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

I tell you that I should have no objection to be starved, and so be put an end to in that way. It’s not so bad as some other ways when it comes gradually. You and I, Jane, have not played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we’ve been beaten. It’s no good whimpering after what’s lost. We’d better go somewhere else and begin a new game.”

      “Go where?” said she.

      “Ah!—that’s just what I can’t tell you.”

      “George,” she said, “I’ll go anywhere with you. If what you say is true,—if you’re not going to be married, and will let me come to you, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I’m poorly looking now—”

      “My girl, where I’m going, I shall not want any slave; and as for your looks—when you go there too,—they’ll be of no matter, as far as I am able to judge.”

      “But, George, where are you going?”

      “Wherever people do go when their brains are knocked out of them; or, rather, when they have knocked out their own brains,—if that makes any difference.”

      “George,”—she came up to him now, and took hold of him by the front of his coat, and for the moment he allowed her to do so,—”George, you frighten me. Do not do that. Say that you will not do that!”

      “But I am just saying that I shall.”

      “Are you not afraid of God’s anger? You and I have been very wicked.”

      “I have, my poor girl. I don’t know much about your wickedness. I’ve been like Topsy;—indeed I am a kind of second Topsy myself. But what’s the good of whimpering when it’s over?”

      “It isn’t over; it isn’t over,—at any rate for you.”

      “I wish I knew how I could begin again. But all this is nonsense, Jane, and you must go.”

      “You must tell me, first, that you are not going to—kill yourself.”

      “I don’t suppose I shall do it tonight,—or, perhaps, not tomorrow. Very probably I may allow myself a week, so that your staying here can do no good. I merely wanted to make you understand that you are not the only person who has come to grief.”

      “And you are not going to be married?”

      “No; I’m not going to be married, certainly.”

      “And I must go now?”

      “Yes; I think you’d better go now.” Then she rose and went, and he let her leave the room without giving her a shilling! His bantering tone, in speaking of his own position, had been successful. It had caused her to take herself off quietly. She knew enough of his usual manner to be aware that his threats of self destruction were probably unreal; but, nevertheless, what he had said had created some feeling in her heart which had induced her to yield to him, and go away in peace.

Chapter LXXII.

       Showing How George Vavasor Paid a Visit

       Table of Contents

      It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening,—a hot, July evening,—when the woman went from Vavasor’s room, and left him there alone. It was necessary that he should immediately do something. In the first place he must dine, unless he meant to carry out his threat, and shoot himself at once. But he had no such intention as that, although he stood for some minutes with the pistol in his hand. He was thinking then of shooting some one else. But he resolved that, if he did so at all, he would not do it on that evening, and he locked up the pistol again in the standing desk. After that, he took up some papers, referring to steam packets, which were lying on his table. They contained the programmes of different companies, and showed how one vessel went on one day to New York, and another on another day would take out a load of emigrants for New Zealand and Australia. “That’s a good line,” said he, as he read a certain prospectus. “They generally go to the bottom, and save a man from any further trouble on his own account.” Then he dressed himself, putting on his boots and coat, and went out to his club for his dinner.

      London was still fairly full,—that is to say, the West End was not deserted, although Parliament had been broken up two months earlier than usual, in preparation for the new elections. Many men who had gone down into the country were now back again in town, and the dining-room at the club was crowded. Men came up to him condoling with him, telling him that he was well rid of a great nuisance, that the present Members for the Chelsea Districts would not sit long, or that there would be another general election in a year or two. To all these little speeches he made cheerful replies, and was declared by his acquaintance to bear his disappointment well. Calder Jones came to him and talked hunting talk, and Vavasor expressed his intention of being at Roebury in November. “You had better join our club,” said Calder Jones. In answer to which Vavasor said that he thought he would join the club. He remained in the smoking-room till nearly eleven; then he took himself home, and remained up half the night destroying papers. Every written document on which he could lay his hands he destroyed. All the pigeonholes of his desk were emptied out, and their contents thrown into the flames. At first he looked at the papers before he burned them; but the trouble of doing so soon tired him, and he condemned them all, as he came to them, without examination. Then he selected a considerable amount of his clothes, and packed up two portmanteaus, folding his coats with care, and inspecting his boots narrowly, so that he might see which, out of the large number before him, it might be best worth his while to take with him. When that was done, he took from his desk a bag of sovereigns, and, pouring them out upon the table, he counted them out into parcels of twenty-five each, and made them up carefully into rouleaus with paper. These, when complete, he divided among the two portmanteaus and a dressing-bag which he also packed and a travelling desk, which he filled with papers, pens, and the like. But he put into it no written document. He carefully looked through his linen, and anything that had been marked with more than his initials he rejected. Then he took out a bundle of printed cards, and furnished a card-case with them. On these cards was inscribed the name of Gregory Vance. When all was finished, he stood for awhile with his back to the fireplace contemplating his work. “After all,” he said to himself, “I know that I shall never start; and, if I do, nobody can hinder me, and my own name would be as good as any other. As for a man with such a face as mine not being known, that is out of the question.” But still he liked the arrangements which he had made, and when he had looked at them for awhile he went to bed.

      He was up early the next morning, and had some coffee brought to him by the servant of the house, and as he drank it he had an interview with his landlady. “He was going,” he said;—”going that very day.” It might be possible that he would change his mind; but as he would desire to start without delay, if he did go, he would pay her then what he owed her, and what would be due for her lodgings under a week’s notice. The woman stared, and curtseyed, and took her money. Vavasor, though he had lately been much pressed for money, had never been so foolish as to owe debts where he lived. “There will be some things left about, Mrs Bunsby,” he said, “and I will get you to keep them till I call or send.” Mrs Bunsby said that she would, and then looked her last at him. After that interview she never saw him again.

      When he was left alone he put on a rough morning coat, and taking up the pistol, placed it carefully in his pocket, and sallied forth. It was manifest enough that he had some decided scheme in his head, for he turned quickly towards the West when he reached the Strand, went across Trafalgar Square to Pall Mall East, and then turned up Suffolk Street. Just as he reached the club-house at the corner he paused and looked back, facing first one way and then the other. “The chances are that I shall never see anything of it again,” he said to himself. Then he laughed in his own silent way, shook his head slightly, and turning again quickly on his heel, walked up the street till he reached the house of Mr Jones, the pugilistic tailor. The reader, no doubt, has forgotten all he ever knew of Mr Jones, the pugilistic tailor. It can soon be told again. At Mr Jones’s house John Grey lodged when he was in