It is an unmaidenly thing to do, certainly. Nay, it is unwomanly; but one may be driven. One may be so driven that all gentleness of womanhood is driven out of one.


Oh, Glencora!


I did not propose that you should do it as a sudden thing.


Glencora!


I did do it suddenly. I know it. I did it like a beast that is driven as its owner chooses. I know it. I was a beast. Oh, Alice, if you know how I hate myself!


But I love you with all my heart. Glencora, I have learned to love you so dearly!


Then you are the only being that does. He can't love me. How is it possible? You,--and perhaps another.


There are many who love you. He loves you. Mr. Palliser loves you.


It is impossible. I have never said a word to him that could make him love me. I have never done a thing for him that can make him love me. The mother of his child he might have loved, because of that. Why should he love me? We were told to marry each other and did it. When could he have learned to love me? But, Alice, he requires no loving, either to take it or to give it. I wish it were so with me.


Forgive you! What have I to forgive? You don't suppose I do not know it all, and think of it all without the chance of some stray word like that! Forgive you! I am so grateful that you love me! Some one's love I must have found,--or I could not have remained here.


Do you intend to prolong your stay here, Miss Vavasor?


For a few more days, I think,


Ah--I'm glad of that. Mr. Palliser has pressed me so much to remain till he goes to the Duke's, that I cannot get away sooner. As I am an unmarried man myself, I can employ my time as well in one place as in another;--at this time of the year at least.


You must find that very convenient,


Yes, it is convenient. You see in my position,--Parliamentary position, I mean,--I am obliged, as a public man, to act in concert with others. A public man can be of no service unless he is prepared to do that. We must give and take, you know, Miss Vavasor. I always say to the men of my party,--of course I regard myself as belonging to the extreme Radicals.


Oh, indeed!


Yes. I came into Parliament on that understanding; and I have never seen any occasion as yet to change any political opinion that I have expressed. But I always say to the gentlemen with whom I act, that nothing can be done if we don't give and take. I don't mind saying to you, Miss Vavasor, that I look upon our friend, Mr. Palliser, as the most rising public man in the country. I do, indeed.


I am happy to hear you say so,


And I, as an extreme Radical, do not think I can serve my party better than by keeping in the same boat with him, as long as it will hold the two. 'He'll make a Government hack of you,' a friend of mine said to me the other day. 'And I'll make a Manchester school Prime Minister of him,' I replied. I rather think I know what I'm about, Miss Vavasor.


No doubt,


And so does he;--and so does he. Mr. Palliser is not the man to be led by the nose by any one. But it's a fair system of give and take. You can't get on in politics without it. What a charming woman is your relative, Lady Glencowrer! I remember well what you said to me the other evening.


Do you?


And I quite agree with you that confidential intercourse regarding dear friends should not be lightly made.


Certainly not,


But there are occasions, Miss Vavasor; there are occasions when the ordinary laws by which we govern our social conduct must be made somewhat elastic.


I don't think this one of them, Mr. Bott.


Is it not? Just listen to me for one moment, Miss Vavasor. Our friend, Mr. Palliser, I am proud to say, relies much upon my humble friendship. Our first connection has, of course, been political; but it has extended beyond that, and has become pleasantly social;--I may say, very pleasantly social.


What a taste Mr. Palliser must have!


But I need not tell you that Lady Glencowrer is--very young; we may say, very young indeed.


Mr. Bott, I will not talk to you about Lady Glencora Palliser.


When I tell you, Miss Vavasor, that I speak solely with a view to her domestic happiness!


I don't think that she wishes to have any such guardian of her happiness.


But if he wishes it, Miss Vavasor! Now I have the means of knowing that he has the greatest reliance on your judgement.


Are you running from your breakfast, Miss Vavasor?


No, Mrs. Sparkes; I am running from Mr. Bott,


Mr. Bott, what is this?


Ha, ha, ha,


I hope I shall be able to keep the peace. I trust his offence was not one that requires special punishment.


Mrs. Sparkes, good morning. I hope nobody has waited breakfast. Good morning, Mr. Bott. Oh, Alice!


What is the matter?


Oh, Alice, such a blow! Come here. Now I shall have to put your confidence in me to the test. This letter is from,--whom do you think?


How can I guess?


From Lady Midlothian! and she's coming here on Monday, on her road to London. Unless you tell me that you are quite sure this is as unexpected by me as by you, I will never speak to you again.


I am quite sure of that.


Ah! then we can consult. But first we'll go and have some breakfast.


