Alice, on her return from Westmoreland, went direct to Park Lane, whither Lady Glencora and Mr Palliser had also returned before her. She was to remain with them in London one entire day, and on the morning after that they were to start for Paris. She found Mr Palliser in close attendance upon his wife. Not that there was anything in his manner which at all implied that he was keeping watch over her, or that he was more with her, or closer to her than a loving husband might wish to be with a young wife; but the mode of life was very different from that which Alice had seen at Matching Priory!
On her arrival Mr Palliser himself received her in the hall, and took her up to his wife before she had taken off her travelling hat. “We are so much obliged to you, Miss Vavasor,” he said. “I feel it quite as deeply as Glencora.”
“Oh, no,” she said; “it is I that am under obligation to you for taking me.”
He merely smiled, and shook his head, and then took her upstairs. On the stairs he said one other word to her: “You must forgive me if I was cross to you that night she went out among the ruins.” Alice muttered something — some little fib of courtesy as to the matter having been forgotten, or never borne in mind; and then they went on to Lady Glencora’s room. It seemed to Alice that he was not so big or so much to be dreaded as when she had seen him at Matching. His descent from an expectant, or more than an expectant, Chancellor of the Exchequer, down to a simple, attentive husband, seemed to affect his gait, his voice, and all his demeanour. When he received Alice at the Priory he certainly loomed before her as something great, whereas now his greatness seemed to have fallen from him. We must own that this was hard upon him, seeing that the deed by which he had divested himself of his greatness had been so pure and good!
“Dear Alice, this is so good of you! I am all in the midst of packing, and Plantagenet is helping me.” Plantagenet winced a little under this, as the hero of old must have winced when he was found with the distaff. Mr Palliser had relinquished his sword of state for the distaff which he had assumed, and could take no glory in the change. There was, too, in his wife’s voice the slightest hint of mockery, which, slight as it was, he perhaps thought she might have spared. “You have nothing left to pack,” continued Glencora, “and I don’t know what you can do to amuse yourself.”
“I will help you,” said Alice.
“But we have so very nearly done. I think we shall have to pull all the things out, and put them up again, or we shall never get through tomorrow. We couldn’t start tomorrow — could we, Plantagenet?”
“Not very well, as your rooms are ordered in Paris for the next day.”
“As if we couldn’t find rooms at every inn on the road. Men are so particular. Now in travelling I should like never to order rooms — never to know where I was going or when I was going, and to carry everything I wanted in a market-basket.” Alice, who by this time had followed her friend along the passage to her bedroom, and had seen how widely the packages were spread about, bethought herself that the market-basket should be a large one. “And I would never travel among Christians. Christians are so slow, and they wear chimney-pot hats everywhere. The further one goes from London among Christians, the more they wear chimney-pot hats. I want Plantagenet to take us to see the Kurds, but he won’t.”
“I don’t think that would be fair to Miss Vavasor,” said Mr Palliser, who had followed them.
“Don’t put the blame on her head,” said Lady Glencora. “Women have always pluck for anything. Wouldn’t you like to see a live Kurd, Alice?”
“I don’t exactly know where they live,” said Alice.
“Nor I. I have not the remotest idea of the way to the Kurds. You see my joke, don’t you, though Plantagenet doesn’t? But one knows that they are Eastern, and the East is such a grand idea!”
“I think we’ll content ourselves with Rome, or perhaps Naples, on this occasion,” said Mr Palliser.
The notion of Lady Glencora packing anything for herself was as good a joke as that other one of the Kurds and whey. But she went flitting about from room to room, declaring that this thing must be taken, and that other, till the market-basket would have become very large indeed. Alice was astonished at the extent of the preparations, and the sort of equipage with which they were about to travel. Lady Glencora was taking her own carriage. “Not that I shall ever use it,” she said to Alice, “but he insists upon it, to show that I am not supposed to be taken away in disgrace. He is so good — isn’t he?”
“Very good,” said Alice. I know no one better.
“And so dull!” said Lady Glencora. “But I fancy that all husbands are dull from the nature of their position. If I were a young woman’s husband, I shouldn’t know what to say to her that wasn’t dull.”
Two women and two men servants were to be taken. Alice had received permission to bring her own maid — “or a dozen, if you want them,” Lady Glencora had said. “Mr Palliser in his present mood would think nothing too much to do for you. If you were to ask him to go among the Kurds, he’d go at once — or on to Crim Tartary, if you made a point of it.” But as both Lady Glencora’s servants spoke French, and as her own did not, Alice trusted herself in that respect to her cousin. “You shall have one all to yourself,” said Lady Glencora. “I only take two for the same reason that I take the carriage — just as you let a child go out in her best frock, for a treat, after you’ve scolded her.”
When Alice asked why it was supposed that Mr Palliser was so specially devoted to her, the thing was explained to her. “You see, my dear, I have told him everything. I always do tell everything. Nobody can say I am not candid. He knows about your not letting me come to your house in the old days. Oh, Alice! — you were wrong then; I shall always say that. But it’s done and gone; and things that are done and gone shall be done and gone for me. And I told him all that you said — about you know what. I have had nothing else to do but make confessions for the last ten days, and when a woman once begins, the more she confesses the better. And I told him that you refused Jeffrey.”
