I write with a heavy heart, because I know it will be a great blow to you. He gave me to understand that in this will he left everything away from you. I cannot declare that he said so directly. Indeed I cannot remember his words; but that was the impression he left on me. The day before he had asked me what I should do if he gave me the estate; but of course I treated that as a joke. I have no idea what he put into his will. I have not even attempted to guess. But now I have told you all that I know.


I hardly know how to write to you--what I have to tell, and yet I must tell it. I must tell it to you, but I shall never repeat the story to any one else. I should have written yesterday, when it occurred, but I was so ill that I felt myself unable to make the exertion. Indeed, at one time, after your brother had left me, I almost doubted whether I should ever be able to collect my thoughts again. My dismay was at first so great that my reason for a time deserted me, and I could only sit and cry like an idiot. Dear Kate, I hope you will not be angry with me for telling you. I have endeavoured to think about it as calmly as I can, and I believe that I have no alternative. The fact that your brother has quarrelled with me cannot be concealed from you, and I must not leave him to tell you of the manner of it. He came to me yesterday in great anger. His anger then was nothing to what it became afterwards; but even when he first came in he was full of wrath. He stood up before me, and asked me how it had come to pass that I had sent him the money which he had asked of me through the hands of Mr. Grey. Of course I had not done this, and so I told him at once. I had spoken of the matter to no one but papa, and he had managed it for me. Even now I know nothing of it, and as I have not yet spoken to papa I cannot understand it. George at once told me that he disbelieved me, and when I sat quiet under this insult, he used harsher words, and said that I had conspired to lower him before the world. He then asked me whether I loved him. Oh, Kate, I must tell it you all, though it is dreadful to me that I should have to write it. You remember how it came to pass when we were in Westmoreland together at Christmas? Do not think that I am blaming you, but I was very rash then in the answers which I made to him. I thought that I could be useful to him as his wife, and I had told myself that it would be good that I should be of use in some way. When he asked me that question yesterday, I sat silent. Indeed, how could I have answered it in the affirmative, when he had just used such language to me,--while he was standing opposite to me, looking at me in that way which he has when he is enraged? Then he spoke again and demanded of me that I should at once send back to Mr. Grey all presents of his which I had kept, and at the same time took up and threw across the table on to the sofa near me, a little paper knife which Mr. Grey once gave me. I could not allow myself to be so ordered by him; so I said nothing, but put the knife back upon the table. He then took it again and threw it beneath the grate.


I have a right to look upon you as my wife, and, as such, I will not allow you to keep that man's things about you.


I think I told him then that I should never become his wife, but though I remember many of his words, I remember none of my own. He swore, I know, with a great oath, that if I went back a second time from my word to him he would leave me no peace,--that he would punish me for my perfidy with some fearful punishment. Oh, Kate, I cannot tell you what he looked like. He had then come quite close to me, and I know that I trembled before him as though he were going to strike me. Of course I said nothing. What could I say to a man who behaved to me in such a manner? Then, as far as I can remember it, he sat down and began to talk about money. I forget what he said at first, but I know that I assured him that he might take what he wanted so long as enough was left to prevent my being absolutely a burden on papa.


That, madam, is a matter of course,


What punishment can be so hard as that which he has already inflicted?


He then desired me to write a letter to him which he might show to the lawyer,--to our own lawyer, I think he meant,--in order that money might be raised to pay back what Mr. Grey had advanced, and give him what he now required. I think he said it was to be five thousand pounds.


Oh, Kate; I cannot tell it you all. I do not know what it was he said, but he was threatening me with his anger if I did not obey him. I believe I found my voice to tell him that he should certainly have the money which he required. And so he shall. I will go to Mr. Round myself, and insist on its being done. My money is my own, and I may do with it as I please. But I hope,--I am obliged to hope, that I may never be made to see my cousin again. I will not pretend to express any opinion as to the cause of all this. It is very possible that you will not believe all I say,--that you will think that I am mad and have deluded myself. Of course your heart will prompt you to accuse me rather than him. If it is so, and if there must therefore be a division between us, my grief will be greatly increased; but I do not know that I can help it. I cannot keep all this back from you. He has cruelly ill-used me and insulted me. He has treated me as I should have thought no man could have treated a woman. As regards money, I did all that I could do to show that I trusted him thoroughly, and my confidence has only led to suspicion. I do not know whether he understands that everything must be over between us; but, if not, I must ask you to tell him so. And I must ask you to explain to him that he must not come again to Queen Anne Street. If he does, nothing shall induce me to see him. Tell him also that the money that he wants shall assuredly be sent to him as soon as I can make Mr. Round get it. Dearest Kate, good-bye. I hope you will feel for me. If you do not answer me I shall presume that you think yourself bound to support his side, and to believe me to have been wrong. It will make me very unhappy; but I shall remember that you are his sister, and I shall not be angry with you. Yours always affectionately. ALICE VAVASOR.


Dear Alice, to-day I received your letter, and to-day our poor old grandfather died. Tell my uncle John, with my love, of his father's death. You will understand that I cannot write much now about that other matter; but I must tell you, even at such a moment as this, that there shall be no quarrel between you and me. There shall be none at least on my side. I cannot say more till a few days shall have passed by. He is lying up-stairs, a corpse. I have telegraphed to George, and I suppose he will come down. I think my aunt Greenow will come also, as I had written to her before, seeing that I wanted the comfort of having her here. Uncle John will of course come or not as he thinks fitting. I don't know whether I am in a position to say that I shall be glad to see him; but I should be very glad. He and you will know that I can, as yet, tell you nothing further. The lawyer is to see the men about the funeral. Nothing, I suppose, will be done till George comes. Your own cousin and friend, KATE VAVASOR. My own Alice,--If you will let me, you shall be my sister, and be the nearest to me and the dearest.


Papa, there is news from Westmoreland; bad news, which you hardly expected yet.


My father is dead. Of course I shall go down. Does she think I shall not follow my father to the grave, because I dislike her brother? What does she mean by saying that there shall be no quarrel between you and her?


I will explain that at another time,


I'll go by the mail train to-night. It will be very disagreeable, but I ought to be there when the will is opened.


Papa. I think I ought to tell you before you go that everything is over between me and George.


Have you quarrelled with him too?


I should perhaps say that he has quarrelled with me. But, dear papa, pray do not question me at present. I will tell you all when you come back, but I thought it right that you should know this before you went.


It has been his doing then?


I cannot explain it to you in a hurry like this. Papa, you may understand something of the shame which I feel, and you should not question me now.


And John Grey?


There is nothing different in regard to him.


I'll be shot if I can understand you. George, you know, has had two thousand pounds of your money,--of yours or somebody else's. Well, we can't talk about it now, as I must be off. Thinking as I do of George, I'm glad of it,--that's all.


So my father has gone, George,


he has gone at last. I wonder what we shall find to have been his latest act of injustice.


We shan't get any conveyance at Shap. Hadn't we better go over in a chaise from Kendal?


So you are George,


Yes; Yes; I'm George,


And a Member of Parliament! It's quite an honour to the family. I felt so proud when I heard it! Papa's time was fully come, though, to tell the truth, I had no idea that he was so weak as Kate describes him to have been.


Nor I, either. He went to church with us here on Christmas-day.


Did he, indeed? Dear, dear! He seems at last to have gone off just like poor Greenow. I think you didn't know Greenow, John?


I met him once,


Ah! he wasn't to be known and understood in that way. I'm aware there was a little prejudice, because of his being in trade, but we won't talk of that now. Where should I have been without him, tradesman or no tradesman?


I've no doubt he was an excellent man.


You may say that, John. Ah, well! we can't keep everything in this life for ever.


We're all grass of the field, and must be cut down and put into the oven in our turns.


What has brought that woman here?


I asked her to come,


And why did you ask her to come here?


I asked her, George, before my poor grandfather's death, when I thought that he would linger perhaps for weeks. My life here alone with him, without any other woman in the house beside the servants, was very melancholy.


Why did you not ask Alice to come to you?


Alice could not have come,


I don't know why she shouldn't have come. I won't have that woman about the place. She disgraced herself by marrying a blacksmith--.


Why, George, it was you yourself who advised me to go and stay with her.


That's a very different thing. Now that he's dead, and she's got his money, it's all very well that you should go to her occasionally; but I won't have her here.


It's natural that she should come to her father's house at her father's death-bed.


I hate to be told that things are natural. It always means humbug. I don't suppose she cared for the old man any more than I did,--or than she cared for the other old man who married her. People are such intense hypocrites. There's my uncle John, pulling a long face because he has come into this house, and he will pull it as long as the body lies up there; and yet for the last twenty years there's nothing on earth he has so much hated as going to see his father. When are they going to bury him?


On Saturday, the day after to-morrow.


Why couldn't they do it to-morrow, so that we could get away before Sunday?


He only died on Monday, George,


Psha! Who has got the will?


Mr. Gogram. He was here yesterday, and told me to tell you and uncle John that he would have it with him when he came back from the funeral.


What has my uncle John to do with it? I shall go over to Penrith this afternoon and make Gogram give it up to me.


I don't think he'll do that, George.


What right has he to keep it? What right has he to it at all? How do I know that he has really got the old man's last will? Where did my grandfather keep his papers?


In that old secretary, as he used to call it; the one that stands in the dining-room. It is sealed up.


Who sealed it?


Mr. Gogram did,--Mr. Gogram and I together.


What the deuce made you meddle with it?


I merely assisted him. But I believe he was quite right. I think it is usual in such cases.


