THE COMPLETE PALLISER NOVELS (All 6 Novels in One Edition). Anthony Trollope

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 anyone. 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 Godspeed 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 now,—dearer than ever you were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell me when we last parted that I might come to you again? Are we children, that others should come between us and separate us like that?”

      “Yes, Burgo; we are children. Here is my cousin coming. You must leave me now.” As she spoke the door was opened and Alice entered the room. “Miss Vavasor, Mr Fitzgerald,” said Lady Glencora. “I have told him to go and leave me. Now that you have come, Alice, he will perhaps obey me.”

      Alice was dumbfounded, and knew not how to speak either to him or to her; but she stood with her eyes riveted on the face of the man of whom she had heard so much. Yes; certainly he was very beautiful. She had never before seen man’s beauty such as that. She found it quite impossible to speak a word to him then—at the spur of the moment, but she acknowledged the introduction with a slight inclination of the head, and then stood silent, as though she were waiting for him to go.

      “Mr Fitzgerald, why do you not leave me and go?” said Lady Glencora.

      Poor Burgo also found it difficult enough to speak. What could he say? His cause was one which certainly did not admit of being pleaded in the presence of a strange lady; and he might have known from the moment in which he heard Glencora’s request that a third person should be summoned to their meeting—and probably did know, that there was no longer any hope for him. It was not on the cards that he should win. But there remained one thing that he must do. He must get himself out of that room; and how was he to effect that?

      “I had hoped,” said he, looking at Alice, though he addressed Lady Glencora—”I had hoped to be allowed to speak to you alone for a few minutes.”

      “No, Mr Fitzgerald; it cannot be so. Alice do not go. I sent for my cousin when I saw you, because I did not choose to be alone with you. I have asked you to go—”

      “You perhaps have not understood me?”

      “I understand you well enough.”

      “Then, Mr Fitzgerald,” said Alice, “why do you not do as Lady Glencora has asked you? You know—you must know, that you ought not to be here.”

      “I know nothing of the kind,” said he, still standing his ground.

      “Alice,” said Lady Glencora, “we will leave Mr Fitzgerald here, since he drives us from the room.”

      In such contests, a woman has ever the best of it at all points. The man plays with a button to his foil, while the woman uses a weapon that can really wound. Burgo knew that he must go,—felt that he must skulk away as best he might, and perhaps hear a low titter of half-suppressed laughter as he went. Even that might be possible. “No, Lady Glencora,” he said, “I will not drive you from the room. As one must be driven out, it shall be I. I own I did think that you would at any rate have been—less hard to me.” He then turned to go, bowing again very slightly to Miss Vavasor.

      He was on the threshold of the door before Glencora’s voice recalled him. “Oh my God!” she said, “I am hard,—harder than flint. I am cruel. Burgo!” And he was back with her in a moment, and had taken her by the