The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come.”

  “And you have never said a word about it.”

  “He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away.”

  “Why; — why; — why would it be better?”

  “Because his being here will do no good to any one.”

  “No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I’ll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will.” Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. “What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call.”

  “He may come if he pleases. You don’t think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!”

  “And may we ask him to dine with us?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well; — good night. I don’t understand you, that’s all.”

  It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it?

  She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it, — had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him, — since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault.

  If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady’s candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love, — as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out; but I think he was already in bed, being tired with long travel, before Lady Glencora had left Alice’s room.

  At breakfast the next morning nothing was said for a while about the new arrival. At last Mr Palliser ventured to speak. “Glencora has told you, I think, that Mr Grey is here? Mr Grey is an old friend of yours, I believe?”

  Alice, keeping her countenance as well as she was able, said Mr Grey had been, and, indeed, was, a very dear friend of hers. Mr Palliser knew the whole story, and what was the use of any little attempt at dissimulation? “I shall be glad to see him, — if you will allow me?” she went on to say.

  “Glencora suggests that we should ask him to dinner,” said Mr Palliser; and then that matter was settled.

  But Mr Grey did not wait till dinner-time to see Alice. Early in the morning his card was brought up, and Lady Glencora, as soon as she saw the name, immediately ran away.

  “Indeed you need not go,” said Alice.

  “Indeed I shall go,” said her ladyship. “I know what’s proper on these occasions, if you don’t.”

  So she went, whisking herself along the passages with a little run; and Mr Grey, as he was shown into her ladyship’s usual sitting-room, saw the skirt of her ladyship’s dress as she whisked herself off towards her husband.

  “I told you I should come,” he said, with his ordinary sweet smile. “I told you that I should follow you, and here I am.”

  He took her hand, and held it, pressing it warmly. She hardly knew with what words first to address him, or how to get her hand back from him.

  “I am very glad to see you, — as an old friend,” she said; “but I hope — “

  “Well; — you hope what?”

  “I hope you have had some better cause for travelling than a desire to see me?”

  “No, dearest; no. I have had no better cause, and, indeed, none other. I have come on purpose to see you; and had Mr Palliser taken you off to Asia or Africa, I think I should have felt myself compelled to follow him. You know why I follow you?”

  “Hardly,” said she, — not finding at the moment any other word that she could say.

  “Because I love you. You see what a plain-spoken John Bull I am, and how I come to the point at once. I want you to be my wife; and they say that perseverance is the best way when a man has such a want as that.”

  “You ought not to want it,” she said, whispering the words as though she were unable to speak them out loud.

  “But I do, you see. And why should I not want it?”

  “I am not fit to be your wife.”

  “I am the best judge of that, Alice. You have to make up your mind whether I am fit to be your husband.”

  “You would be disgraced if you were to take me, after all that has passed; — after what I have done. What would other men say of you when they knew the story?”

  “Other men, I hope, would be just enough to say, that when I had made up my mind, I was tolerably constant
in keeping to it. I do not think they could say much worse of me than that.”

  “They would say that you had been jilted, and had forgiven the jilt.”

  “As far as the forgiveness goes, they would tell the truth. But, indeed, Alice, I don’t very much care what men do say of me.”

  “But I care, Mr Grey; — and though you may forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Indeed I know now, as I have known all along, that I am not fit to be your wife. I am not good enough. And I have done that which makes me feel that I have no right to marry anyone.” These words she said, jerking out the different sentences almost in convulsions; and when she had come to the end of them, the tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I have thought about it, and I will not. I will not. After what has passed, I know that it will be better, — more seemly, that I should remain as I am.”

  Soon after that she left him, not, however, till she had told him that she would meet him again at dinner, and had begged him to treat her simply as a friend. “In spite of everything, I hope that we may always be friends, — dear friends,” she said.

  “I hope we may,” he answered; — “the very dearest.” And then he left her.

  In the afternoon he again encountered Mr Palliser, and having thought over the matter since his interview with Alice, he resolved to tell his whole story to his new acquaintance, — not in order that he might ask for counsel from him, for in this matter he wanted no man’s advice, — but that he might get some assistance. So the two men walked off together, up the banks of the clear-flowing Reuss, and Mr Palliser felt the comfort of having a companion.

  “I have always liked her,” said Mr Palliser, “though, to tell the truth, I have twice been very angry with her.”

  “I have never been angry with her,” said the lover.

  “And my anger was in both instances unjust. You may imagine how great is my confidence in her, when I have thought she was the best companion my wife could have for a long journey, taken under circumstances that were — that were — ; but I need not trouble you with that.”

  So great had been the desolation of Mr Palliser’s life since his banishment from London that he almost felt tempted to tell the story of his troubles to this absolute stranger. But he bethought himself of the blood of the Pallisers, and refrained. There are comforts which royalty may never enjoy, and luxuries in which such men as Plantagenet Palliser may not permit themselves to indulge.

  “About her and her character I have no doubt in the world,” said Grey. “In all that she has done I think that I have seen her motives; and though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. Had she married that man, I should have forgiven her even that, — though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself. Living as she is with you, and with your wife, she may, perhaps, just now be more under your influence and your wife’s than she can possibly be under mine.” Whereupon, Mr Palliser promised that he would do what he could. “I think she loves me,” said Mr Grey.

  Mr Palliser said that he was sure she did, though what ground he had for such assurance I am quite unable to surmise. He was probably desirous of saying the most civil thing which occurred to him.