Balderdash! You are thinking of some old trumpery of former days. Till I know to the contrary, everything here belongs to me as heir-at-law, and I do not mean to allow of any interference till I know for certain that my rights have been taken from me. And I won't accept a death-bed will. What a man chooses to write when his fingers will hardly hold the pen, goes for nothing.


You can't suppose that I wish to interfere with your rights?


I hope not.


Oh, George!


Well; I say, I hope not. But I know there are those who would. Do you think my uncle John would not interfere with me if he could? By ----! if he does, he shall find that he does it to his cost. I'll lead him such a life through the courts, for the next two or three years, that he'll wish that he had remained in Chancery Lane, and had never left it.


Would Miss Kate and Mr. George go with them?


Mr. Vavasor!


Yes, sir; the old Squire,


Will you come, George?


No; what should I go there for? Why should I pretend an interest in the dead body of a man whom I hated and who hated me;--whose very last act, as far as I know as yet, was an attempt to rob me? I won't go and see him.


Poor, dear old man! Do you remember, John, how he used to scold me, and say that I should never come to good. He has said the same thing to you, Kate, I dare say?


He has been very kind to me,


He was a fine old gentleman;--belonging to days that are now gone by, but by no means the less of a gentleman on that account. I don't know that he ever did an unjust or ungenerous act to any one. Come, Kate, we may as well go down.


I have it in my pocket, and purpose to read it as soon as we return from church.


Is it usual to take a will away from a man's house in that way?


Quite usual, and in this case it was done at the express desire of the testator.


I think it is the common practice,


Before that paper is read, I think it right to say a few words. I don't know what it contains, but I believe it to have been executed by my grandfather only an hour or two before his death.


On the day before he died,--early in the day,


Well,--the day before he died; it is the same thing,--while he was dying, in fact. He never got out of bed afterwards.


He was not in bed at the time, Mr. Vavasor. Not that it would have mattered if he had been. And he came down to dinner on that day. I don't understand, however, why you make these observations.


If you'll listen to me you will understand. I make them because I deny my grandfather's fitness to make a will in the last moments of his existence, and at such an age. I saw him a few weeks ago, and he was not fit to be trusted with the management of property then.


I do not think this is the time, George, to put forward such objections,


I think it is. I believe that that paper purports to be an instrument by which I should be villanously defrauded if it were allowed to be held as good. Therefore I protest against it now, and shall question it at law if action be taken on it. You can read it now, if you please.


Oh, yes, I shall read, and I say that it is as valid a will as ever a man signed.


And I say it's not. That's the difference between us.


And, Mr. Vavasor, you will, I fear, get very little by that latter clause. The estate now owes nothing; but I doubt whether the Squire had fifty pounds in his banker's hands when he died, and the value of the property about the place is very small. He has been unwilling to spend anything during the last ten years, but has paid off every shilling that the property owed.


It is as I supposed. The old man has endeavoured in his anger to rob me of everything because I would not obey him in his wickedness when I was here with him a short while before he died. Such a will as that can stand nowhere.


As to that I have nothing to say at present,


Where is his other will,--the one he made before that? And where are they?


It is not my business to know, Mr. Vavasor. I believe that I saw him destroy one, but I have no absolute knowledge. As to the other, I can say nothing.


And what do you mean to do?


Do! I shall carry out the will. I have no alternative. Your sister is the person chiefly interested under it. She gets five hundred a year for her life; and if she marries and you don't, or if she has a son and you don't, her son will have the whole property.


It is a piece of d---- roguery. I mean exactly what I say. It is a piece of d---- roguery. Who was in the room when that thing was written?


The signature was witnessed by--


I don't ask as to the signature. Who was in the room when the thing was written?


I was here with your grandfather.


And no one else?


No one else. The presence of any one else at such a time would be very unusual.


Then I regard the document simply as waste paper.


I never was insulted in such a way before,


He is a disappointed and I fear a ruined man. I do not think you need regard what he says.


But he should not on that account insult me. I have only done my duty. I did not even advise his grandfather. It is mean on his part and unmanly. If he comes in my way again I shall tell him so. It's as good a will as ever was made. If he can set that aside, I'll give up making wills altogether.


Well, John,


well? How is it left?


Where is Kate?


She has gone out with her brother.


Did he take his hat?


Oh, yes. He asked her to walk, and she went with him at once.


Then, I suppose, he will tell her,


Bravo. I'm delighted. I love Kate dearly: and now she can marry almost whom she pleases.


Kate, put on your hat and come and walk with me. That business is over.


Which way shall we go?


Up across the fell, the day is fine, and I want to get away from my uncle for a time. Well, don't you want to know what that dear old man has done for you? But perhaps you know already,


I know nothing of it. Had I known I should have told you. Your question is unjust to me.


I am beginning to doubt, whether a man can be safe in trusting any one. My grandfather has done his best to rob me of the property altogether.


I told you that I feared he would do so.


And he has made you his heir.


Me?


Yes; you.


He told me distinctly that he would not do that.


But he has, I tell you.


Then, George, I shall do that which I told him I should do in the event of his making such a will; for he asked me the question. I told him I should restore the estate to you, and upon that he swore that he would not leave it to me.


And what a fool you were. What an ass! Why did you tell him that? You knew that he would not, on that account, do justice to me.


He asked me, George.


Psha! now you have ruined me, and you might have saved me.


But I will save you still, if he has left the estate to me. I do not desire to take it from you. As God in heaven sees me, I have never ceased to endeavour to protect your interests here at Vavasor. I will sign anything necessary to make over my right in the property to you.


If the will is as you say, George, I will make over my right to you.


You can make over nothing. The old robber has been too cunning for that; he has left it all in the hands of my uncle John. D---- him. D---- them both.


George! George! he is dead now.


Dead; of course he is dead. What of that? I wish he had been dead ten years ago,--or twenty. Do you suppose I am to forgive him because he is dead? I'll heap his grave with curses, if that can be of avail to punish him.


You can only punish the living that way.


And I will punish them;--but not by cursing them. My uncle John shall have such a life of it for the next year or two that he shall bitterly regret the hour in which he has stepped between me and my rights.


I do not believe that he has done so.


Not done so! What was he down here for at Christmas? Do you pretend to think that that make-believe will was concocted without his knowledge?


I'm sure that he knew nothing of it. I don't think my grandfather's mind was made up a week before he died.


You'll have to swear that, remember, in a court. I'm not going to let the matter rest, I can tell you. You'll have to prove that. How long is it since he asked you what you would do with the estate if he left it to you?


It was only two days before he died, if I remember rightly.


But you must remember rightly. You'll have to swear to it. And now tell me this honestly; do you believe, in your heart, that he was in a condition fit for making a will?


I advised him not to make it.


Why? why? What reason did you give?


I told him that I thought no man should alter family arrangements when he was so ill.


Exactly. You told him that. And what did he say?


He was very angry, and made me send for Mr. Gogram.


Now, Kate, think a little before you answer me again. If ever you are to do me a good turn, you must do it now. And remember this, I don't at all want to take anything away from you. Whatever you think is fair you shall have.


I want nothing. George, you don't understand what it is to be honest.


I can't say that I do. Well, never mind about that, you advised my grandfather not to make his will,--thinking, no doubt, that his mind was not clear enough?


His mind was clear, but I thought that he should not trust his judgement while he was so weak.


Look here, Kate; I do believe that you at any rate have no mind to assist in this robbery. That it is a robbery you can't have any doubt. I said he had left the estate to you. That is not what he has done. He has left the estate to my uncle John.


Why tell me, then, what was untrue?


Are you disappointed?


Of course I am; uncle John won't give it you. George, I don't understand you; I don't, indeed.


Never mind about that, but listen to me. The estate is left in the hands of John Vavasor; but he has left you five hundred a year out of it till somebody is twenty-five years old who is not yet born, and probably never will be born. The will itself shows the old fool to have been mad.


He was no more mad than you are, George.


Listen to me, I tell you. I don't mean that he was a raging maniac. Now, you had advised him not to make any new will because you thought he was not in a fit condition?


Yes; I did.


You can swear to that?


I hope I may not be called on to do so. I hope there may be no swearing about it. But if I am asked the question I must swear it.


Exactly. Now listen till you understand what it is I mean. That will, if it stands, gives all the power over the estate to John Vavasor. It renders you quite powerless as regards any help or assistance that you might be disposed to give to me. But, nevertheless, your interest under the will is greater than his,--or than that of any one else,--for your son would inherit if I have none. Do you understand?


Yes; I think so.


And your testimony as to the invalidity of the will would be conclusive against all the world.


I would say in a court what I have told you, if that will do any good.


It will not be enough. Look here, Kate; you must be steadfast here; everything depends on you. How often have you told me that you will stick to me throughout life? Now you will be tried.


But that was what you meant when you advised him not to make the will because you thought his intellect was impaired!


No; not so.


Stop, Kate, stop. If you will think of it, it was so. What is the meaning of his judgement being weak?


I didn't say his judgement was weak.


But that was what you meant when you advised him not to trust it!


Look here, George; I think I know now what you mean. If anybody asks me if his mind was gone, or his intellect deranged, I cannot say that there was anything of the kind.


You will not?


Certainly not. It would be untrue.


Then you are determined to throw me over and claim the property for yourself. And I am to count you also among my enemies? You had better take care, Kate. Kate,


we will have this out here, if you please. So much, at any rate, shall be settled to-day. You have made many promises to me, and I have believed them. You can now keep them all, by simply saying what you know to be the truth,--that that old man was a drivelling idiot when he made this will. Are you prepared to do me that justice? Think before you answer me, for, by G----, if I cannot have justice among you, I will have revenge.


