She told no one of the letter, but she kept it, and read it over and over again in the silence and solitude of her room. She felt that she was guilty in thus reading it—even in keeping it from her husband’s knowledge; but though conscious of this guilt, though resolute almost in its commission, still she determined not to remain at Matching after her husband’s departure—not to undergo the danger of remaining there while Burgo Fitzgerald should be in the vicinity. She could not analyse her own wishes. She often told herself, as she had told Alice, that it would be better for them all that she should go away; that in throwing herself even to the dogs, if such must be the result, she would do more of good than of harm. She declared to herself, in the most passionate words she could use, that she loved this man with all her heart. She protested that the fault would not be hers, but theirs, who had forced her to marry the man she did not love. She assured herself that her husband had no affection for her, and that their marriage was in every respect prejudicial to him. She recurred over and over again, in her thoughts, to her own childlessness, and to his extreme desire for an heir. “Though I do sacrifice myself,” she would say, “I shall do more of good than harm, and I cannot be more wretched than I am now.” But yet she fled to London because she feared to leave herself at Matching when Burgo Fitzgerald should be there. She sent no answer to his letter. She made no preparation for going with him. She longed to see Alice, to whom alone, since her marriage, had she ever spoken of her love, and intended to tell her the whole tale of that letter. She was as one who, in madness, was resolute to throw herself from a precipice, but to whom some remnant of sanity remained which forced her to seek those who would save her from herself.
Mr. Palliser had not seen her since her arrival in London, and, of course, he took her by the hand and kissed her. But it was the embrace of a brother rather than of a lover or a husband. Lady Glencora, with her full woman’s nature, understood this thoroughly, and appreciated by instinct the true bearing of every touch from his hand. “I hope you are well?” she said.
“Oh, yes; quite well. And you? A little fatigued with your journey, I suppose?”
“No; not much.”
“Well, we have had a debate on the Address. Don’t you want to know how it has gone?”
“If it has concerned you particularly, I do, of course.”
“Concerned me! It has concerned me certainly.”
“They haven’t appointed you yet; have they?”
“No; they don’t appoint people during debates, in the House of Commons. But I fear I shall never make you a politician.”
“I’m almost afraid you never will. But I’m not the less anxious for your success, since you wish it yourself. I don’t understand why you should work so very hard; but, as you like it, I’m as anxious as anybody can be that you should triumph.”
“Yes; I do like it,” he said. “A man must like something, and I don’t know what there is to like better. Some people can eat and drink all day; and some people can care about a horse. I can do neither.”
And there were others, Lady Glencora thought, who could love to lie in the sun, and could look up into the eyes of women, and seek their happiness there. She was sure, at any rate, that she knew one such. But she said nothing of this.
“I spoke for a moment to Lord Brock,” said Mr. Palliser. Lord Brock was the name by which the present Jove of the Treasury was known among men.
“And what did Lord Brock say?”
“He didn’t say much, but he was very cordial.”
“But I thought, Plantagenet, that he could appoint you if he pleased? Doesn’t he do it all?”
“Well, in one sense, he does. But I don’t suppose I shall ever make you understand.” He endeavoured, however, to do so on the present occasion, and gave her a somewhat longer lecture on the working of the British Constitution, and the manner in which British politics evolved themselves, than would have been expected from most young husbands to their young wives under similar circumstances. Lady Glencora yawned, and strove lustily, but ineffectually, to hide her yawn in her handkerchief.
“But I see you don’t care a bit about it,” said he, peevishly.
“Don’t be angry, Plantagenet. Indeed I do care about it, but I am so ignorant that I can’t understand it all at once. I am rather tired, and I think I’ll go to bed now. Shall you be late?”
“No, not very; that is, I shall be rather late. I’ve a lot of letters I want to write tonight, as I must be at work all tomorrow. By the by, Mr. Bott is coming to dine here. There will be no one else.” The next day was a Wednesday, and the House would not sit in the evening.
“Mr. Bott!” said Lady Glencora, showing by her voice that she anticipated no pleasure from that gentleman’s company.
“Yes, Mr. Bott. Have you any objection?”
“Oh, no. Would you like to dine alone with
