“By G––––! they can,” said he. “They can come back, and they shall.”
“Never. But you can still do me a kindness. Go away, and leave me. Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back. You are doing me an injury while you remain with me.”
“Cora,” he said,
But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream, but words and things bore to her again their proper meaning. “I will not have it, Mr Fitzgerald,” she answered, speaking almost passionately. “I will not have it. Do as I bid you. Go and leave me, and do not return. I tell you that we are watched.” This was still true, for Mr Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door. Whatever was the reward for which he was working, private secretaryship or what else, it must be owned that he worked hard for it. But there are labours which are labours of love.
“Who is watching us?” said Burgo; “and what does it matter? If you are minded to do as I have asked you — “
“But I am not so minded. Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?”
“Yes; — it is an insult, Cora, — unless such an offer be a joy to you. If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult.”
“How can I be that?” Her face was not turned to him, and her words were half-pronounced, and in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.
“Come with me, — abroad, and you shall yet be my wife. You got my letter? Do what I asked you, then. Come with me — to-night.”
The pressing instance of the suggestion, the fixing of a present hour, startled her back to her propriety. “Mr Fitzgerald,” she said, “I asked you to go and leave me. If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you. It will be much more difficult.”
“And is that to be all?”
“All; — at any rate, now.” Oh, Glencora! how could you be so weak? Why did you add that word, “now”? In truth, she added it then, at that moment, simply feeling that she could thus best secure an immediate compliance with her request.
“I will not go,” he said, looking at her sternly, and leaning before her, with earnest face, with utter indifference as to the eyes of any that might see them. “I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again.”
“I will,” she said in that low, all-but-unuttered whisper.
“When, — when, — when?” he asked.
Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr Bott’s eyes, she saw the face of Mr Palliser as he entered the room. Mr Bott had also seen him, and had tried to clutch him by the arm; but Mr Palliser had shaken him off, apparently with indifference, — had got rid of him, as it were, without noticing him. Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage. She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done. For the matter of that, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper such a word to Burgo himself. Mr Bott’s eyes were odious to her as they watched her; but her husband’s glance she could meet without quailing before it. “Here is Mr Palliser,” said she, speaking again in her ordinary clear-toned voice. Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.
Mr Palliser made his way as best he could through the crowd up to his wife. He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret. There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor was there any untoward hurry in his movement. Burgo stood aside as he came up, and Lady Glencora was the first to speak. “I thought you were gone home hours ago,” she said.
“I did go home,” he answered, “but I thought I might as well come back for you.”
“What a model of a husband! Well; I am ready. Only, what shall we do about Jane? Mr Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt’s room, — a little black and yellow scarf, — would you mind getting it for me?”
“I will fetch it,” said Mr Palliser; “and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her.”
“If you will allow me — ” said Burgo.
“I will do it,” said Mr Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress up through the crowd, ordering his carriage as he passed through the hall, and leaving Mr Bott still watching at the door.
Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone. There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them again together, which so far conquered her. He might have bade her leave the scarf, and come at once. She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr Bott, and was thankful to him also for that. Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance for that time was over. “I will say good-night,” he said. “Good-night, Mr Fitzgerald,” she answered, giving him her hand. He pressed it for a moment, and then turned and went. When Mr Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.
Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door when her husband returned, standing close to Mr Bott. Mr Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply. He spoke again, but her face remained as immovable as though she had been deaf. “And what shall we do about Mrs Marsham?” she said, quite out loud, as soon as she put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I had forgotten her.”
“Mrs Marsham has gone home,” he replied.
“Have you seen her?”
“Yes.”
“When did you see her?”
“She came to Park Lane.”
“What made her do that?”
These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage. She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not find it necessary to answer it. But that would not serve her turn. “What made Mrs Marsham go to you at Park Lane after she left Lady Monk’s?” she asked again. Mr Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject. “I suppose she went,” continued Lady Glencora, “to tell you that I was dancing with Mr Fitzgerald. Was that it?”
“I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now.”
“I don’t mean to discuss it now, or ever. If you did not wish me to see Mr Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk’s. But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs Marsham or Mr Bott.”
Mr Palliser absolutely declined to say anything on the subject on that occasion, and the evening of Lady Monk’s party in this way came to an end.