Take your hand down, George. I'm not such a fool that you can frighten me in that way.


Answer me!


Oh, George, that I should live to be so ashamed of my brother!


Answer me,


I have answered you. I will say nothing of the kind that you want me to say. My grandfather, up to the latest moment that I saw him, knew what he was about. He was not an idiot. He was, I believe, only carrying out a purpose fixed long before. You will not make me change what I say by looking at me like that, nor get it by shaking me. You don't know me, George, if you think you can frighten me like a child.


Oh. That's to be it; is it? That's your idea of honesty. The very name of the money being your own has been too much for you. I wonder whether you and my uncle had contrived it all between you beforehand?


You will not dare to ask him, because he is a man,


Shall I not? You will see what I dare do. As for you, with all your promises--. Kate, you know that I keep my word. Say that you will do as I desire you, or I will be the death of you.


Do you mean that you will murder me?


Murder you! yes; why not? Treated as I have been among you, do you suppose that I shall stick at anything? Why should I not murder you--you and Alice, too, seeing how you have betrayed me?


Poor Alice!


Poor Alice, indeed! D---- hypocrite! There's a pair of you; cursed, whining, false, intriguing hypocrites. There; go down and tell your uncle and that old woman there that I threatened to murder you. Tell the judge so, when you're brought into court to swear me out of my property. You false liar!


Here I am; my arm is broken; and you had better send for a doctor.


Dinner is ready, where is George?


You are wet, Kate,


Yes, I am very wet. I must go up-stairs. Perhaps you'll come with me, aunt?


Come with you,--of course I will.


Where's George? Has he come back with you, or are we to wait for him?


I don't quite know where he is. My arm, my arm!


He has done her a mischief. This is his doing.


She will do very well. It's only a simple fracture. I'll see her the day after to-morrow.


Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilst walking?


One never can say how anything may occur. I know a young woman who broke the os femoris by just kicking her cat;--at least, she said she did.


Indeed! I suppose you didn't take any trouble to inquire?


Not much. My business was with the injury, not with the way she got it. Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothing came of it. Good night, Mr. Vavasor. Don't trouble her with questions till she has had some hours' sleep, at any rate.


I can only tell you, that he went away across the Fell in the direction of Bampton. Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. He was very angry with us all; and as the house is not his own, he has probably resolved that he will not stay another night under the roof. But, who can say? He is not in his senses when he is angered.


Send me my clothes by the bearer. I shall not return to the house.


Kate,


I expect that you will tell me the whole truth as to what occurred between you and your brother when you had this accident.


I have told you the truth.


But not the whole truth.


All the truth I mean to tell, aunt. He has quarrelled with me, as I think, most unnecessarily, but you don't suppose that I am going to give an exact account of the quarrel? We were both wrong, probably, and so let there be an end of it.


Was he violent to you when he quarrelled with you?


When he is angry he is always violent in his language.


But, did he strike you?


Dear aunt, don't be angry with me if I say that I won't be cross-examined. I would rather answer no more questions about it. I know that questioning can do no good.


You must have it your own way, but let me just tell you this, that your brother George had better keep out of my way.


It is probable that he will. Especially if you remain here to nurse me.


But he does not believe it. He said that because he thought it would vex me; but I know he does not think it.


A young woman, with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty nearly what she pleases. It's better than having ten years' grace given you.


And will last longer, certainly,


What on earth shall we do if that wild beast shows himself suddenly among us women?


that he hoped the wild beast would keep his distance.


Baampton. John Applethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a mickle cart.


I will breakfast with you to-morrow. I have work still to do to-night, and I will not disturb you by coming to your room.


You won't want me to be very early?


No. What hour will suit you? I must say something of what has occurred to-night before I leave you to-morrow.


I don't know what you can have got to say about to-night, but I'll be down by half-past eleven, if that will do?


He looks at me every time he sees me as the cause of his misfortune,


Have you any headache this morning?


Oh, no,


Plantagenet, you told me last night, as I was going to bed, that you had something to say about Lady Monk's party.


Yes, my dear. After what happened, I believe that I must say something.


If you think anything, pray say it,


It is not always easy for a man to show what he thinks by what he says. My fear is that you should suppose me to think more than I do. And it was for that reason that I determined to sleep on it before I spoke to you.


If anybody is angry with me I'd much rather they should have it out with me while their anger is hot. I hate cold anger.


But I am not angry.


That's what husbands always say when they're going to scold.


But I am not going to scold. I am only going to advise you.


I'd sooner be scolded. Advice is to anger just what cold anger is to hot.


But, my dear Glencora, surely if I find it necessary to speak--


I don't want to stop you, Plantagenet. Pray, go on. Only it will be so nice to have it over.


Glencora. I wish you to be serious with me.


I am very serious,


You ought to be serious. Do you know why Mrs. Marsham came here from Lady Monk's last night?


Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was waltzing with Burgo Fitzgerald. You might as well ask me whether I knew why Mr. Bott was standing at all the doors, glaring at me.


I don't know anything about Mr. Bott.


I know something about him though,


I am speaking now of Mrs. Marsham.


You should speak of them both together as they hunt in couples.


Glencora, will you listen to me, or will you not? If you say that you will not, I shall know what to do.


I don't think you would, Plantagenet. I'm sure I don't know what you would do. But I will listen to you. Only, as I said before, it will be very nice when it's over.


Mrs. Marsham came here, not simply to tell me that you were waltzing with Mr. Fitzgerald,--and I wish that when you mention his name you would call him Mr. Fitzgerald.


So I do.


You generally prefix his Christian name, which it would be much better that you should omit.


I will try, but it's hard to drop an old habit. Before you married me you knew that I had learned to call him Burgo.


Let me go on,


Oh, certainly.


It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing that Mrs. Marsham came here.


And it was not simply to see me waltzing that Mr. Bott stood in the doorways, for he followed me about, and came down after me to the supper-room.


Glencora, will you oblige me by not speaking of Mr. Bott?


I wish you would oblige me by not speaking of Mrs. Marsham.


I beg your pardon, Plantagenet,


I think I know what you want, and I'll hold my tongue till you bid me speak.


Mrs. Marsham came here because she saw that every one in the room was regarding you with wonder. She saw that you were not only dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald, but that you were dancing with him,--what shall I say?


Upon my word I can't tell you.


Recklessly.


Oh! recklessly, was I? What was I reckless of?


Reckless of what people might say; reckless of what I might feel about it; reckless of your own position. Perhaps you had better let me go on. I think she was right to come to me.


That's of course. What's the good of having spies, if they don't run and tell as soon as they see anything, especially anything--reckless.


Glencora, you are determined to make me angry. I am angry now,--very angry. I have employed no spies. When rumours have reached me, not from spies, as you choose to call them, but through your dearest friends and mine--


What do you mean by rumours from my dearest friends?


Never mind. Let me go on.


No; not when you say my dear friends have spread rumours about me. Tell me who they are. I have no dear friends. Do you mean Alice Vavasor?


It does not signify. But when I was warned that you had better not go to any house in which you could meet that man, I would not listen to it. I said that you were my wife, and that as such I could trust you anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might distrust you, but I would not do so. When I wished you to go to Monkshade, were there to be any spies there? When I left you last night at Lady Monk's, do you believe in your heart that I trusted to Mrs. Marsham's eyes rather than to your own truth? Do you think that I have lived in fear of Mr. Fitzgerald?


No, Plantagenet; I do not think so.


Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr. Bott to watch your conduct? Answer me, Glencora.


He does watch me, certainly,


That does not answer my question. Do you believe that I have commissioned him to do so?


No; I do not.


Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I have employed no spies. If it were ever to come to that, that I thought spies necessary, it would be all over with me.


I know that I have never made you happy. I know that I never can make you happy.


I do not understand what you mean. I have never complained. You have not made me unhappy.


No, Plantagenet; I shall never make you happy. You have never loved me, nor I you. We have never loved each other for a single moment. I have been wrong to talk to you about spies; I was wrong to go to Lady Monk's; I have been wrong in everything that I have done; but never so wrong as when I let them persuade me to be your wife!


Glencora!


Let me speak now, Plantagenet. It is better that I should tell you everything; and I will. I will tell you everything;--everything! I do love Burgo Fitzgerald. I do! I do! I do! How can I help loving him? Have I not loved him from the first,--before I had seen you? Did you not know that it was so? I do love Burgo Fitzgerald, and when I went to Lady Monk's last night, I had almost made up my mind that I must tell him so, and that I must go away with him and hide myself. But when he came to speak to me--


He has asked you to go with him, then?


What need is there of asking, do you think, when people have loved each other as we have done?


You wanted to go with him, then?


Would it not have been the best for you? Plantagenet, I do not love you;--not as women love their husbands when they do love them. But, before God, my first wish is to free you from the misfortune that I have brought on you.


I would. I would--I would! What is there left for me that I should wish to live?


You are wrong in one thing. I do love you.


Yes, your mind is running on other things.


I do love you. If you cannot love me, it is a great misfortune to us both. But we need not therefore be disgraced. As for that other thing of which you spoke,--of our having, as yet, no child-- you allow yourself to think too much of it;--much more of it than I do. I have made no complaints on that head, even within my own breast.


I know what your thoughts are, Plantagenet.


Believe me that you wrong my thoughts. Of course I have been anxious, and have, perhaps, shown my anxiety by the struggle I have made to hide it. I have never told you what is false, Glencora.