“You didn’t?”
“I did indeed, and he likes you the better for that. I think he’d let Jeffrey marry you now if you both wished it — and then, oh dear! — supposing that you had a son and that we adopted it?”
“Cora, if you go on in that way I will not remain with you.”
“But you must, my dear. You can’t escape now. At any rate, you can’t when we once get to Paris. Oh dear! you shouldn’t grudge me my little naughtinesses. I have been so proper for the last ten days. Do you know I got into a way of driving Dandy and Flirt at the rate of six miles an hour, till I’m sure the poor beasts thought they were always going to a funeral. Poor Dandy and poor Flirt! I shan’t see them now for another year.”
On the following morning they breakfasted early, because Mr Palliser had got into an early habit. He had said that early hours would be good for them. “But he never tells me why,” said Lady Glencora. “I think it is pleasant when people are travelling,” said Alice. “It isn’t that,” her cousin answered; “but we are all to be such particularly good children. It’s hardly fair, because he went to sleep last night after dinner while you and I kept ourselves awake: but we needn’t do that another night, to be sure.” After breakfast they all three went to work to do nothing. It was ludicrous and almost painful to see Mr Palliser wandering about and counting the boxes, as though he could do any good by that. At this special crisis of his life he hated his papers and figures and statistics, and could not apply himself to them. He, whose application had been so unremitting, could apply himself now to nothing. His world had been brought to an abrupt end, and he was awkward at making a new beginning. I believe that they all three were reading novels before one o’clock. Lady Glencora and Alice had determined that they would not leave the house throughout the day. “Nothing has been said about it, but I regard it as part of the bond that I’m not to go out anywhere. Who knows but what I might be found in Gloucester Square?” There was, however, no absolute necessity that Mr Palliser should remain with them; and, at about three, he prepared himself for a solitary walk. He would not go down to the House. All interest in the House was over with him for the present. He had the Speaker’s leave to absent himself for the season. Nor would he call on any one. All his friends knew, or believed they knew, that he had left town. His death and burial had been already chronicled, and were he now to reappear, he could reappear only as a ghost. He was being talked of as the departed one — or rather, such talk on all sides had now come nearly to an end. The poor Duke of St Bungay still thought of him with regret when more than ordinarily annoyed by some special grievance coming to him from Mr Finespun; but even the Duke had become almost reconciled to the present order of things. Mr Palliser knew better than to disturb all this by showing himself again in public; and prepared himself, therefore, to take another walk under the elms in Kensington Gardens.
He had his hat on his head in the hall, and was in the act of putting on his gloves, when there came a knock at the front door. The hall porter was there, a stout, plethoric personage, not given to many words, who was at this moment standing with his master’s umbrella in his hand, looking as though he would fain be of some use to somebody, if any such utility were compatible with the purposes of his existence. Now had come this knock at the door, while the umbrella was still in his hand, and the nature of his visage changed, and it was easy to see that he was oppressed by the temporary multiplicity of his duties. “Give me the umbrella, John,” said Mr Palliser. John gave up the umbrella, and opening the door disclosed Burgo Fitzgerald standing upon the doorstep. “Is Lady Glencora at home?” asked Burgo, before he had seen the husband. John turned a dismayed face upon his master, as though he knew that the comer ought not to be making a morning call at that house — as no doubt he did know very well — and made no instant reply. “I am not sure,” said Mr Palliser, making his way out as he had originally purposed. “The servant will find out for you.” Then he went on his way across Park Lane and into the Park, never once turning back his face to see whether Burgo had effected an entrance into the house. Nor did he return a minute earlier than he would otherwise have done. After all, there was something chivalrous about the man.
“Yes; Lady Glencora was at home,” said the porter, not stirring to make any further inquiry. It was no business of his if Mr Palliser chose to receive such a guest. He had not been desired to say that her ladyship was not at home. Burgo was therefore admitted and shown direct up into the room in which Lady Glencora was sitting. As chance would have it, she was alone. Alice had left her and was in her own chamber, and Lady Glencora was sitting at the window of the small room upstairs that overlooked the Park. She was seated on a footstool with her face between her hands when Burgo was admitted, thinking of him, and of what the world might have been to her had “they left her alone,” as she was in the habit of saying to Alice and to herself.
She rose quickly, so that he saw her only as she was rising. “Ask Miss Vavasor to come to me,” she said, as the servant left the room; and then she came forward to greet her lover.
“Cora,” he said, dashing at once into his subject — hopelessly, but still with a resolve to do as he had said that he would do. “Cora, I have come to you, to ask you to go with me.”
“I will not go with you,” said she.
“Do not answer me in that way, without a moment’s thought. Everything is arranged — ”
“Yes, everything is arranged,” she said. “Mr Fitzgerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr Palliser and I, and my friend, are starting tomorrow. Wish me God-speed and go, and be generous.”
“And is this to be the end of everything?” He was standing close to her, but hitherto he had only touched her hand at greeting her. “Give me your hand, Cora,” he said.
“No — I will never give you my hand again. You should be generous to me and go. This is to be the end of everything — of everything that is common to you and to me. Go, when I ask you.”
“Cora; did you ever love me?”
“Yes; I did love you. But we were separated, and there was no room for love left between us.”
“You are as dear to me............