CHAPTER LI
Bold Speculations on Murder
George Vavasor was not in a very happy mood when he left Queen Anne Street, after having flung his gift ring under the grate. Indeed there was much in his condition, as connected with the house which he was leaving, which could not but make him unhappy. Alice was engaged to be his wife, and had as yet said nothing to show that she meditated any breach of that engagement, but she had treated him in a way which made him long to throw her promise in her teeth. He was a man to whom any personal slight from a woman was unendurable. To slights from men, unless they were of a nature to provoke offence, he was indifferent. There was no man living for whose liking or disliking George Vavasor cared anything. But he did care much for the good opinion, or rather for the personal favour, of any woman to whom he had endeavoured to make himself agreeable. “I will marry you,” Alice had said to him, — not in words, but in acts and looks, which were plainer than words, — “I will marry you for certain reasons of my own, which in my present condition make it seem that that arrangement will be more convenient to me than any other that I can make; but pray understand that there is no love mixed up with this. There is another man whom I love; — only, for those reasons above hinted, I do not care to marry him.” It was thus that he read Alice’s present treatment of him, and he was a man who could not endure this treatment with ease.
But though he could throw his ring under the grate in his passion, he could not so dispose of her. That he would have d
one so had his hands been free, we need not doubt. And he would have been clever enough to do so in some manner that would have been exquisitely painful to Alice, willing as she might be to be released from her engagement. But he could not do this to a woman whose money he had borrowed, and whose money he could not repay; — to a woman, more of whose money he intended to borrow immediately. As to that latter part of it, he did say to himself over and over again, that he would have no more of it. As he left the house in Queen Anne Street, on that occasion, he swore, that under no circumstances would he be indebted to her for another shilling. But before he had reached Great Marlborough Street, to which his steps took him, he had reminded himself that everything depended on a further advance. He was in Parliament, but Parliament would be dissolved within three months. Having sacrificed so much for his position, should he let it all fall from him now, — now, when success seemed to be within his reach? That wretched old man in Westmoreland, who seemed gifted almost with immortality, — why could he not die and surrender his paltry acres to one who could use them? He turned away from Regent Street into Hanover Square before he crossed to Great Marlborough Street, giving vent to his passion rather than arranging his thoughts. As he walked the four sides of the square he considered how good it would be if some accident should befall the old man. How he would rejoice were he to hear to-morrow that one of the trees of the “accursed place,” had fallen on the “obstinate old idiot,” and put an end to him! I will not say that he meditated the murder of his grandfather. There was a firm conviction on his mind, as he thought of all this, that such a deed as that would never come in his way. But he told himself, that if he chose to make the attempt, he would certainly be able to carry it through without detection. Then he remembered Rush and Palmer — the openly bold murderer and the secret poisoner. Both of them, in Vavasor’s estimation, were great men. He had often said so in company. He had declared that the courage of Rush had never been surpassed. “Think of him,” he would say with admiration, “walking into a man’s house, with pistols sufficient to shoot every one there, and doing it as though he were killing rats! What was Nelson at Trafalgar to that? Nelson had nothing to fear!” And of Palmer he declared that he was a man of genius as well as courage. He had “looked the whole thing in the face,” Vavasor would say, “and told himself that all scruples and squeamishness are bosh, — child’s tales. And so they are. Who lives as though they fear either heaven or hell? And if we do live without such fear or respect, what is the use of telling lies to ourselves? To throw it all to the dogs, as Palmer did, is more manly.” “And be hanged,” some hearer of George’s doctrine replied. “Yes, and be hanged, — if such is your destiny. But you hear of the one who is hanged, but hear nothing of the twenty who are not.”
Vavasor walked round Hanover Square, nursing his hatred against the old Squire. He did not tell himself that he would like to murder his grandfather. But he suggested to himself, that if he desired to do so, he would have courage enough to make his way into the old man’s room, and strangle him; and he explained to himself how he would be able to get down into Westmoreland without the world knowing that he had been there, — how he would find an entrance into the house by a window with which he was acquainted, — how he could cause the man to die as though, those around him should think, it was apoplexy, — he, George Vavasor, having read something on that subject lately. All this he considered very fully, walking rapidly round Hanover Square more than once or twice. If he were to become an active student in the Rush or Palmer school, he would so study the matter that he would not be the one that should be hung. He thought that he could, so far, trust his own ingenuity. But yet he did not meditate murder. “Beastly old idiot!” he said to himself, “he must have his chance as other men have, I suppose,” And then he went across Regent Street to Mr Scruby’s office in Great Marlborough Street, not having, as yet, come to any positive conclusion as to what he would do in reference to Alice’s money.
But he soon found himself talking to Mr Scruby as though there were no doubts as to the forthcoming funds for the next elections. And Mr Scruby talked to him very plainly, as though those funds must be forthcoming before long. “A stitch in time saves nine,” said Mr Scruby, meaning to insinuate that a pound in time might have the same effect. “And I’ll tell you what, Mr Vavasor, — of course I’ve my outstanding bills for the last affair. That’s no fault of yours, for the things came so sharp one on another that my fellows haven’t had time to make it out. But if you’ll put me in funds for what I must be out of pocket in June — “
“Will it be so soon as June?”