No; you are not false!


I would rather have you for my wife, childless,--if you will try to love me,--than any other woman, though another might give me an heir. Will you try to love me? I think, dear, that we had better leave England for a while. I will give up politics for this season. Should you like to go to Switzerland for the summer, or perhaps to some of the German baths, and then on to Italy when the weather is cold enough? Perhaps your friend, Miss Vavasor, would go with us? Come in. If you please, sir, the Duke of St. Bungay is here. The Duke of St. Bungay! Yes, sir, his grace is in the library. He bade me tell you that he particularly wanted to see you; so I told him that you were with my lady. Quite right; tell his grace that I will be with him in two minutes. I must go now, my dear, and perhaps I shall not see you again till the evening.


Don't let me put you out in any way,


Oh no;--you won't put me out. You will be dressing, I suppose, about nine.


I did not mean as to that. You must not think more of Italy. He has come to tell you that you are wanted in the Cabinet.


It may be so, but though I am wanted, I need not go. But I must not keep the duke waiting. Good-bye.


Duke. I'm afraid I have kept you waiting.


And I suppose you guess why I'm come?


I would rather be told than have to guess,


He has resigned at last. What was said in the Lords last night made it necessary that he should do so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I must have done so. You know that I don't like him in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius, but I think him the most dangerous man in England as a statesman. He has high principles,--the very highest; but they are so high as to be out of sight to ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I'm sure; but it's just like the sun's honesty,--of a kind which we men below can't quite understand or appreciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in politics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to calculation. I think he may probably know how England ought to be governed three centuries hence better than any man living, but of the proper way to govern it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him and half fears him. He likes the support of his eloquence, and he likes the power of the man; but he fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am here to ask you to take his place.


And who goes out with him? But it does not matter. I am afraid I must decline the offer you bring me.


Decline it!


I fear I must.


Nonsense, Palliser. You must have got some false notion into your head. There can be no possible reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself will support us, at any rate for a time.


It is nothing of that kind. It is nothing of that kind; It is nothing of that kind;--it is no fear of that sort that hinders me.


Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palliser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter as myself; and I had a right to do so. You certainly intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity offered. You certainly did.


It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me now, and I must tell you what I would not willingly tell to any man.


Upon my word. I can't understand that there should be any reason strong enough to make you throw your party over.


I have promised to take my wife abroad.


Is that it? Nobody thinks of going abroad at this time of the year. Of course, you can get away for a time when Parliament breaks up.


But I have promised to go at once.


Then, considering your position, you have made a promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure Lady Glencora will see it in that light.


You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to obtrude upon you.


Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a moment.


If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence from England is requisite for her present comfort. I was with her when you came, and had just promised her that she should go.


But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small matter, I would not press you; but a man in your position has public duties. He owes his services to his country. He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he should so do.


When a man has given his word, it cannot be right that he should go back from that.


Of course not. But a man may be absolved from a promise. Lady Glencora--


My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully why it is that I must give up the great object for which I have striven with all my strength.


Oh, no! If you are sure that it is imperative--


It is imperative.


I could give you twenty-four hours, you know. I suppose it would not be possible that I should speak to Lady Glencora?


It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only declare, at the first word, that she would remain in London; but it would not be the less my duty on that account to take her abroad.


Well; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life. And at your age too! You are throwing away from you the finest political position that the world can offer to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of life has had such a chance within my memory. That a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it,--because he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she were dying, you should remain under such an emergency as this. She might go, but you should remain.


There are things worse than death,


And must this be final?


I think it must. But your visit here has come so quickly on my resolution to go abroad,--which, in truth, was only made ten minutes before your name was brought to me,--that I believe I ought to ask for a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight? If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in St. James's Square.


We shall be sitting after eight, I think.


Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask you to think of me in this matter as a friend should think, and not as though we were bound together only by party feeling.


I will,--I will.


I have told you what I shall never whisper to any one else.


I think you know that you are safe with me.


I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and despaired, have for moments been vain enough to think that it was within my strength, and have been wretched for weeks together because I have told myself that it was utterly beyond me.


As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us, have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are the man.


I am much obliged to them. But I say all this simply that you may understand how imperative is the duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer.


But you haven't refused as yet. I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of which you speak; but if it can be made compatible with your public service, pray--pray let it be done. Remember how much such a one as you owes to his country.


Well, Palliser, of course I cannot argue it with you any more. I can only say that I am very sorry;--more sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half breaks my heart. I never above half liked her. I must go to Brock at once, and tell him. God knows what we must do now. Goodbye! good-bye! No; I'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I am very sorry.


We may as well make up our minds to start at once. At any rate, there is nothing on my side to hinder us.


I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back.


It is so very hard to realize, immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property.


Very hard indeed,


A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?


Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at.


Let him come up. But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name.


Is papa dressed yet?


Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed.


I've called about a little bit of business, miss. Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think. Yes, Mr. George Vavasor. I dare say you never saw me before, miss?


No, sir; I think not,


I am your cousin's clerk.


Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir.


If you please, miss.


DEAR ALICE. After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me. Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right. I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine. Affectionately yours. GEORGE VAVASOR.


Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?


Yes, sir; my cousin has explained.


And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer. It's all right, miss,


Could you not leave them with me, sir?


Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad.


But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques.


No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same.


You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions, and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say.


Fourteen days is neither here nor there. We can let our payments stand over as long as that, without doing any harm. I'll send one of my men down to Grimes, and tell him I can't see him, till,--let me see, till the 15th. We can wait till the 15th,


You will want a thousand, you say?


A thousand to begin with. Certainly not less.


Then you had better keep two of them.


Well--no! I don't see the use of that. You had better collect them through your own banker, and let me have a cheque on the 15th or 16th.


How cursed suspicious you are, Scruby.


No, I ain't. I'm not a bit suspicious. I don't deal in such articles; that's all!


What doubt can there be about such bills as those? Everybody knows that my cousin has a considerable fortune, altogether at her own disposal.


The truth is, Mr. Vavasor, that bills with ladies' names on them,--ladies who are no way connected with business,--ain't just the paper that people like.


Nothing on earth can be surer.


You take them into the City for discount, and see if the bankers don't tell you the same. They may be done, of course, upon your name. I say nothing about that.


I can explain to you the nature of the family arrangement, but I can't do that to a stranger. However, I don't mind.


Of course not. The time is so short that it does not signify. Have them collected through your own bankers, and then, if it don't suit you to call, send me a cheque for a thousand pounds when the time is up.


You have heard the news; haven't you? News; no. I haven't heard any news. Finespun has resigned, and Palliser is at this moment with the Duke of St. Bungay in the Lords' library.


They may both be at the bottom of the Lords' fishpond, for what I care,


That's nonsense, you know. Still, you know Palliser is Chancellor of the Exchequer at this moment. What a lucky fellow you are to have such a chance come to you directly you get in. As soon as he takes his seat down there, of course we shall go up behind him.


We shall have another election in a month's time,


I'm safe enough. It never hurts a man at elections to be closely connected with the Government.


The money must be forthcoming. The money must be made to be forthcoming. Papa, will you see that it is done? Papa, if you will not promise, I must go to Mr. Round about it myself, and must find out a broker to sell out for me. You would not wish that my name should be dishonoured.


You will be ruined, and for such a rascal as that!


Never mind whether he is a rascal or not, papa. You must acknowledge that he has been treated harshly by his grandfather.


I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever did. Had he left the estate to George, there wouldn't have been an acre of it left in the family in six months' time.


But the life interest, papa!


He would have raised all he could upon that, and it would have done him no good.


At any rate, papa, he must have this two thousand pounds. You must promise me that.


And then he will want more.


No; I do not think he will ask for more. At any rate, I do not think that I am bound to give him all that I have.


I should think not. I should like to know how you can be bound to give him anything?


Because I promised it. I have signed the bills now, and it must be done. Papa, if you will not say that you will do it, I must go down to Mr. Round at once.


I don't know that I can do it. I don't know that Mr. Round can do it. Your money is chiefly on mortgage. Upon my word, I never heard of such a thing in my life. I never did. Four thousand pounds given away to such a man as that, in three months! Four thousand pounds! And you say you do not intend to marry him.


Certainly not; all that is over.


And does he know that it is over?


I suppose he does.


You suppose so! Things of that sort are so often over with you!


I know that I have behaved badly, but I am punished, and you might spare me now!


I didn't want to punish you. I don't want to punish you. But, I don't want to see you ruined!


I must go to Mr. Round then, myself.


I don't want her money, and if she had got none of her own, I would make her as comfortable as I could with my own income. But to see her throw her money away in such a fashion as this is enough to break a man's heart.


Come in! I'm glad to see you,--very. Sit down; won't you? Did you ever see such a wretched fire? The coals they give you in this place are the worst in all London. Did you ever see such coals?


One hardly wants a fire at all, such weather as this,


Oh; don't you? If you had to sit here all day, you'd see if you didn't want a fire. It's the coldest building I ever put my foot in. Sometimes in winter I have to sit here the whole day in a great-coat. I only wish I could shut old Sugden up here for a week or two, after Christmas.


How is Alice?


She is well enough, I believe,


Is anything the matter in Queen Anne Street?


You'll hardly believe it when I tell you; and, indeed, I hardly know whether I ought to tell you or not.


As you and I have gone so far together, I think that you ought to tell me anything that concerns her nearly.


