“But I don’t want to be a cat myself.”
“She’ll find I’m of the genus, but of the tiger kind, if she persecutes me. Alice, there’s one thing I have made up my mind about. I will not be persecuted. If my husband tells me to do anything, as long as he is my husband I’ll do it; but I won’t be persecuted.”
“You should remember that she was a very old friend of Mr. Palliser’s mother.”
“I do remember; and that may be a very good reason why she should come here occasionally, or go to Matching, or to any place in which we may be living. It’s a bore, of course; but it’s a natural bore, and one that ought to be borne.”
“And that will be the beginning and the end of it.”
“I’m afraid not, my dear. It may perhaps be the end of it, but I fear it won’t be the beginning. I won’t be persecuted. If she gives me advice, I shall tell her to her face that it’s not wanted; and if she insults any friend of mine, as she did you, I shall tell her that she had better stay away. She’ll go and tell him, of course; but I can’t help that. I’ve made up my mind that I won’t be persecuted.”
After that, Lady Glencora felt no further inclination to show Burgo’s letter to Alice on that occasion. They sat over the drawing-room fire, talking chiefly of Alice’s affairs, till it was time for them to dress. But Alice, though she spoke much of Mr. Grey, said no word as to her engagement with George Vavasor. How could she speak of it, inasmuch as she had already resolved—already almost resolved—that that engagement also should be broken?
Alice, when she came down to the drawing-room, before dinner, found Mr. Bott there alone. She had dressed more quickly than her friend, and Mr. Palliser had not yet made his appearance.
“I did not expect the pleasure of meeting Miss Vavasor today,” he said, as he came up, offering his hand. She gave him her hand, and then sat down, merely muttering some word of reply.
“We spent a very pleasant month down at Matching together;—didn’t you think so?”
“I spent a pleasant month there certainly.”
“You left, if I remember, the morning after that late walk out among the ruins? That was unfortunate, was it not? Poor Lady Glencora! it made her very ill; so much so, that she could not go to Monkshade, as she particularly wished. It was very sad. Lady Glencora is very delicate—very delicate, indeed. We, who have the privilege of being near her, ought always to remember that.”
“I don’t think she is at all delicate.”
“Oh! don’t you? I’m afraid that’s your mistake, Miss Vavasor.”
“I believe she has very good health, which is the greatest blessing in the world. By delicate I suppose you mean weak and infirm.”
“Oh, dear, no—not in the least—not infirm certainly! I should be very sorry to be supposed to have said that Lady Glencora is infirm. What I mean is, not robust, Miss Vavasor. Her general organization, if you understand me, is exquisitely delicate. One can see that, I think, in every glance of her eye.”
Alice was going to protest that she had never seen it at all, when Mr. Palliser entered the room along with Mrs. Marsham.
The two gentlemen shook hands, and then Mr. Palliser turned to Alice. She perceived at once by his face that she was unwelcome, and wished herself away from his house. It might be all very well for Lady Glencora to fight with Mrs. Marsham—and with her husband, too, in regard to the Marsham persecution—but there could be no reason why she should do so. He just touched her hand, barely closing his thumb upon her fingers, and asked her how she was. Then he turned away from her side of the fire, and began talking to Mrs. Marsham on the other. There was that in his face and in his manner which was positively offensive to her. He made no allusion to his former acquaintance with her—spoke no word about Matching, no word about his wife, as he would naturally have done to his wife’s friend. Alice felt the blood mount into her face, and regretted greatly that she had ever come among these people. Had she not long since made up her mind that she would avoid her great relations, and did not all this prove that it would have been well for her to have clung to that resolution? What was Lady Glencora to her that she should submit herself to be treated as though she were a poor companion—a dependent, who received a salary for her attendance—an indigent cousin, hanging on to the bounty of her rich connection? Alice was proud to a fault. She had nursed her pride till it was very faulty. All her troubles and sorrows in life had come from an overfed craving for independence. Why, then, should she submit to be treated with open want of courtesy by any man; but, of all men, why should she submit to it from such a one as Mr. Palliser—the heir of a ducal house, rolling in wealth, and magnificent with all the magnificence of British pomp and pride? No; she would make Lady Glencora understand that the close intimacies of daily life were not possible to them!
“I declare I’m very much ashamed,” said Lady Glencora, as she entered the room. “I shan’t apologize to you, Alice, for it was you who kept me talking; but I do beg Mrs. Marsham’s
