Anthony Trollope - The Palliser Novels - Complete Series - All 6 Books in One Edition

“Burgo, you had better eat your breakfast,” said Sir Cosmo.

“I don’t want any breakfast.” He took, however, a bit of toast, and crumbling it up in his hand as he put a morsel into his mouth, went away to the sideboard and filled for himself a glass of cherry brandy.

“If you don’t eat any breakfast the less of that you take the better,” said Sir Cosmo.

“I’m all right now,” said he, and coming back to the table, went through some form of making a meal with a roll and a cup of tea.

They who were then present used afterwards to say that they should never forget that breakfast. There had been something, they declared, in the tone of Burgo’s voice when he uttered his curse against Mr Palliser, which had struck them all with dread. There had, too, they said, been a blackness in his face, so terrible to be seen, that it had taken from them all the power of conversation. Sir Cosmo, when he had broken the ominous silence, had done so with a manifest struggle. The loud clatter of glasses with which Burgo had swallowed his dram, as though resolved to show that he was regardless who might know that he was drinking, added to the feeling. It may easily be understood that there was no further word spoken at that breakfast-table about Planty Pall or his wife.

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.