That's just it. It's about her money. Do you know, Grey, I'm beginning to think that I've been wrong in allowing you to advance what you have done on her account?


Why wrong?


Because I foresee there'll be a difficulty about it. How are we to manage about the repayment?


If she becomes my wife there will be no management wanted.


But how if she never becomes your wife? I'm beginning to think she'll never do anything like any other woman.


I'm not quite sure that you understand her, though of course you ought to do so better than any one else.


Nobody can understand her. She told me the other day, as you know, that she was going to have nothing more to do with her cousin--


Has she--has she become friends with him again?


No; I believe not;--that is, certainly not in the way you mean. I think that she is beginning to know that he is a rascal.


It is a great blessing that she has learned the truth before it was too late.


But would you believe it;--she has given him her name to bills for two thousand pounds, payable at two weeks' sight? He sent to her only this morning a fellow that he called his clerk, and she has been fool enough to accept them. Two thousand pounds! That comes of leaving money at a young woman's own disposal.


But we expected that, you know,


Expected it?


Of course we did. You yourself did not suppose that what he had before would have been the last.


But after she had quarrelled with him!


That would make no difference with her. She had promised him her money, and as it seems that he will be content with that, let her keep her promise.


And give him everything! Not if I can help it. I'll expose him. I will indeed. Such a pitiful rascal as he is!


You will do nothing, Mr. Vavasor, that will injure your daughter. I'm very sure of that.


But, by heavens--. Such sheer robbery as that! Two thousand pounds more in fourteen days! Mr. Round, you know, has heard nothing about it. He doesn't dream of any such thing. If she would take my advice, she would leave the bills, and let them be dishonoured. As it is, I think I shall call at Drummonds', and explain the whole transaction.


You must not do that. I will call at Drummonds', instead, and see that the money is all right for the bills. As far as they go, let him have his plunder.


And if she won't take you, at last, Grey? Upon my word, I don't think she ever will. My belief is she'll never get married. She'll never do anything like any other woman.


The money won't be missed by me if I never get married. If she does marry me, of course I shall make her pay me.


No, by George! that won't do. If she were your daughter you'd know that she could not take a man's money in that way.


And I know it now, though she is not my daughter. I was only joking. As soon as I am certain,--finally certain,--that she can never become my wife, I will take back my money. You need not be afraid. The nature of the arrangement we have made shall then be explained to her.


Do come;--instantly if you can. I have so much to tell you, and so much to ask of you. If you can't come, when shall I find you, and where? Oh, dear, what a change it makes in you. I never thought of your being in black.


I don't know what it is you want, but shan't I do in mourning as well as I would in colours?


You'll do in anything, dear. But I have so much to tell you, and I don't know how to begin. And I've so much to ask of you, and I'm so afraid you won't do it.


You generally find me very complaisant.


No I don't, dear. It is very seldom you will do anything for me. But I must tell you everything first. Do take your bonnet off, for I shall be hours in doing it.


Hours in telling me!


Yes; and in getting your consent to what I want you to do. But I think I'll tell you that first. I'm to be taken abroad immediately.


Who is to take you?


Ah, you may well ask that. If you could know what questions I have asked myself on that head! I sometimes say things to myself as though they were the most proper and reasonable things in the world, and then within an hour or two I hate myself for having thought of them.


But why don't you answer me? Who is going abroad with you?


Well; you are to be one of the party.


I!


Yes; you. When I have named so very respectable a chaperon for my youth, of course you will understand that my husband is to take us.


But Mr. Palliser can't leave London at this time of the year?


That's just it. He is to leave London at this time of the year. Don't look in that way, for it's all settled. Whether you go with me or not, I've got to go. To-day is Tuesday. We are to be off next Tuesday night, if you can make yourself ready. We shall breakfast in Paris on Wednesday morning, and then it will be to us all just as if we were in a new world. Mr. Palliser will walk up and down the new court of the Louvre, and you will be on his left arm, and I shall be on his right,--just like English people,--and it will be the most proper thing that ever was seen in life. Then we shall go on to Basle-- and so to Lucerne--. But no; that was the first plan, and Mr. Palliser altered it. He spent a whole day up here with maps and Bradshaw's and Murray's guide-books, and he scolded me so because I didn't care whether we went first to Baden or to some other place. How could I care? I told him I would go anywhere he chose to take me. Then he told me I was heartless;--and I acknowledged that I was heartless. 'I am heartless,' I said. 'Tell me something I don't know.'


Oh, Cora, why did you say that?


I didn't choose to contradict my husband. Besides, it's true. Then he threw the Bradshaw away, and all the maps flew about. So I picked them up again, and said we'd go to Switzerland first. I knew that would settle it, and of course he decided on stopping at Baden. If he had said Jericho, it would have been the same thing to me. Wouldn't you like to go to Jericho?


I should have no special objection to Jericho.


But you are to go to Baden instead.


I've said nothing about that yet. But you have not told me half your story. Why is Mr. Palliser going abroad in the middle of Parliament in this way?


Ah; now I must go back to the beginning. And indeed, Alice, I hardly know how to tell you; not that I mind you knowing it, only there are some things that won't get themselves told. You can hardly guess what it is that he is giving up. You must swear that you won't repeat what I'm going to tell you now?


I'm not a person apt to tell secrets, but I shan't swear anything.


What a woman you are for discretion! it is you that ought to be Chancellor of the Exchequer; you are so wise. Only you haven't brought your own pigs to the best market, after all.


Never mind my own pigs now, Cora.


I do mind them, very much. But the secret is this. They have asked Mr. Palliser to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he has--refused. Think of that!


But why?


Because of me,--of me, and my folly, and wickedness, and abominations. Because he has been fool enough to plague himself with a wife--he who of all men ought to have kept himself free from such troubles. Oh, he has been so good! It is almost impossible to make any one understand it. If you could know how he has longed for this office;--how he has worked for it day and night, wearing his eyes out with figures when everybody else has been asleep, shutting himself up with such creatures as Mr. Bott when other men have been shooting and hunting and flirting and spending their money. He has been a slave to it for years,--all his life I believe,--in order that he might sit in the Cabinet, and be a minister and a Chancellor of the Exchequer. He has hoped and feared, and has been, I believe, sometimes half-mad with expectation. This has been his excitement,--what racing and gambling are to other men. At last, the place was there, ready for him, and they offered it to him. They begged him to take it, almost on their knees. The Duke of St. Bungay was here all one morning about it; but Mr. Palliser sent him away, and refused the place. It's all over now, and the other man, whom they all hate so much, is to remain in.


But why did he refuse it?


I keep on telling you--because of me. He found that I wanted looking after, and that Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott between them couldn't do it.


Oh, Cora! how can you talk in that way?


If you knew all, you might well ask how I could. You remember about Lady Monk's ball, that you would not go to,--as you ought to have done. If you had gone, Mr. Palliser would have been Chancellor of the Exchequer at this minute; he would, indeed. Only think of that! But though you did not go, other people did who ought to have remained at home. I went for one,--and you know who was there for another.


What difference could that make to you?


It might have made a great deal of difference. And, for the matter of that, so it did. Mr. Palliser was there too, but, of course, he went away immediately. I can't tell you all the trouble there had been about Mrs. Marsham,--whether I was to take her with me or not. However, I wouldn't take her, and didn't take her. The carriage went for her first, and there she was when we got there; and Mr. Bott was there too. I wonder whether I shall ever make you understand it all.


There are some things I don't want to understand.


There they both were watching me,--looking at me the whole evening; and, of course, I resolved that I would not be put down by them.


I think, if I had been you, I would not have allowed their presence to make any difference to me.


That is very easily said, my dear, but by no means so easily done. You can't make yourself unconscious of eyes that are always looking at you. I dared them, at any rate, to do their worst, for I stood up to dance with Burgo Fitzgerald.


Oh, Cora!


Why shouldn't I? At any rate I did; and I waltzed with him for half an hour. Alice, I never will waltz again;--never. I have done with dancing now. I don't think, even in my maddest days, I ever kept it up so long as I did then. And I knew that everybody was looking at me. It was not only Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott, but everybody there. I felt myself to be desperate,--mad, like a wild woman. There I was, going round and round and round with the only man for whom I ever cared two straws. It seemed as though everything had been a dream since the old days. Ah! how well I remember the first time I danced with him,--at his aunt's house in Cavendish Square. They had only just brought me out in London then, and I thought that he was a god.


Cora! I cannot bear to hear you talk like that.


I know well enough that he is no god now; some people say that he is a devil, but he was like Apollo to me then. Did you ever see anyone so beautiful as he is?


I never saw him at all.


I wish you could have seen him; but you will some day. I don't know whether you care for men being handsome. I do; or, rather, I used to do. I don't think I care much about anything now; but I don't see why handsome men should not be run after as much as handsome women.


But you wouldn't have a girl run after any man, would you; whether handsome or ugly?


But they do, you know. When I saw him the other night he was just as handsome as ever;--the same look, half wild and half tame, like an animal you cannot catch, but which you think would love you so if you could catch him. In a little while it was just like the old time, and I had made up my mind to care nothing for the people looking at me.


And you think that was right?


No, I don't. Yes, I do; that is. It wasn't right to care about dancing with him, but it was right to disregard all the people gaping round. What was it to them? Why should they care who I danced with?


That is nonsense, dear, and you must know that it is so. If you were to see a woman misbehaving herself in public, would not you look on and make your comments? Could you help doing so if you were to try?


You are very severe, Alice. Misbehaving in public!


Yes, Cora. I am only taking your own story. According to that, you were misbehaving in public.