  The little dinner-party that evening was pleasant enough, and nothing more was said about love. Lady Glencora talked nonsense to Mr Grey, and Mr Palliser contradicted all the nonsense which his wife talked. But this was all done in such a way that the evening passed away pleasantly. It was tacitly admitted among them that Mr Grey was to be allowed to come among them as a friend, and Lady Glencora managed to say one word to him aside, in which she promised to give him her most cordial cooperation.

  CHAPTER LXXI

  Showing How George Vavasor Received a Visit

  We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London during this summer, so that the reader may understand Mr Grey’s position when he reached Lucerne. He had undergone another quarrel with George Vavasor, and something of the circumstances of that quarrel must be told.

  It has been already said that George Vavasor lost his election for the Chelsea Districts, after all the money which he had spent, — money which he had been so ill able to spend, and on which he had laid his hands in a manner so disreputable! He had received two thousand pounds from the bills which Alice had executed on his behalf, — or rather, had received the full value of three out of the four bills, and a part of the value of the fourth, on which he had been driven to raise what immediate money he had wanted by means of a Jew bill-discounter. One thousand pounds he had paid over at once into the hands of Mr Scruby, his Parliamentary election agent, towards the expenses of his election; and when the day of polling arrived had exactly in his hands the sum of five hundred pounds. Where he was to get more when this was gone he did not know. If he were successful, — if the enlightened constituents of the Chelsea Districts, contented with his efforts on behalf of the River Bank, should again send him to Parliament, he thought that he might still carry on the war. A sum of ready money he would have in hand; and, as to his debts, he would be grandly indifferent to any consideration of them. Then there might be pickings in the way of a Member of Parliament of his calibre. Companies, — mercantile companies, — would be glad to have him as a director, paying him a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour’s attendance. Railways in want of vice-chairmen might bid for his services; and in the City he might turn that “M.P.” which belonged to him to good account in various ways. With such a knowledge of the City world as he possessed, he thought that he could pick up a living in London, if only he could retain his seat in Parliament.

  But what was he to do if he could not retain it? No sooner had Mr Scruby got the thousand pounds into his clutches than he pressed for still more money. George Vavasor, with some show of justice on his side, pointed out to this all-devouring agent that the sum demanded had already been paid. This Mr Scruby admitted, declaring that he was quite prepared to go on without any further immediate remittance, although by doing so might subject himself to considerable risk. But another five hundred pounds, paid at once, would add greatly to the safety of the seat; whereas eight hundred judiciously thrown in at the present moment would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasor swore to himself that he would not part with another shilling. Never had he felt such love for money as he did for that five hundred pounds which he now held in his pocket. “It’s no use,” he said to Mr Scruby. “I have done what you asked, and would have done more had you asked for more at that time. As it is, I cannot make another payment before the election.” Mr Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and said that he would do his best. But George Vavasor soon knew that the man was not doing his best, — that the man had, in truth, abandoned his cause. The landlord of the “Handsome Man” jeered him when he went there canvassing. “Laws, Mr Vavasor!” said the landlord of the “Handsome Man,” “you’re not at all the fellow for us chaps along the river, — you ain’t. You’re afraid to come down with the stumpy, — that’s what you are.” George put his hand upon his purse, and acknowledged to himself that he had been afraid to come down with the stumpy.

  For the last five days of the affair George Vavasor knew that his chance was gone. Mr Scruby’s face, manner, and words, told the result of the election as plainly as any subsequent figures could do. He would be absent when Vavasor called, or the clerk would say that he was absent. He would answer in very few words, constantly shrugging his shoulders. He would even go away and leave the anxious candidate while he was in the middle of some discussion as to his plans. It was easy to see that Mr Scruby no longer regarded him as a successful man, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr Scruby had been.

  George Vavasor was rejected, but he still had his five hundred pounds in his pocket. Of course he was subject to that mortification which a man feels when he reflects t
hat some little additional outlay would have secured his object. Whether it might have been so, or not, who can say? But there he was, with the gateway between the lamps barred against him, ex-Member of Parliament for the Chelsea Districts, with five hundred pounds in his pocket, and little or nothing else that he could call his own. What was he to do with himself?

  After trying to make himself heard upon the hustings when he was rejected, and pledging himself to stand again at the next election, he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and endeavoured to consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost his inheritance. He had abandoned one profession after another, and was now beyond the pale of another chance in that direction. His ambition had betrayed him, and there were no longer possible to him any hopes of political activity. He had estranged from himself every friend that he had ever possessed. He had driven from him with violence the devotion even of his sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intended to marry of her money, and had so insulted her that no feeling of amity between them was any longer possible. He had nothing now but himself and that five hundred pounds, which he still held in his pocket. What should he do with himself and his money? He thought over it all with outer calmness for awhile, as he sat there in his arm-chair.

  From the moment in which he had first become convinced that the election would go against him, and that he was therefore ruined on all sides, he had resolved that he would be calm amidst his ruin. Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing at his own position. Mr Bott’s day of rejection had come before his own, and he had written to Mr Bott a drolling note of consolation and mock sympathy. He had shaken hands with Mr Scruby, and had poked his fun at the agent, bidding him be sure to send in his little bill soon. To all who accosted him, he replied in a subrisive tone; and he bantered Calder Jones, whose seat was quite sure, till Calder Jones began to have fears that were quite unnecessary. And now, as he sat himself down, intending to come to some final decision as to what he would do, he maintained the same calmness. He smiled in the same way, though there was no one there to see the smile. He laughed even audibly once or twice, as he vainly endeavoured to persuade himself that he was able to regard the world and all that belonged to it as a bubble.