We shall be delighted to see Lady Midlothian,


But there is somebody here who will not be at all delighted to see her,


Is there, indeed? Who is that?


Her most undutiful cousin, Alice Vavasor. But, Alice, Mr. Palliser knows nothing about it, and it is too long to explain.


I am extremely sorry--


I can assure you it does not signify in the least. It will only be taking me away three days earlier.


It will do no such thing. Do you mean to say that you are coward enough to run away from her?


I'm afraid, Miss Vavasor, that we can hardly bid her not come,


I should tell you, Mr. Palliser, that I have never seen Lady Midlothian, though she is my far-away cousin. Nor have I ever quarrelled with her. But she has given me advice by letter, and I did not answer her because I thought she had no business to interfere. I shall go away, not because I am afraid of her, but because, after what has passed, our meeting would be unpleasant to her.


You could tell her that Miss Vavasor is here. And then she need not come unless she pleased.


Is Mr. Bott an admirer of your cousin?


A very distant one I should think,


Goodness gracious!


it's the very last thing I should have dreamt of.


But I didn't dream it, first or last,


Why do you ask?


Don't suppose that I am asking whether Miss Vavasor is an admirer of his. I have no suspicion of that nature. I rather think that when he plays Bacchus she plays Ariadne, with full intention of flying from him in earnest.


Is Mr. Bott inclined to play Bacchus?


I rather thought he was this morning. If you observe, he has something of a godlike and triumphant air about him.


I don't think his godship will triumph there,


I really think she would be throwing herself very much away. Miss Vavasor is not at all disposed to do that,


I shall receive her when she comes, and of course will tell her that you are here.


Yes, that will be best; and--; dear me, I declare I don't know how to manage it.


I'll bring her to you in my room if you like it.


No; that would be too solemn. That would make her understand that I thought a great deal about her.


Then we'll let things take their chance, and you shall come across her just as you would any other stranger.


Here is Alice. Alice, let me introduce you to Lady Midlothian.


I am glad at last to be able to make your acquaintance, my dear, very glad. Your aunt, Lady Macleod, is one of my oldest friends, and I have heard her speak of you very often.


And Lady Macleod has often spoken to me of your ladyship,


Then we know each other's names, and it will be well that we should be acquainted with each other's persons. I am becoming an old woman, and if I did not learn to know you now, or very shortly, I might never do so.


You are very kind,


I would wish to be so. Blood is thicker than water, my dear; and I know no earthly ties that can bind people together if those of family connection will not do so. Your mother, when she and I were young, was my dearest friend.


I never knew my mother,


No, my dear, you never did; and that is to my thinking another reason why they who loved her should love you. But Lady Macleod is your nearest relative,--on your mother's side, I mean,--and she has done her duty by you well.


Indeed she has, Lady Midlothian.


She has, and others, therefore, have been the less called upon to interfere. I only say this, my dear, in my own vindication,--feeling, perhaps, that my conduct needs some excuse.


I'm sure Alice does not think that,


It is what I think rather than what Alice thinks that concerns my own shortcomings. But I have wished to make up for former lost opportunities. I am very anxious now to be reckoned one of Alice Vavasor's friends, if she will allow me to become so.


I can only be too proud,--if--


If what, my dear? If what, my dear?


Alice means--


Let Alice say what she means herself,


I hardly know how to say what I do mean. I am assured that you and I, Lady Midlothian, differ very much as to a certain matter; and as it is one in which I must be guided by my own opinion, and not that of any other person, perhaps--


You mean about Mr. Grey?


Yes. I mean about Mr. Grey.


I think so much about that matter, and your happiness as therein concerned, that when I heard that you were here I was determined to take Matching in my way to London, so that I might have an opportunity of speaking to you.


Then you knew that Alice was here,


Of course I did. I suppose you have heard all the history, Glencora? And what do you think of it? Perhaps another time and another place may be better, but I must go the day after to-morrow,--indeed, I thought of going to-morrow.


Oh, Lady Midlothian!


You must regard this as merely a passing visit, made upon business. But, as I was saying, when shall I get an opportunity of speaking to Alice where we need not be interrupted?


Lady Midlothian, it would really be of no use.


Of no use, my dear!


No, indeed. I did get your letter, you know.


And as you have not answered it, I have come all this way to see you.


I shall be so sorry if I give offence, but it is a subject which I cannot bring myself to discuss which I cannot bring myself to discuss with any one.


But you don't mean to say that you won't see me?


I will not talk upon that matter. I will not do it even with Lady Macleod.