Of all things in the world, I hate a prude the most,


Cora, look here. If you consider it prudery on my part to disapprove of your waltzing with Mr. Fitzgerald in the manner you have described,--or, indeed, in any other manner,--you and I must differ so totally about the meaning of words and the nature of things that we had better part.


Alice, you are the unkindest creature that ever lived. You are as cold as stone. I sometimes think that you can have no heart.


I don't mind your saying that. Whether I have a heart or not I will leave you to find out for yourself; but I won't be called a prude by you. You know you were wrong to dance with that man. What has come of it? What have you told me yourself this morning? In order to preserve you from misery and destruction, Mr. Palliser has given up all his dearest hopes. He has had to sacrifice himself that he might save you. That, I take it, is about the truth of it,--and yet you tell me that you have done no wrong.


I never said so. I never said that I was not wrong. Of course I was wrong. I have been so wrong throughout that I have never been right yet. Let me tell it on to the end, and then you can go away if you like, and tell me that I am too wicked for your friendship.


Have I ever said anything like that, Cora?


But you will, I dare say, when I have done. Well; what do you think my senior duenna did,--the female one, I mean? She took my own carriage, and posted off after Mr. Palliser as hard as ever she could, leaving the male duenna on the watch. I was dancing as hard as I could, but I knew what was going on all the time as well as though I had heard them talking. Of course Mr. Palliser came after me. I don't know what else he could do, unless, indeed, he had left me to my fate. He came there, and behaved so well,--so much like a perfect gentleman. Of course I went home, and I was prepared to tell him everything, if he spoke a word to me,--that I intended to leave him, and that cart-ropes should not hold me!


To leave him, Cora!


Yes, and go with that other man whose name you won't let me mention. I had a letter from him in my pocket asking me to go. He asked me a dozen times that night. I cannot think how it was that I did not consent.


That you did not consent to your own ruin and disgrace?


That I did not consent to go off with him,--anywhere. Of course it would have been my own destruction. I'm not such a fool as not to know that. Do you suppose I have never thought of it;--what it would be to be a man's mistress instead of his wife. If I had not I should be a thing to be hated and despised. When once I had done it I should hate and despise myself. I should feel myself to be loathsome, and, as it were, a beast among women. But why did they not let me marry him, instead of driving me to this? And though I might have destroyed myself, I should have saved the man who is still my husband. Do you know, I told him all that,--told him that if I had gone away with Burgo Fitzgerald he would have another wife, and would have children, and would--?


You told your husband that you had thought of leaving him?


Yes; I told him everything. I told him that I dearly loved that poor fellow, for whom, as I believe, nobody else on earth cares a single straw.


And what did he say?


I cannot tell you what he said, only that we are all to go to Baden together, and then to Italy. But he did not seem a bit angry; he very seldom is angry, unless at some trumpery thing, as when he threw the book away. And when I told him that he might have another wife and a child, he put his arm round me and whispered to me that he did not care so much about it as I had imagined. I felt more like loving him at that moment than I had ever done before.


He must be fit to be an angel.


He's fit to be a cabinet minister, which, I'm quite sure, he'd like much better. And now you know everything; but no,--there is one thing you don't know yet. When I tell you that, you'll want to make him an archangel or a prime minister. 'We'll go abroad,' he said,--and remember, this was his own proposition, made long before I was able to speak a word;--'We'll go abroad, and you shall get your cousin Alice to go with us.' That touched me more than anything. Only think if he had proposed Mrs. Marsham!


But yet he does not like me.


You're wrong there, Alice. There has been no question of liking or of disliking. He thought you would be a kind of Mrs. Marsham, and when you were not, but went out flirting among the ruins with Jeffrey Palliser, instead--


I never went out flirting with Jeffrey Palliser.


He did with you, which is all the same thing. And when Plantagenet knew of that,--for, of course, Mr. Bott told him--


Mr. Bott can't see everything.


Those men do. The worst is, they see more than everything. But, at any rate, Mr. Palliser has got over all that now. Come, Alice; the fact of the offer having come from himself should disarm you of any such objection as that. As he has held out his hand to you, you have no alternative but to take it.


I will take his hand willingly.


And for my sake you will go with us? He understands himself that I am not fit to be his companion, and to have no companion but him. Now there is a spirit of wisdom about you that will do for him, and a spirit of folly that will suit me. I can manage to put myself on a par with a girl who has played such a wild game with her lovers as you have done.


And I must go,


I have no objection; I can get along in lodgings. I suppose we had better leave the house, as you have given away so much of your own fortune?


Things of that sort are so often over with you.


But, he was always looking after me. I believe he thought that Burgo Fitzgerald had hidden himself among the ruins. He never suspected me, I am sure of that; but he thought that he ought to look after me.


I saw him yawning sometimes, as though he would fall in pieces.


To-day, papa?


Yes, to-day. Why not? No man is less particular as to what he eats than Grey.


I was not thinking of that, papa. Perhaps, papa, you and Mr. Grey had better dine alone.


What do you mean by alone?


I meant without me,--as two men generally like to do.


If I wanted that I should have asked him to dine at the club,


But, papa--


Well, my dear! If you mean to say that because of what has passed you object to meet Mr. Grey, I can only tell you it's nonsense,--confounded nonsense. If he chooses to come there can be no reason why you shouldn't receive him.


It will look as though--


Look what?


As though he were asked as my guest.


That's nonsense. I saw him yesterday, and I asked him to come. I saw him again to-day, and he said he would come. He's not such a fool as to suppose after that, that you asked him.


No; not that I asked him.


And if you run away you'll only make more of the thing than it's worth. Of course I can't make you dine with me if you don't like.


I hear you are going abroad, with your cousin, Lady Glencora Palliser.


Yes. I am going with them for a long tour. We shall not return, I fancy, till the end of next winter.


Plans of that sort are as easily broken as they are made. You won't be your own mistress; and I advise you not to count too surely upon getting further than Baden.


If Mr. Palliser changes his mind of course I shall come home,


I should think him a man not prone to changes. But all London is talking about his change of mind at this moment. They say at the clubs that he might have been in the Cabinet if he would, but that he has taken up this idea of going abroad at the moment when he was wanted.


It's his wife's doing, I take it,


That's the worst of being in Parliament. A man can't do anything without giving a reason for it. There must be men for public life, of course; but, upon my word, I think we ought to be very much obliged to them.


Had he deigned to discuss it with me! But, no; he will read his books, and I am to go there to fetch him his slippers, and make his tea for him.


It seems to me, that your pity is hardly needed. I should think that no persons can be happier than those whom you call our public men.


Ah! that is our old quarrel. It's the old story of the town mouse and the country mouse,--as old as the hills. Mice may be civil for a while, and compliment each other; but when they come to speak their minds freely, each likes his own life best.


Alice. I can't compliment your cook upon her soup.


You don't encourage her, papa, by eating it often enough. And then you only told me at two o'clock to-day.


If a cook can't make soup between two and seven, she can't make it in a week.


I hope Mr. Grey will excuse it,


Isn't it good? I won't say that it is, because I should be pretending to have an opinion; but I should not have found out anything against it of myself.


Where do you dine usually, now you are in London?


At the old club, at the corner of Suffolk Street. It's the oldest club in London, I believe. I never belonged to any other, and therefore can't compare them; but I can't imagine anything much nicer.


They give you better soup than ours?


You've an excellent cook, one of the best second-class cooks in London. We were very nearly getting him, but you nicked him just in time. I know him well.


It's a great deal more than I do, or hope to do. There's another branch of public life for which I'm quite unfitted. I'd as soon be called on to choose a Prime Minister for the country, as I would a cook for a club.


Of course you would. There may be as many as a dozen cooks about London to be looked up, but there are never more than two possible Prime Ministers about. And as one of them must be going out when the other is coming in, I don't see that there can be any difficulty. Moreover, now-a-days, people do their politics for themselves, but they expect to have their dinners cooked for them.


If he can forget all that has passed, so much the better,


She does not look well,


Well;--no: how can she look well after what she has gone through? I sometimes think, that of all the people I ever knew, she has been the most foolish. But, of course, it is not for me to say anything against my own child; and, of all people, not to you.


Nothing that you could say against her would make any difference to me. I sometimes fancy that I know her better than you do.


And you think that she'll still come round again?


I cannot say that I think so. No one can venture to say whether or not such wounds as hers may be cured. There are hearts and bodies so organized, that in them severe wounds are incurable, whereas in others no injury seems to be fatal. But I can say that if she be not cured it shall not be from want of perseverance on my part. Upon my word, Grey, I don't know how to thank you enough. I don't, indeed. It doesn't seem to me to be a case for thanking. Of course it isn't. I know that well enough. And in the ordinary way of the world no father would think of thanking a man for wanting to marry his daughter. But things have come to such a pass with us, that, by George! I don't feel like any other father. I don't mind saying anything to you, you know. That claret isn't very good, but you might as well take another glass. Thank you, I will. I should have said that that was rather good wine, now. It's not just the thing. What's the use of my having good wine here, when nobody comes to drink it? But, as I was saying about Alice, of course I've felt all this thing very much. I feel as though I were responsible, and yet what could I do? She's her own mistress through it all. When she told me she was going to marry that horrible miscreant, my nephew, what could I do? That's over now, and we need not talk about it. It's very kind of you to say so,--very. I believe she's a good girl. I do, indeed, in spite of it all. I've no doubt of her being what you call a good girl,--none in the least. What she has done to me does not impair her goodness. I don't think you have ever understood how much all this has been a matter of conscience with her. Conscience! I shall not think that I am disgraced. She has taken very little care of mine. I shall not be at all afraid to trust mine to her,--if she will let me do so. But she has been wounded sorely, and it must take time. And, in the meantime, what are we to do when she tells us that Mr. George Vavasor wants another remittance? Two thousand pounds a quarter comes heavy, you know! Let us hope that he has had enough. Enough! Did such a man ever have enough? Let us hope, then, that she thinks he has had enough. Come;--may I go up-stairs? Oh, yes. I'll follow you. She'll think that I mean something if I leave you together.


