“Who? I! yes; I’m returned,” said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. “Yes; I have been returned,” said Mr. Palliser. “I’m sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate.”
“So I find,” said Alice. “It will be a great misfortune to him.”
“Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times.”
“This has been the third time with him,” said Alice, “and he is a poor man.”
“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. “I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out.”
“Who is that unfortunate?” asked Lady Glencora.
“Mr. Bott,” said the unthinking husband.
“Mr. Bott out!” exclaimed Lady Glencora. “Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;—he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he’ll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now.”
A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser’s face became black beneath The Times newspaper. “I did not know,” said he, “that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies.”
“Enemies! I don’t suppose they were enemies,” said Glencora. “But he was a man whom no one could help observing—and disliking.”
“He was a man I specially disliked,” said Alice, with great courage. “He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy.”
“Bravo, Alice!” said Lady Glencora.
“I hope he did nothing at Matching, to—to—to—,” began Mr. Palliser, apologetically.
“Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser—except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences.”
“And then he was so ugly,” said Lady Glencora.
“I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief,” said Alice.
“Of course he did,” said Lady Glencora; “and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable.”
Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. “I suppose he will remain now among his own people,” said Mr. Palliser.
“Let us hope he will,” said Lady Glencora—“and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence.” Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott.
It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices—the quick passage of the boats—the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men’s hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight—like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly.
“Oh, how I wish I could do that!” said Lady Glencora.
“It seems to be very dangerous,” said Mr. Palliser. “I don’t know how they can stop themselves.”
“Why should they want to stop themselves?” said Lady Glencora. “Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn’t try it?”
As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey.
On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter.
LXX
At Lucerne
I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no