No, and therefore it is so very necessary that other friends should interfere.


But I will endure no interference, either from persons who are friends or who are not friends. You must forgive me, Lady Midlothian, if I say that I can have no conversation with you on this matter.


The most self-willed young woman I ever met in my life,


I knew very well how it would be,


But it is quite frightful, my dear. She has been engaged, with the consent of all her friends, to this young man.


I know all about it.


But you must think she is very wrong.


I don't quite understand her, but I suppose she fears they would not be happy together.


Understand her! I should think not; nobody can understand her. A young woman to become engaged to a gentleman in that way,--before all the world, as one may say;--to go to his house, as I am told, and talk to the servants, and give orders about the furniture and then turn round and simply say that she has changed her mind! She hasn't given the slightest reason to my knowledge. I shall not give it up. I have the greatest possible objection to her father, who contrived to connect himself with our family in a most shameful manner, without the slightest encouragement. I don't think I have spoken to him since, but I shall see him now and tell him my opinion. Good-bye to you. Even yet I hope that things may go right, and if so you will find that I can forget and forgive.


If perseverance merits success, she ought to succeed.


But she won't succeed,


We are not going to be frightened,


People do not generally walk out at night in December,


That's just the reason why we want to do it. But we shall wrap ourselves up, and nobody need be afraid. Jeffrey, we shall expect you to stand sentinel at the old gate, and guard us from the ghosts.


No, indeed, Mr. Bott; you were one of those who preached a sermon against my dissipation in the morning, and I'm not going to allow you to join it, now the time for its enjoyment has come.


My dear Lady Glencora, if I were you, indeed I wouldn't,


My dear Mrs. Marsham, if you were me, indeed you would,


I think it a foolish thing to do,


If you forbid it, of course we won't go,


Forbid it:--no; I shall not forbid it.


Allons donc,


Let him say so plainly, and I'll give it up instantly. But I'm not going to be lectured out of my purposes secondhand by Mr. Bott or old Mother Marsham. I understand all these people, my dear. And if you throw me over, Alice, I'll never forgive you. Now, Jeffrey, when we get under the old gateway you must let me and Alice go round the dormitory and the chapel alone. Then we'll come back by the cloisters, and we'll take another turn outside with you. The outside is the finest by this light,--only I want to show Alice something by ourselves.


You're not afraid, I know, and if Miss Vavasor is not--


Miss Vavasor,--who, I think, would have allowed you to call her by her other name on such an occasion as this,--is never afraid.


Glencora, how dare you say so? I really think we had better go back.


Go back! No, indeed. We'll go on, and leave him here. Then he can call nobody anything. Don't be angry with me. The truth is this;--if you choose to have him for your husband, you may.


But if I do not choose.


Then there can be no harm done, and I will tell him so. But, Alice,--think of this. Whom will you meet that would suit you better? And you need not decide now. You need not say a word, but leave me to tell him, that if it is to be thought of at all, it cannot be thought of till he meets you in London. Trust me, you will be safe with me.


You shall tell him nothing of the kind. I believe you to be joking throughout, and I think the joke is a bad one.


No; there you wrong me. Indeed I am not joking. I know that in what I am saying I am telling you the simple truth. He has said enough to me to justify me in saying so. Alice, think of it all. It would reconcile me to much, and it would be something to be the mother of the future Duke of Omnium.


To me it would be nothing, less than nothing. I mean to say that the temptation is one so easily resisted that it acts in the other way. Don't say anything more about it, Glencora.


If you don't wish it, I will not.


No;--I do not wish it. I don't think I ever saw moonlight so bright as this. Look at the lines of that window against the light. They are clearer than you ever see them in the day.


Is it not beautiful! I do love it so! And there is a peculiar feeling of cold about the chill of the moon, different from any other cold. It makes you wrap yourself up tight, but it does not make your teeth chatter; and it seems to go into your senses rather than into your bones. But I suppose that's nonsense,


Not more so than what people are supposed to talk by moonlight.


That's unkind. I'd like what I say on such an occasion to be more poetical or else more nonsensical than what other people say under the same circumstances. And now I'll tell you why I always think of you when I come here by moonlight.


But I suppose you don't often come.


Yes, I do; that is to say, I did come very often when we had the full moon in August. The weather wasn't like this, and I used to run out through the open windows and nobody knew where I was gone. I made him come once, but he didn't seem to care about it. I told him that part of the refectory wall was falling; so he looked at that, and had a mason sent the next day. If anything is out of order he has it put to rights at once. There would have been no ruins if all the Pallisers had been like him.