And you really start to-morrow?


I start for Westmoreland to-morrow. We do not leave London for the continent till the latter end of next week.


But you will not be here again?


No; I shall not come back to Queen Anne Street.


And you will be away for many months?


Mr. Palliser talked of next Easter as the term of his return. He mentioned Easter to Lady Glencora. I have not seen him myself since I agreed to go with him.


What should you say if you met me somewhere in your travels?


I don't think that will be very likely,


I think it is very likely. For myself, I hate surprises. I could not bring myself to fall in upon your track unawares. I shall go abroad, but it will not be till the late autumn, when the summer heats are gone,--and I shall endeavour to find you.


To find me, Mr. Grey!


It will not be unfair, I think, if I give you notice of my approach. I will not fall upon you and your friends unawares.


I was not thinking of them. They would be glad to know you, of course.


And equally, of course! or, rather, much more of course, you will not be glad to see me? That's what you mean?


I mean that we had better not meet more than we can help.


I think differently, Alice,--quite differently. The more we meet the better,--that is what I think. But I will not stop to trouble you now. Good night!


And he was violent to you, and broke your arm? I always knew it was so,


No. I would give all I have in the world to bring them together again,


They'll come together fast enough if they like each other,


Of course, my dear, marriage with me, if I should marry again, would be a very different thing to your marriage, or that of any other young person. As for love, that has been all over for me since poor Greenow died. I have known nothing of the softness of affection since I laid him in his cold grave, and never can again. 'Captain Bellfield,' I said to him, 'if you were to kneel at my feet for years, it would not make me care for you in the way of love.' And what did he say to that? How am I to tell you what he said? He talked nonsense about my beauty, as all the men do. If a woman were hump-backed, and had only one eye, they wouldn't be ashamed to tell her she was a Venus.


But, aunt, you are a handsome woman, you know.


Laws, my dear, as if I didn't understand all about it; as if I didn't know what makes a woman run after? It isn't beauty,--and it isn't money altogether. I've seen women who had plenty of both, and not a man would come nigh them. They didn't dare. There are some of them, a man would as soon think of putting his arm round a poplar tree, they are so hard and so stiff. You know you're a little that way yourself, Kate, and I've always told you it won't do.


I'm afraid I'm too old to mend, aunt.


Not at all, if you'll only set your wits to work and try. You've plenty of money now, and you're good-looking enough, too, when you take the trouble to get yourself up. But, as I said before, it isn't that that's wanted. There's a stand-off about some women,--what the men call a 'nollimy tangere,' that a man must be quite a furious Orlando to attempt to get the better of it. They look as though matrimony itself were improper, and as if they believed that little babies were found about in the hedges and ditches. They talk of women being forward! There are some of them a deal too backward, according to my way of thinking.


Yours is a comfortable doctrine, aunt.


That's just what I want it to be. I want things to be comfortable. Why shouldn't things be nice about one when one's got the means? Nobody can say it's a pleasant thing to live alone. I always thought that man in the song hit it off properly. You remember what he says? 'The poker and tongs to each other belongs.' So they do, and that should be the way with men and women.


But the poker and tongs have but a bad life of it sometimes.


Not so often as the people say, my dear. Men and women ain't like lumps of sugar. They don't melt because the water is sometimes warm. Now, if I do take Bellfield,--and I really think I shall; but if I do he'll give me a deal of trouble. I know he will. He'll always be wanting my money, and, of course, he'll get more than he ought. I'm not a Solomon, nor yet a Queen of Sheba, no more than anybody else. And he'll smoke too many cigars, and perhaps drink more brandy-and-water than he ought. And he'll be making eyes, too, at some of the girls who'll be fools enough to let him.


Dear me, aunt, if I thought all that ill of him, I'm sure I wouldn't marry him;--especially as you say you don't love him.


As for love, my dear, that's gone,--clear gone! Some women can love twice, but I am not one of them. I wish I could,--I wish I could! But my dear, marriage is a comfortable thing. And then, though the Captain may be a little free, I don't doubt but what I shall get the upper hand with him at last. I shan't stop his cigars and brandy-and-water you know. Why shouldn't a man smoke and have a glass, if he don't make a beast of himself? I like to see a man enjoy himself. And then,


So is Mr. Cheesacre for the matter of that.


Poor Cheesy! I believe he was, though he did talk so much about money. I always like to believe the best I can of them. But then there was no poetry about Cheesy. I don't care about saying it now, as you've quite made up your mind not to have him.


Quite, aunt.


Your grandfather's will does make a difference, you know. But, as I was saying, I do like a little romance about them,--just a sniff, as I call it, of the rocks and valleys. One knows that it doesn't mean much; but it's like artificial flowers,--it gives a little colour, and takes off the dowdiness. Of course, bread-and-cheese is the real thing. The rocks and valleys are no good at all, if you haven't got that, But enough is as good as a feast. Thanks to dear Greenow. Thanks to dear Greenow, I shall never want. Of course I shan't let any of the money go into his hands,--the Captain's, I mean. I know a trick worth two of that, my dear. But, lord love you! I've enough for him and me. What's the good of a woman's wanting to keep it all to herself?


And you think you'll really take him, aunt, and pay his washerwoman's bills for him? You remember what you told me when I first saw him?


Oh, yes; I remember. And if he can't pay his own washerwoman, isn't that so much more of a reason that I should do it for him? Well; yes; I think I will take him. That is, if he lets me take him just as I choose. Beggars mustn't be choosers, my dear.


If Captain Bellfield must come to Vavasor Hall, at any rate let him not come till Alice's visit had been completed.


I don't in the least know where he is, my dear, and as for writing to him, I never did such a thing in my life, and I shouldn't know how to begin.


It was here I fell. Do you know, Alice, I fancy that I shall never see him again.


Do you suppose that he means to quarrel with you altogether?


I can hardly tell you what I mean! He seemed to me to be going away from me, as though he went into another world. His figure against the light was quite clear, and he walked quickly, and on he went, till the slope of the hill hid him from me. Of course, I thought that he would return to the Hall. At one time I almost feared that he would come upon me through the woods, as I went back myself. But yet, I had a feeling,--what people call a presentiment, that I should never see him again.


He has never written?


No; not a word. You must remember that he did not know that I had hurt myself. I am sure he will not write, and I am sure, also, that I shall not. If he wanted money I would send it to him, but I would not write to him.


I fear he will always want money, Kate.


I fear he will. If you could know what I suffered when he made me write that letter to you! But, of course, I was a beast. Of course, I ought not to have written it.


I thought it a very proper letter.


It was a mean letter. The whole thing was mean! He should have starved in the street before he had taken your money. He should have given up Parliament, and everything else! I had doubted much about him before, but it was that which first turned my heart against him. I had begun to fear that he was not such a man as I had always thought him,--as I had spoken of him to you.


I had judged of him for myself,


Of course you did. But I had endeavoured to make you judge kindly. Alice, dear! we have both suffered for him; you more than I, perhaps; but I, too, have given up everything for him. My whole life has been at his service. I have been his creature, to do his bidding, just as he might tell me. He made me do things that I knew to be wrong,--things that were foreign to my own nature; and yet I almost worshipped him. Even now, if he were to come back, I believe that I should forgive him everything.


I should forgive him, but I could never do more.


But he will never come back. He will never ask us to forgive him, or even wish it. He has no heart.


He has longed for money till the Devil has hardened his heart,


And yet how tender he could be in his manner when he chose it;--how soft he could make his words and his looks! Do you remember how he behaved to us in Switzerland? Do you remember that balcony at Basle, and the night we sat there, when the boys were swimming down the river?


Yes;--I remember.


So do I! So do I! Alice, I would give all I have in the world, if I could recall that journey to Switzerland.


If you mean for my sake, Kate--


I do mean for your sake. It made no difference to me. Whether I stayed in Westmoreland or went abroad, I must have found out that my god was made of bricks and clay instead of gold. But there was no need for you to be crushed in the ruins.


I am not crushed, Kate!


Of course, you are too proud to own it?


If you mean about Mr. Grey, that would have happened just the same, whether I had gone abroad or remained at home.


Would it, dear?


Just the same.


I do not know what may happen to him, but when he was passing out of my sight into the valley, I felt that I was looking at him for the last time.


That is simply what people call a presentiment,


Exactly so; and presentiments, of course, mean nothing,


Who is it?


Captain Bellfield,


What! aunt Greenow's Captain?


Yes; aunt Greenow's Captain. I have been fearing this, and now, what on earth are we to do with him? Look at him. That's what aunt Greenow calls a sniff of the rocks and valleys.


Miss Vavasor, I am delighted. Miss Alice Vavasor, if I am not mistaken? I have been commissioned by my dear friend Mrs. Greenow to go out and seek you, but, upon my word, the woods looked so black that I did not dare to venture;--and then, of course, I shouldn't have found you.


