On that day Burgo Fitzgerald startled all those who saw him by the mad way in which he rode. Early in the day there was no excuse for any such rashness. The hounds went from wood to wood, and men went in troops along the forest sides as they do on such occasions. But Burgo was seen to cram his horse at impracticable places, and to ride at gates and rails as though resolved to do himself and his uncle’s steed a mischief. This was so apparent that some friend spoke to Sir Cosmo Monk about it. “I can do nothing,” said Sir Cosmo. “He is a man whom no one’s words will control. Something has ruffled him this morning, and he must run his chance till he becomes quiet.” In the afternoon there was a good run, and Burgo again rode as hard as he could make his horse carry him;—but then there was the usual excuse for hard riding; and such riding in a straight run is not dangerous, as it is when the circumstances of the occasion do not warrant it, But, be that as it may, Burgo went on to the end of the day without accident, and as he went home, assured Sir Cosmo, in a voice which was almost cheery, that his mare Spinster was by far the best thing in the Monkshade stables. Indeed Spinster made quite a character that day, and was sold at the end of the season for three hundred guineas on the strength of it. I am, however, inclined to believe that there was nothing particular about the mare. Horses always catch the temperament of their riders, and when a man wishes to break his neck, he will generally find a horse willing to assist him in appearance, but able to save him in the performance. Burgo, at any rate, did not break his neck, and appeared at the dinner-table in a better humour than that which he had displayed in the morning.
On the day appointed Mr Palliser reached Monkshade. He was, in a manner, canvassing for the support of the Liberal party, and it would not have suited him to show any indifference to the invitation of so influential a man as Sir Cosmo. Sir Cosmo had a little party of his own in the House, consisting of four or five other respectable country gentlemen, who troubled themselves little with thinking, and who mostly had bald heads. Sir Cosmo was a man with whom it was quite necessary that such an aspirant as Mr Palliser should stand well, and therefore Mr Palliser came to Monkshade, although Lady Glencora was unable to accompany him.
“We are so sorry,” said Lady Monk. “We have been looking forward to having Lady Glencora with us beyond everything.”
Mr Palliser declared that Lady Glencora herself was overwhelmed with grief in that she should have been debarred from making this special visit. She had, however, been so unwell at Gatherum, the anxious husband declared, as to make it unsafe for her to go again away from home.
“I hope it is nothing serious,” said Lady Monk, with a look of grief so well arranged that any stranger would have thought that all the Pallisers must have been very dear to her heart. Then Mr Palliser went on to explain that Lady Glencora had unfortunately been foolish. During one of those nights of hard frost she had gone out among the ruins at Matching, to show them by moonlight to a friend. The friend had thoughtlessly, foolishly, and in a manner which Mr Palliser declared to be very reprehensible, allowed Lady Glencora to remain among the ruins till she had caught cold.
“How very wrong!” said Lady Monk with considerable emphasis.
“It was very wrong,” said Mr Palliser, speaking of poor Alice almost maliciously. “However, she caught a cold which, unfortunately, has become worse at my uncle’s, and so I was obliged to take her home.”
Lady Monk perceived that Mr Palliser had in truth left his wife behind because he believed her to be ill, and not because he was afraid of Burgo Fitzgerald. So accomplished a woman as Lady Monk felt no doubt that the wife’s absence was caused by fear of the lover, and not by any cold caught in viewing ruins by moonlight. She was not to be deceived in such a matter. But she became aware that Mr Palliser had been deceived. As she was right in this we must go back for a moment, and say a word of things as they went on at Matching after Alice Vavasor had left that place.
Alice had told Miss Palliser that steps ought to be taken, whatever might be their cost, to save Lady Glencora from the peril of a visit to Monkshade. To this Miss Palliser had assented, and, when she left Alice, was determined to tell Mr Palliser the whole story. But when the time for doing so had come, her courage failed her. She could not find words in which to warn the husband that his wife would not be safe in the company of her old lover. The task with Lady Glencora herself, bad as that would be, might be easier, and this task she at last undertook,—not without success.
“Glencora,” she said, when she found a fitting opportunity, “you won’t be angry, I hope, if I say a word to you?”
“That depends very much upon what the word is,” said Lady Glencora. And here it must be acknowledged that Mr Palliser’s wife had not done much to ingratiate herself with Mr Palliser’s cousins;—not perhaps so much as she should have done, seeing that she found them in her husband’s house. She had taught herself to think that they were hard, stiff, and too proud of bearing the name of Palliser. Perhaps some little attempt may have been made by one or both of them to teach her something, and it need hardly be said that such an attempt on the part of a husband’s unmarried female relations would not be forgiven by a young bride. She had undoubtedly been ungracious, and of this Miss Palliser was well aware.
“Well,—the word shall be as little unpleasant as I can make it,” said Miss Palliser, already appreciating fully the difficulty of her task.
“But why say anything that is unpleasant? However, if it is to be said, let us have it over at once.”
“You are going to Monkshade, I believe, with Plantagenet.”
“Well;—and what of that?”
“Dear Glencora, I think you had better not go. Do you not think so yourself?”
“Who has been talking to you?” said Lady Glencora, turning upon her very sharply.
“Nobody has been talking to me;—not in the sense you mean.”
“Plantagenet has spoken to you?”
“Not a word,” said Miss Palliser. “You may be sure that he would not utter a word on such a subject to anyone unless it were to yourself. But, dear Glencora, you should not go there;—I mean it in all kindness and love,—I do indeed.” Saying this she offered her hand to Glencora, and Glencora took it.
“Perhaps you do,” said she in a low voice.
“Indeed I do. The world is so hard and cruel in what it says.”
“I do not care two straws for what the world says.”
“But he might care.”
“It is not my fault. I do not want to go to Monkshade. Lady Monk was my friend once, but I do not care if I never see her again. I did not arrange this visit. It was Plantagenet who did it.”
“But he will not take you there if you say you do not wish it.”
“I have said so, and he told me that I must go. You will hardly believe me,—but I condescended even to tell him why I thought it better to remain away. He told me, in answer, that it was a silly folly which I must live down, and that it did not become me to be afraid of any man.”
“Of course you are not afraid, but—”
“I am afraid. That is just the truth. I am afraid;—but what can I do more than I have done?”
This was very terrible to Miss Palliser. She had not thought that Lady Glencora would say so much, and she felt a true regret in having been made to hear words which so nearly amounted to a confession. But for this there was no help now. There were not many more words between them, and we already know the result of the conversation. Lady Glencora became so ill from the effects of her imprudent lingering among the ruins that she was unable to go to Monkshade.
Mr Palliser remained three days at Monkshade, and cemented his political alliance with Sir Cosmo much in the same way as he had before done with the Duke of St Bungay. There was little or nothing said about politics, and certainly not a word that could be taken as any definite