So much the better for the world.


No;--I say no. Things may live too long. But now I'm going to tell you. Do you remember that night I brought you home from the play to Queen Anne Street?


Indeed I do,--very well.


And do you remember how the moon shone then?


Yes, I think I do.


I know I do. As we came round the corner out of Cavendish Square he was standing there,--and a friend of yours was standing with him.


What friend of mine?


Never mind that; it does not matter now.


Do you mean my cousin George?


Yes, I do mean your cousin; and oh, Alice! dear Alice! I don't know why I should love you, for if you had not been hardhearted that night,--stony cruel in your hard propriety, I should have gone with him then, and all this icy coldness would have been prevented.


You are very cold. We had better go in.


No, I am not cold,--not in that way. I won't go in yet. Jeffrey will come to us directly. Yes;--we should have escaped that night if you would have allowed him to come into your house. Ah, well! we didn't, and there's an end of it.


But Glencora,--you cannot regret it.


Not regret it! Alice, where can your heart be? Or have you a heart? Not regret it! I would give everything I have in the world to have been true to him. They told me that he would spend my money. Though he should have spent every farthing of it, I regret it; though he should have made me a beggar, I regret it. They told me that he would ill-use me, and desert me,--perhaps beat me. I do not believe it; but even though that should have been so, I regret it. It is better to have a false husband than to be a false wife.


Glencora, do not speak like that. Do not try to make me think that anything could tempt you to be false to your vows.


Tempt me to be false! Why, child, it has been all false throughout. I never loved him. How can you talk in that way, when you know that I never loved him? They browbeat me and frightened me till I did as I was told;--and now;--what am I now?


You are his honest wife. Glencora, listen to me.


No, no; I am not honest. By law I am his wife; but the laws are liars! I am not his wife. I will not say the thing that I am. When I went to him at the altar, I knew that I did not love the man that was to be my husband. But him,--Burgo,--I love him with all my heart and soul. I could stoop at his feet and clean his shoes for him, and think it no disgrace!


Oh, Cora, my friend, do not say such words as those! Remember what you owe your husband and yourself, and come away.


I do know what I owe him, and I will pay it him. Alice, if I had a child I think I would be true to him. Think! I know I would;--though I had no hour of happiness left to me in my life. But what now is the only honest thing that I can do? Why, leave him;--so leave him that he may have another wife and be the father of a child. What injury shall I do him by leaving him? He does not love me; you know yourself that he does not love me.


I know that he does. Alice, that is untrue. He does not; and you have seen clearly that it is so. It may be that he can love no woman. But another woman would give him a son, and he would be happy. I tell you that every day and every night,--every hour of every day and of every night,--I am thinking of the man I love. I have nothing else to think of. I have no occupation,--no friends,--no one to whom I care to say a word. But I am always talking to Burgo in my thoughts; and he listens to me. I dream that his arm is round me--


Oh, Glencora!


Well!--Do you begrudge me that I should tell you the truth? You have said that you would be my friend, and you must bear the burden of my friendship. And now,--this is what I want to tell you.--Immediately after Christmas, we are to go to Monkshade, and he will be there. Lady Monk is his aunt.


You must not go. No power should take you there.


That is easily said, child; but all the same I must go. I told Mr. Palliser that he would be there, and he said it did not signify. He actually said that it did not signify. I wonder whether he understands what it is for people to love each other;--whether he has ever thought about it.


You must tell him plainly that you will not go.


I did. I told him plainly as words could tell him. 'Glencora,' he said,--and you know the way he looks when he means to be lord and master, and put on the very husband indeed,--'This is an annoyance which you must bear and overcome. It suits me that we should go to Monkshade, and it does not suit me that there should be any one whom you are afraid to meet.' Could I tell him that he would lose his wife if I did go? Could I threaten him that I would throw myself into Burgo's arms if that opportunity were given to me? You are very wise, and very prudent. What would you have had me say?


I would have you now tell him everything, rather than go to that house.


Alice, look here. I know what I am, and what I am like to become. I loathe myself, and I loathe the thing that I am thinking of. I could have clung to the outside of a man's body, to his very trappings, and loved him ten times better than myself!--ay, even though he had ill-treated me,--if I had been allowed to choose a husband for myself. Burgo would have spent my money,--all that it would have been possible for me to give him. But there would have been something left, and I think that by that time I could have won even him to care for me. But with that man--! Alice you are very wise. What am I to do?


Here's Jeffrey! What an unconscionable time we have kept him!