Well. I am a little surprised myself;--I am, indeed! But I had nothing to do in Norwich,--literally nothing; and your aunt had so often talked to me of the beauties of this place, that I thought I'd take the liberty of paying you a flying visit. I didn't mean to intrude in the way of sleeping; I didn't indeed, Miss Vavasor; only Mrs. Greenow has been so kind as to say--


We are so very far out of the world, Captain Bellfield, that we always give our visitors beds.


I didn't intend it; I didn't indeed, miss! I did just put my bag, with a change of things, into the gig, which brought me over, not knowing quite where I might go on to.


We won't send you any further to-day, at any rate,


Mrs. Greenow has been very kind,--very kind, indeed. She has asked me to stay till--Saturday!


We shall be very glad to see you. We are three women together here, and I'm afraid you will find us rather dull.


Oh dear, no,--dull with you! That would be impossible!


And how have you left your friend, Mr. Cheesacre?


Quite well;--very well, thank you. That is to say, I haven't seen him much lately. He and I did have a bit of a breeze, you know.


I can't say that I did know, Captain Bellfield.


I thought, perhaps, you had heard. He seemed to think that I was too particular in a certain quarter! Ha--ha--ha--ha! That's only my joke, you know, ladies.


I suppose you have seen my aunt since you have been here?


Oh dear, yes. I saw her, and she suggested that I had better walk out and find you. I did find you, you know, though I didn't walk very far.


And have you seen your room?


Yes;--yes. She was kind enough to show me my room. Very nice indeed, thank you;--looking out into the front, and all that kind of thing. I shan't stay long, Miss Vavasor,--only just a night or so; but I did want to see your aunt again,--and you, too, upon my word.


My aunt is the attraction, Captain Bellfield. We all know that. I will go to my aunt at once, and find out what is to be done.


I suppose she means to marry him?


Oh, yes; she means to marry him, and the sooner the better now. I knew this was coming, but I did so hope it would not be while you were here. It makes me feel so ashamed of myself that you should see it.


I was waiting for you to come,


Here I am, aunt; and, what is more to the purpose, there is Captain Bellfield in the drawing-room.


Stupid man! I told him to take himself away about the place till dinner-time. I've half a mind to send him back to Shap at once;--upon my word I have.


Don't do that, aunt; it would be inhospitable.


But he is such an oaf. I hope you understand, my dear, that I couldn't help it?


But you do mean to--to marry him, aunt; don't you?


Well, Kate, I really think I do. Why shouldn't I? It's a lonely sort of life being by myself; and, upon my word, I don't think there's very much harm in him.


I am not saying anything against him; only in that case you can't very well turn him out of the house.


Could not I, though? I could in a minute; and, if you wish it, you shall see if I can't do it.


The rocks and valleys would not allow that, aunt.


It's all very well for you to laugh, my dear. If laughing would break my bones I shouldn't be as whole as I am now. I might have had Cheesacre if I liked, who is a substantial man, and could have kept a carriage for me; but it was the rocks and valleys that prevented that;--and perhaps a little feeling that I might do some good to a poor fellow who has nobody in the world to look after him.


I'm sure I hope you'll be happy, aunt.


If he makes me unhappy he shall pay for it;


I suppose I'd better take a walk,


and perhaps the young ladies--


If you mean my two nieces. I'm afraid you'll find they are engaged. But if I'm not too old to walk with-- Never mind, Captain. We'll have our walk all the same, and won't mind those young girls. Come along.


Well, Captain Bellfield. Well, Captain Bellfield,--so I suppose I'm to be good-natured; am I?


Arabella, you'll make me the happiest man in the world.


That's all fudge.


Upon my word, you will.


I hope I shall make you respectable?


Oh, yes; certainly. I quite intend that.


It is the great thing that you should intend. Of course I am going to make a fool of myself.


No, no; don't say that.


If I don't say it, all my friends will say it for me. It's lucky for you that I don't much care what people say.


It is lucky;--I know that I'm lucky. The very first day I saw you I thought what a happy fellow I was to meet you. Then, of course, I was only thinking of your beauty.


Get along with you!


Upon my word, yes. Come, Arabella, as we are to be man and wife, you might as well.


Out in the high road! How can you be so impertinent,--and so foolish?


You might as well, you know,--just once.


Captain Bellfield, I brought you out here not for such fooling as that, but in order that we might have a little chat about business. If we are to be man and wife, as you say, we ought to understand on what footing we are to begin together. I'm afraid your own private means are not considerable?


Well, no; they are not, Mrs. Greenow.


Have you anything?


Come, Captain Bellfield, let us have the truth at once, and then we shall understand each other.


You must have had something to live upon, I suppose?


And now you will give a fellow a kiss,--just one kiss,


Hush! there's a carriage coming on the road--close to us. Hush! there's a carriage coming on the road--close to us.


That man's wanted by the police. He's wanted by the police, Mrs. Greenow. He's wanted by the police,


Oh, my!


It's false,


It's true,


I'll indict you for slander, my friend,


Pay me the money you owe me. You're a swindler!


What is this I hear, Captain Bellfield?


It's a lie and a slander. He merely wants to make a quarrel between us. What police are after me, Mr. Cheesacre?


It's the police, or the sheriff's officer, or something of the kind,


Oh, the sheriff's officers! Mr. Cheesacre, you shouldn't come and say such things;--you shouldn't, indeed. Sheriff's officers can be paid, and there's an end of them.


I'll indict him for the libel--I will, as sure as I'm alive,


Nonsense. Don't you make a fool of yourself. When men can't pay their way they must put up with having things like that said of them. Mr. Cheesacre, where were you going?


I was going to Vavasor Hall, on purpose to caution you.


It's too late,


Why, you haven't been and married him since yesterday? He only had twenty-four hours' start of me, I know. Or, perhaps, you had it done clandestine in Norwich? Oh, Mrs. Greenow!


I hardly know, whether we can welcome you. There are other visitors, and the house is full.


I'm not one to intrude where I'm not wanted. You may be sure of that. If I can't get my supper for love, I can get at for money. That's more than some people can say. I wonder when you're going to pay me what you owe me, Lieutenant Bellfield?


I wonder when you're going to pay me what you owe me, Lieutenant Bellfield?


You won't throw a fellow over, will you, now?


He knows 'un,


It belongs to your old friend, Mr. Cheesacre,


And has he come too?


And it's not the slightest use,


not the least in the world. He never had a chance in that quarter.


Not enough of the rocks and valleys about him, was there, Captain Bellfield?


He wasn't going to say anything against the Captain, if things were really fixed. He never begrudged any man his chance.


Things are really fixed,


If you look at it in that light, of course it's true. Then I've done about that, and as to the little bit of money he owes me, I must give him his time about it, I suppose.


You know you put it into my head your own self. Didn't you, now?


But things are so different since that,


How different? I ain't different. There's Oileymead just where it always was, and the owner of it don't owe a shilling to any man. How are things different?


My niece has inherited property.


And is that to make a change? Oh! Mrs. Greenow, who would have thought to find you mercenary like that? Inherited property! Is she going to fling a man over because of that?


Why, Mr. Cheesacre, I am quite sure she never gave you a word of encouragement in her life.


But you always told me I might have her for the asking.


And now I tell you that you mayn't. It's of no use your going on there to ask her, for she will only send you away with an answer you won't like. Look here, Mr. Cheesacre; you want to get married, and it's quite time you should. There's my dear friend Charlie Fairstairs. How could you get a better wife than Charlie?


Charlie Fairstairs! She hasn't got a penny, nor any one belonging to her. The man who marries her will have to find the money for the smock she stands up in.


Who's mercenary now, Mr. Cheesacre? Do you go home and think of it; and if you'll marry Charlie, I'll go to your wedding. You shan't be ashamed of her clothing. I'll see to that.


Do you think there's no chance at all for me, then?


I know there's none. I've heard her speak about it.


Somebody else, perhaps, is the happy man?


I can't say anything about that, but I know that she wouldn't take you. I like farming, you know, but she doesn't.


I might give that up, at any rate, for a time.


No, no, no; it would do no good. Believe me, my friend, that it is of no use.


I don't see what's the use of my going in. There's a pride about me, that I don't choose to go where I'm not wanted.


I can't tell you, Mr. Cheesacre, that you are wanted in that light, certainly.


Then I'll go. Perhaps you'll be so good as to tell the boy with the gig to come after me? That's six pound ten it will have cost me to come here and go back. Bellfield did it cheaper, of course; he travelled second class. I heard of him as I came along.


The expense does not matter to you, Mr. Cheesacre. And Mr. Cheesacre, don't forget dear Charlie Fairstairs.


Where is he?


He has gone,


I am so glad. What on earth should we have done with him?


I never was so disappointed in my life. I have heard so much of Mr. Cheesacre, but have never seen him.


He ain't a been and took hisself off?


You drive after him, young gentleman, and you'll find him on the road to Shap,


Mind you give him my love, and say I hope he'll get his turnips in well.


Yes, indeed. Old Cheesacre, in spite of his absurdities, is not a bad sort of fellow at bottom;--awfully fond of his money, you know, Miss Vavasor, and always boasting about it.


That's not pleasant,


No, the most unpleasant thing in the world. There's nothing I hate so much, Miss Vavasor, as that kind of talking. My idea is this,--when a man has lots of money, let him make the best use he can of it, and say nothing about it. Nobody ever heard me talking about my money.


As long as there's anything kept back, I won't have you. I won't become your wife till I'm quite sure there's not a penny owing that is not shown in the list.


I think of taking this house, and of living here.


What, in Westmoreland!