“They are talking of June. Why, then, I’ll lump the two bills together when it’s all over.”
In their discussion respecting money Mr Scruby injudiciously mentioned the name of Mr Tombe. No precise caution had been given to him, but he had become aware that the matter was being managed through an agency that was not recognized by his client; and as that agency was simply a vehicle of money which found its way into Mr Scruby’s pocket, he should have held his tongue. But Mr Tombe’s name escaped from him, and Vavasor immediately questioned him. Scruby, who did not often make such blunders, readily excused himself, shaking his head, and declaring that the name had fallen from his lips instead of that of another man. Vavasor accepted the excuse without further notice, and nothing more was said about Mr Tombe while he was in Mr Scruby’s office. But he had not heard the name in vain, and had unfortunately heard it before. Mr Tombe was a remarkable man in his way. He wore powder to his hair, — was very polite in his bearing, — was somewhat asthmatic, and wheezed in his talking, — and was, moreover, the most obedient of men, though it was said of him that he managed the whole income of the Ely Chapter just as he pleased. Being in these ways a man of note, John Grey had spoken of him to Alice, and his name had filtered through Alice and her cousin Kate to George Vavasor. George seldom forgot things or names, and when he heard Mr Tombe’s name mentioned in connection with his own money matters, he remembered that Mr Tombe was John Grey’s lawyer.
As soon as he could escape out into the street he endeavoured to put all these things together, and after a while resolved that he would go to Mr Tombe. What if there should be an understanding between John Grey and Alice, and Mr Tombe should be arranging his money matters for him! Would not anything be better than this, — even that little tragedy down in Westmoreland, for which his ingenuity and courage would be required? He could endure to borrow money from Alice. He might even endure it still, — though that was very difficult after her treatment of him; but he could not endure to be the recipient of John Grey’s money. By heavens, no! And as he got into a cab, and had himself driven off to the neighbourhood of Doctors’ Commons, he gave himself credit for much fine manly feeling. Mr Tombe’s chambers were found without difficulty, and, as it happened, Mr Tombe was there.
The lawyer rose from his chair as Vavasor entered, and bowed his powdered head very meekly as he asked his visitor to sit down. “Mr Vavasor; — oh, yes. He had heard the name. Yes; he was in the habit of acting for his very old friend Mr John Grey. He had acted for Mr John Grey, and for Mr John Grey’s father, — he or his partner, — he believed he might say, for about half a century. There could not be a nicer gentleman than Mr John Grey; — and such a pretty child as he used to be!” At every new sentence Mr Tombe caught his poor asthmatic breath, and bowed his meek old head, and rubbed his hands together as though he hardly dared to keep his seat in Vavasor’s presence without the support of some such motion; and wheezed apologetically, and seemed to ask pardon of his visitor for not knowing intuitively what was the nature of that visitor’s business. But he was a sly old fox was Mr Tombe, and was considering all this time how much it would be well that he should tell Mr Vavasor, and how much it would be well that he should conceal. “The fat had got into the fire,” as he told his old wife when he got home that evening. He told his old wife everything, and I don’t know that any of his clients were the worse for his doing so. But while he
was wheezing, and coughing, and apologizing, he made up his mind that if George Vavasor were to ask him certain questions, it would be best that he should answer them truly. If Vavasor did ask those questions, he would probably do so upon certain knowledge, and if so, why, in that case, lying would be of no use. Lying would not put the fat back into the frying pan. And even though such questions might be asked without any absolute knowledge, they would, at any rate, show that the questioner had the means of ascertaining the truth. He would tell as little as he could; but he decided during his last wheeze, that he could not lie in the matter with any chance of benefiting his client. “The prettiest child I ever saw, Mr Vavasor!” said Mr Tombe, and then he coughed violently. Some people who knew Mr Tombe declared that he nursed his cough.
“I dare say,” said George.
“Yes, indeed, — ugh — ugh — ugh.”
“Can you tell me, Mr Tombe, whether either you or he have anything to do with the payment of certain sums to my credit at Messrs Hock and Block’s?”
“Messrs Hock and Block’s, the bankers, — in Lom — bard Street?” said Mr Tombe, taking a little more time.
“Yes; I bank there,” said Vavasor, sharply.
“A most respectable house.”
“Has any money been paid there to my credit, by you, Mr Tombe?”
“May I ask you why you put the question to me, Mr Vavasor?”
“Well, I don’t think you may. That is to say, my reason for asking it can have nothing to do with yours for replying to it. If you have had no hand in any such payment, there is an end of it, and I need not take up your time by saying anything more on the subject.”
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