Don't mention it. And I shouldn't have come to you now, only that I thought I should find you both freezing into marble.


We are not such cold-blooded creatures as that,--are we, Alice? And now we'll go round the outside; only we must not stay long, or we shall frighten those two delicious old duennas, Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott.


You must be very cold,


No, indeed,


Jeffrey. I am angry with you. You, at least, should have known better than to have allowed her to remain so long.


He is provoked with us, now. He is afraid that she will have caught cold. Yes; and he thinks it wrong that she should remain out at night so long. You can easily understand, Miss Vavasor, that he has not much sympathy for romance.


I dare say he is right. Romance usually means nonsense, I believe.


That is not Glencora's doctrine.


No; but she is younger than I am. My feet are very cold, Mr. Palliser, and I think I will go up to my room.


Good night. I think it so hard that you should have incurred his displeasure.


It will not hurt me,


No;--but he does not forget.


Even that will not hurt me. Good night, Mr. Palliser.


As it is the last night, may I say good night, Alice? I shall be away to-morrow before you are up.


No. Glencora was very wrong there,--doing an injury without meaning it to both of us. There can be no possible reason why you should call me otherwise than is customary.


Can there never be a reason?


No, Mr. Palliser. Good night;--and if I am not to see you to-morrow morning, good-bye.


You will certainly not see me to-morrow morning.


Good-bye. Had it not been for this folly of Glencora's, our acquaintance would have been very pleasant.


To me it has been very pleasant. Good night.


I loathe myself, and the thing that I am thinking of.


Miss Vavasor,


I know that I am taking a great liberty, but may I come into your room for a few minutes? I so much wish to speak to you!


I know that I am intruding,


Oh dear, no. If I can do anything for you I shall be very happy.


You are going to-morrow, and if I did not speak to you now I should have no other opportunity. Glencora seems to be very much attached to you, and we all thought it so good a thing that she should have such a friend.


I hope you have not all changed your minds,


Oh, no;--by no means. I did not mean that. My cousin, Mr. Palliser, I mean, liked you so much when you came.


And he does not like me quite so much now, because I went out in the moonlight with his wife. Isn't that it?


Well;--no, Miss Vavasor. I had not intended to mention that at all. I had not indeed. I have seen him certainly since you came in,--just for a minute, and he is vexed. But it is not about that that I would speak to you.


I saw plainly enough that he was angry with me.


He thought you would have brought her in earlier.


And why should he think that I can manage his wife? She was the mistress out there as she is in here. Mr. Palliser has been unreasonable. Not that it signifies.


I don't think he has been unreasonable; I don't, indeed, Miss Vavasor. He has certainly been vexed. Sometimes he has much to vex him. You see, Glencora is very young.


She is not younger than when Mr. Palliser married her,


You mean that if a man marries a young wife he must put up with the trouble. That is a matter of course. But their ages, in truth, are very suitable. My cousin himself is not yet thirty. When I say that Glencora is young--


You mean that she is younger in spirit, and perhaps in conduct, than he had expected to find her.


But you are not to suppose that he complains, Miss Vavasor. He is much too proud for that.


I should hope so,


I hardly know how to explain to you what I wish to say, or how far I may be justified in supposing that you will believe me to be acting solely on Glencora's behalf. I think you have some influence with her;--and I know no one else that has any.


My friendship with her is not of very long date, Miss Palliser.


I know it, but still there is the fact. Am I not right in supposing--


In supposing what?


In supposing that you had heard the name of Mr. Fitzgerald as connected with Glencora's before her marriage with my cousin?


Yes, I had,


And I think you were agreed, with her other relations, that such a marriage would have been very dreadful.


I never spoke of the matter in the presence of any relatives of Glencora's. You must understand, Miss Palliser, that though I am her far-away cousin, I do not even know her nearest connections. I never saw Lady Midlothian till she came here the other day.


But you advised her to abandon Mr. Fitzgerald.


Never!


I know she was much with you, just at that time.


I used to see her, certainly. Just then she was often with me, and there was much talk between us about Mr. Fitzgerald. What was my advice then can be of little matter; but in this we shall be both agreed, Miss Palliser, that Glencora now should certainly not be called upon to be in his company.


She has told you, then?


Yes;--she has told me.


That he is to be at Lady Monk's?


She has told me that Mr. Palliser expects her to meet him at the place to which they are going when they leave the Duke's, and that she thinks it hard that she should be subjected to such a trial.


It should be no trial, Miss Vavasor.


How can it be otherwise? Come, Miss Palliser; if you are her friend, be fair to her.


