Burgo was still looking at the fireplace; and he sat on, looking and still looking, but he said nothing.
“You can think of what I have said, Burgo,” continued his aunt, meaning that he should get up and go. But he did not go. “Have you anything more that you wish to say to me?” she asked.
“I’ve got no money,” said Burgo, still looking at the fireplace.
Lady Glencora’s property was worth not less than fifty thousand a year. He was a young man ambitious of obtaining that almost incredible amount of wealth, and who once had nearly reached it, by means of her love. His present obstacle consisted in his want of a twenty-pound note! “I’ve got no money.” The words were growled out rather than spoken, and his eyes were never turned even for a moment towards his aunt’s face.
“You’ve never got any money,” said she, speaking almost with passion.
“How can I help it? I can’t make money. If I had a couple of hundred pounds, so that I could take her, I believe that she would go with me. It should not be my fault if she did not. It would have been all right if she had come to Monkshade.”
“I’ve got no money for you, Burgo. I have not five pounds belonging to me.”
“But you’ve got—?”
“What?” said Lady Monk, interrupting him sharply.
“Would Cosmo lend it me?” said he, hesitating to go on with that suggestion which he had been about to make. The Cosmo of whom he spoke was not his uncle, but his cousin. No eloquence could have induced his uncle, Sir Cosmo, to lend him another shilling. But the son of the house was a man rich with his own wealth, and Burgo had not taxed him for some years.
“I do not know,” said Lady Monk. “I never see him. Probably not.”
“It is hard,” said Burgo. “Fancy that a man should be ruined for two hundred pounds, just at such a moment of his life as this!” He was a man bold by nature, and he did make his proposition. “You have jewels, aunt;—could you not raise it for me? I would redeem them with the very first money that I got.”
Lady Monk rose in a passion when the suggestion was first made, but before the interview was over she had promised that she would endeavour to do something in the way of raising money for him yet, once again. He was her favourite nephew, and the same almost to her as a child of her own. With one of her own children indeed she had quarrelled, and of the other, a married daughter, she rarely saw much. Such love as she had to give she gave to Burgo, and she promised him the money though she knew that she must raise it by some villainous falsehood to her husband.
On the same morning Lady Glencora went to Queen Anne Street with the purpose of inducing Alice to go to Lady Monk’s party; but Alice would not accede to the proposition, though Lady Glencora pressed it with all her eloquence. “I don’t know her,” said Alice.
“My dear,” said Lady Glencora, “that’s absurd. Half the people there won’t know her.”
“But they know her set, or know her friends—or, at any rate, will meet their own friends at her house. I should only bother you, and should not in the least gratify myself.”
“The fact is, everybody will go who can, and I should have no sort of trouble in getting a card for you. Indeed I should simply write a note and say I meant to bring you.”
“Pray don’t do any such thing, for I certainly shall not go. I can’t conceive why you should wish it.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald will be there,” said Lady Glencora, altering her voice altogether, and speaking in that low tone with which she used to win Alice’s heart down at Matching. She was sitting close over the fire, leaning low, holding up her little hands as a screen to her face, and looking at her companion earnestly. “I’m sure that he will be there, though nobody has told me.”
“That may be a reason for your staying away,” said Alice, slowly, “but hardly a reason for my going with you.”
Lady Glencora would not condescend to tell her friend in so many words that she wanted her protection. She could not bring herself to say that, though she wished it to be understood. “Ah! I thought you would have gone,” said she.
“It would be contrary to all my habits,” said Alice: “I never go to people’s houses when I don’t know them. It’s a kind of society which I don’t like. Pray do not ask me.”
“Oh! very well. If it must be so, I won’t press it.” Lady Glencora had moved the position of one of her hands so as to get it to her pocket, and there had grasped a letter, which she still carried; but when Alice said those last cold words, “Pray do not ask me,” she released the grasp, and left the letter where it was. “I suppose he won’t bite me, at any rate,” she said, and she assumed that look of childish drollery which she would sometimes put on, almost
