Fitzgerald; with what object it is difficult to say, unless she was anxious to make mischief between the men. Burgo scowled at him; but Mr. Palliser did not notice the scowl, and put out his hand to his late rival most affably. Burgo was forced to take it, and as he did so made a little speech. “I’m sorry that we have not the pleasure of seeing Lady Glencora with you,” said he.
“She is unfortunately indisposed,” said Mr. Palliser.
“I am sorry for it,” said Burgo—“very sorry indeed.” Then he turned his back and walked away. The few words he had spoken, and the manner in which he had carried himself, had been such as to make all those around them notice it. Each of them knew that Lady Glencora’s name should not have been in Burgo’s mouth, and all felt a fear not easily to be defined that something terrible would come of it. But Mr. Palliser himself did not seem to notice anything, or to fear anything; and nothing terrible did come of it during that visit of his to Monkshade.
XXXIV
Mr. Vavasor Speaks to His Daughter
Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall with her grandfather. The journey was not a pleasant one. Mr. Vavasor knew that it was his duty to do something—to take some steps with the view of preventing the marriage which his daughter meditated; but he did not know what that something should be, and he did know that, whatever it might be, the doing of it would be thoroughly disagreeable. When they started from Vavasor he had as yet hardly spoken to her a word upon the subject. “I cannot congratulate you,” he had simply said. “I hope the time may come, papa, when you will,” Alice had answered; and that had been all.
The squire