I am her friend;--but I am, above everything, my cousin's friend. He has told me that she has complained of having to meet this man. He declares that it should be nothing to her, and that the fear is an idle folly. It should be nothing to her, but still the fear may not be idle. Is there any reason,--any real reason,--why she should not go? Miss Vavasor, I conjure you to tell me,--even though in doing so you must cast so deep reproach upon her name! Anything will be better than utter disgrace and sin!


I conceive that I cast no reproach upon her in saying that there is great reason why she should not go to Monkshade.


You think there is absolute grounds for interference? I must tell him, you know, openly what he would have to fear.


I think,--nay, Miss Palliser, I know,--that there is ample reason why you should save her from being taken to Monkshade, if you have the power to do so.


I can only do it, or attempt to do it, by telling him just what you tell me.


Then tell him. You must have thought of that, I suppose, before you came to me.


Yes;--yes, Miss Vavasor. I had thought of it. No doubt I had thought of it. But I had believed all through that you would assure me that there was no danger. I believed that you would have said that she was innocent.


And she is innocent. She is innocent. Who accuses her of guilt? You ask me a question on his behalf--


On hers--and on his, Miss Vavasor.


A question which I feel myself bound to answer truly,--to answer with reference to the welfare of them both; but I will not have it said that I accuse her. She had been attached to Mr. Fitzgerald when your cousin married her. He knew that this had been the case. She told him the whole truth. In a worldly point of view her marriage with Mr. Fitzgerald would probably have been very imprudent.


It would have been utterly ruinous.


Perhaps so; I say nothing about that. But as it turned out, she gave up her own wishes and married your cousin.


I don't know about her own wishes, Miss Vavasor.


It is what she did. She would have married Mr. Fitzgerald, had she not been hindered by the advice of those around her. It cannot be supposed that she has forgotten him in so short a time. There can be no guilt in her remembrance.


There is guilt in loving any other than her husband.


Then, Miss Palliser, it was her marriage that was guilty, and not her love. But all that is done and past. It should be your cousin's object to teach her to forget Mr. Fitzgerald, and he will not do that by taking her to a house where that gentleman is staying.


She has said so much to you herself?


I do not know that I need declare to you what she has said herself. You have asked me a question, and I have answered it, and I am thankful to you for having asked it. What object can either of us have but to assist her in her position?


And to save him from dishonour. I had so hoped that this was simply a childish dread on her part.


It is not so. It is no childish dread. If you have the power to prevent her going to Lady Monk's, I implore you to use it. Indeed, I will ask you to promise me that you will do so.


After what you have said, I have no alternative.


Exactly. There is no alternative. Either for his sake or for hers, there is none.


The carriage is ordered for you at a quarter before ten, and I have come down to give you your breakfast.


Will you allow me to give you yours instead?


Glencora bids me say that she will be down immediately,


The frost was so uncommonly severe, that any delicate person like Lady Glencora must have suffered in remaining out so long.


I hope you do not consider Lady Glencora delicate,


She is not robust,


By no means,


Indeed, no,


I think she is as strong as the rest of us,


As some of us,


The last morning has come, then,


Yes, indeed. Mr. Palliser must have thought that I was never going.


On the other hand. I have felt much obliged to you for staying.


Obliged! I can't tell you how much obliged I am. Oh, Alice, I wish you were going to stay with us!


We are leaving this in a week's time,


Of course we are. With all my heart I wish we were not. Dear Alice! I suppose we shall not meet till we are all in town.


You will let me know when you come up,


I will send to you instantly; and, Alice, I will write to you from Gatherum,--or from Monkshade.


Don't come to the door, Glencora. I especially wish you not to do so. Good-bye, Miss Vavasor,


I believe she would. It's a thing of that sort that a man can only believe,--perhaps only hope,--till he has tried. I know that she is not happy with him, and I have made up my mind that I will at least ask her.


But he would have her fortune all the same?


I don't know how that would be. I haven't inquired, and I don't mean to inquire. Of course I don't expect you or any one else to believe me, but her money has no bearing on the question now. Heaven knows I want money bad enough, but I wouldn't take away another man's wife for money.


You don't mean to say you think it would be wicked. I supposed you to be above those prejudices.


It's all very well for you to chaff.


It's no chaff at all. I tell you fairly I wouldn't run away with any man's wife. I have an old-fashioned idea that when a man has got a wife he ought to be allowed to keep her. Public opinion, I know, is against me.


