As there was no way of escape left to him, he followed his aunt into the breakfast-parlour.
“Burgo,” she said, when she had seated herself, and had made him sit in a chair opposite to her, “I don’t think you will ever do any good.”
“I don’t much think I shall, aunt.”
“What do you mean, then, to do with yourself?”
“Oh—I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it.”
“You can’t stay here in this house. Sir Cosmo was speaking to me about you only yesterday morning.”
“I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes it better;—that is, when the season is a little more through.”
“He won’t have you at Monkshade. He won’t let you go there again. And he won’t have you here. You know that you are turning what I say into joke.”
“No, indeed, aunt.”
“Yes, you are;—you know you are. You are the most ungrateful, heartless creature I ever met. You must make up your mind to leave this house at once.”
“Where does Sir Cosmo mean that I should go, then?”
“To the workhouse, if you like. He doesn’t care.”
“I don’t suppose he does;—the least in the world,” said Burgo, opening his eyes, and stretching his nostrils, and looking into his aunt’s face as though he had great ground for indignation.
But the turning of Burgo out of the house was not Lady Monk’s immediate purpose. She knew that he would hang on there till the season was over. After that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he should have succeeded in a certain enterprise. She had now caught him in order that she might learn whether there was any possible remaining chance of success as to that enterprise. So she received his indignation in silence, and began upon another subject. “What a fool you made of yourself last night, Burgo!”
“Did I;—more of a fool than usual?”
“I believe that you will never be serious about anything. Why did you go on waltzing in that way when every pair of eyes in the room was watching you?”
“I couldn’t help going on, if she liked it.”
“Oh, yes—say it was her fault. That’s so like a man!”
“Look here, aunt, I’m not going to sit here and be abused. I couldn’t take her in my arms, and fly away with her out of a crowd.”
“Who wants you to fly away with her?”
“For the matter of that, I suppose that you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, then, I do.”
“You! you haven’t spirit to do that, or anything else. You are like a child that is just able to amuse itself for the moment, and never can think of anything further. You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too—and her; but, of course, you care nothing about that.”
“I had a plan all ready;—only he came back.”
“Of course he came back. Of course he came back, when they sent him word how you and she were going on. And now he will have forgiven her, and after that, of course, the thing will be all over.”
“I tell you what, aunt; she would go if she knew how. When I was forced to leave her last night, she promised to see me again. And as for being idle, and not doing anything;—why, I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed.”
“What good did that do?”
“It didn’t do any good, as it happened. But a fellow can only try. I believe, after all, it would be easier down in the country—especially now that he has taken it into his head to look after her.”
Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low voice, “What did she say to you when you were parting? What were her exact words?” She, at any rate, was not deficient in energy. She was anxious enough to see her purpose accomplished. She would have conducted the matter with discretion, if the running away with Mr. Palliser’s wife could, in very fact, have been done by herself.
“She said she would see me again. She promised it twice.”
“And was that all?”
“What could she say more, when she was forced to go away?”
“Had she said that she would go with you?”
“I had asked her—half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse. I know she means it, if she knew how to get away. She hates him;—I’m sure of it. A woman, you know, wouldn’t absolutely say that she would go, till she was gone.”
“If she really meant it, she would tell you.”
“I don’t think she could have told me plainer. She said she would see me again. She said that twice over.”
Again Lady Monk sat silent. She had a plan in her head—a plan that might, as she thought, give to her nephew one more chance. But she hesitated before she could bring herself to explain it in detail. At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr. Palliser’s wife, but in lending it had said no word upon the subject. During the last season she had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house in London, and had taken care that Burgo should meet her there. Then a hint or two had been spoken, and Lady Glencora had been asked to Monkshade. Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to Monkshade, and Lady Monk had then been baffled. But she did not therefore give up the game. Having now thought of it so much, she began to speak of it more boldly, and had procured money for her nephew that he might thereby be enabled to carry off the woman. But though this had been well understood between them, though words had been spoken which were sufficiently explicit, the plan had not been openly discussed. Lady Monk had known nothing of the mode in which Lady Glencora was to have been carried off after her party, nor