I think he ran away with my wife,


Nevertheless, marriage is marriage, and the law is against you. But if I did go in for such a troublesome job at all, I certainly should keep an eye upon the money.


It can make no difference.


It did make a difference, I suppose, when you first thought of marrying her?


Of course it did. My people brought us together because she had a large fortune and I had none. There's no doubt in the world about that. And I'll tell you what; I believe that old harridan of an aunt of mine is willing to do the same thing now again. Of course she doesn't say as much. She wouldn't dare do that, but I do believe she means it. I wonder where she expects to go to!


That's grateful on your part.


Upon my soul I hate her. I do indeed. It isn't love for me now so much as downright malice against Palliser, because he baulked her project before. She is a wicked old woman. Some of us fellows are wicked enough--you and I for instance--


Thank you. I don't know, however, that I am qualified to run in a curricle with you.


But we are angels to such an old she-devil as that. You may believe me or not, as you like.--I dare say you won't believe me.


I'll say I do, at any rate.


The truth is, I want to get her, partly because I love her; but chiefly because I do believe in my heart that she loves me.


It's for her sake then! You are ready to sacrifice yourself to do her a good turn.


As for sacrificing myself, that's done. I'm a man utterly ruined and would cut my throat to-morrow for the sake of my relations, if I cared enough about them. I know my own condition pretty well. I have made a shipwreck of everything, and have now only got to go down among the breakers.


Only you would like to take Lady Glencora with you.


No, by heavens! But sometimes, when I do think about it at all,--which I do as seldom as I can,--it seems to me that I might still become a different fellow if it were possible for me to marry her.


Had you married her when she was free to marry any one and when her money was her own, it might have been so.


I think it would be quite as much so now. I do, indeed. If I could get her once, say to Italy, or perhaps to Greece, I think I could treat her well, and live with her quietly. I know that I would try.


Without the assistance of brandy and cigars.


Yes.


And without any money.


With only a little. I know you'll laugh at me; but I make pictures to myself of a sort of life which I think would suit us, and be very different from this hideous way of living, with which I have become so sick that I loathe it.


Something like Juan and Haidée, with Planty Pall coming after you, like old Lambro.


He'd get a divorce, of course, and then we should be married. I really don't think he'd dislike it, when it was all done. They tell me he doesn't care for her.


You have seen her since her marriage?


Yes; twice.


And have spoken to her?


Once only,--so as to be able to do more than ask her if she were well. Once, for about two minutes, I did speak to her.


And what did she say?


She said it would be better that we should not meet. When she said that, I knew that she was still fond of me. I could have fallen at her feet that moment, only the room was full of people. I do think that she is fond of me.


I dare say she is fond of you, but whether she has pluck for such a thing as this, is more than I can say. Probably she has not. And if she has, probably you would fail in carrying out your plan.


I must get a little money first,


And that's an operation which no doubt you find more difficult every day, as you grow older.


It seems to be much the same sort of thing. I went to Magruin this morning.


He's the fellow that lives out near Gray's Inn Lane?


Just beyond the Foundling Hospital. I went to him, and he was quite civil about it. He says I owe him over three thousand pounds, but that doesn't seem to make any difference.


How much did you ever have from him?


I don't recollect that I ever absolutely had any money. He got a bill of mine from a tailor who went to smash, and he kept on renewing that till it grew to be ever so many bills. I think he did once let me have twenty-four pounds,--but certainly never more than that.


And he says he'll give you money now? I suppose you told him why you wanted it.


I didn't name her,--but I told him what would make him understand that I hoped to get off with a lady who had a lot of tin. I asked him for two hundred and fifty. He says he'll let me have one hundred and fifty on a bill at two months for five hundred,--with your name to it.


With my name to it! That's kind on his part,--and on yours too.


Of course I can't take it up at the end of two months.


I dare say not,


But he won't come upon you then,--nor for a year or more afterwards. I did pay you what you lent me before.


Yes, you did. I always thought that to be a special compliment on your part.


And you'll find I'll pull you through now in some way. If I don't succeed in this I shall go off the hooks altogether soon; and if I were dead my people would pay my debts then.


I thought you would, old fellow. Perhaps, you know, I shall pull through in this; and perhaps, after all, some part of her fortune will come with her. If so you'll be all right.


Perhaps I may. But look here, Burgo,--don't you give that fellow up the bill till you've got the money into your fist.


You may be quite easy about that. I know their tricks. He and I will go to the bank together, and we shall squabble there at the door about four or five odd sovereigns,--and at last I shall have to give him up two or three. Beastly old robber! I declare I think he's worse than I am myself.


For love of God, if it's only a penny to get a glass of gin! Feel my hand,--how cold it is. You are cold! Cold! Oh God! if you knew what it was to be as cold as I am! I have nothing in the world,--not one penny,--not a hole to lie in! We are alike then. I also have nothing. You cannot be poorer than I am. You poor! Gracious; how beautiful you are! Such as you are never poor. I am a deal poorer than you, my girl. You have nothing. I have thirty thousand pounds worse than nothing. But come along, and I will get you something to eat. Will you? Oh, you are so handsome!


And now, what must I do with you? If I give you a shilling can you get a bed? Then keep the other sixpence for your breakfast. But you must promise me that you will buy no gin to-night. I wish I might once see you again, because you are so good and so beautiful.


Gracious, how beautiful he was!


He's a good un,


but, my! did you ever see a man's face handsome as that fellow's?


He is a desperate spendthrift,


Then let her teach him to be otherwise. That might have been a good reason for refusing his offer when he first made it; but it can be no excuse for untruth, now that she has told him that she loves him! If a woman, won't venture her fortune for the man she loves, her love is not worth having.


It is a thing terrible to think of, that a man should give permission to a priest to tie him to another human being like a Siamese twin, so that all power of separate and solitary action should be taken from him for ever! The beasts of the field do not treat each other so badly. They neither drink themselves drunk, nor eat themselves stupid;--nor do they bind themselves together in a union which both would have to hate.


I needn't send it when it's written, and the chances are that I won't. DEAR ALICE. The time was when the privilege was mine of beginning my letters to you with a warmer show of love than the above word contains,--when I might and did call you dearest; but I lost that privilege through my own folly, and since that it has been accorded to another. But you have found,--with a thorough honesty of purpose than which I know nothing greater,--that it has behoved you to withdraw that privilege also. I need hardly say that I should not have written as I now write, had you not found it expedient to do as you have done. I now once again ask you to be my wife. In spite of all that passed in those old days,--of all the selfish folly of which I was then guilty, I think you know, and at the time knew, that I ever loved you. I claim to say for myself that my love to you was true from first to last, and I claim from you belief for that statement. Indeed I do not think that you ever doubted my love. Nevertheless, when you told me that I might no longer hope to make you my wife, I had no word of remonstrance that I could utter. You acted as any woman would act whom love had not made a fool. Then came the episode of Mr. Grey; and bitter as have been my feelings whilst that engagement lasted, I never made any attempt to come between you and the life you had chosen. In saying this I do not forget the words which I spoke last summer at Basle, when, as far as I knew, you still intended that he should be your husband. But what I said then was nothing to that which, with much violence, I refrained from saying. Whether you remember those few words I cannot tell; but certainly you would not have remembered them,--would not even have noticed them,--had your heart been at Nethercoats. But all this is nothing. You are now again a free woman; and once again I ask you to be my wife. We are both older than we were when we loved before, and will both be prone to think of marriage in a somewhat different light. Then personal love for each other was most in our thoughts. God forbid that it should not be much in our thoughts now! Perhaps I am deceiving myself in saying that it is not even now stronger in mine than any other consideration. But we have both reached that time of life, when it is probable that in any proposition of marriage we should think more of our adaptability to each other than we did before. For myself I know that there is much in my character and disposition to make me unfit to marry a woman of the common stamp. You know my mode of life, and what are my hopes and my chances of success. I run great risk of failing. It may be that I shall encounter ruin where I look for reputation and a career of honour. The chances are perhaps more in favour of ruin than of success. But, whatever may be the chances, I shall go on as long as any means of carrying on the fight are at my disposal. If you were my wife to-morrow I should expect to use your money, if it were needed, in struggling to obtain a seat in Parliament and a hearing there. I will hardly stoop to tell you that I do not ask you to be my wife for the sake of this aid;--but if you were to become my wife I should expect all your cooperation;--with your money, possibly, but certainly with your warmest spirit. And now, once again, Alice,--dearest Alice, will you be my wife? I have been punished, and I have kissed the rod,--as I never kissed any other rod. You cannot accuse my love. Since the time in which I might sit with my arm round your waist, I have sat with it round no other waist. Since your lips were mine, no other lips have been dear to me. Since you were my counsellor, I have had no other counsellor,--unless it be poor Kate, whose wish that we may at length be married is second in earnestness only to my own. Nor do I think you will doubt my repentance. Such repentance indeed claims no merit, as it has been the natural result of the loss which I have suffered. Providence has hitherto been very good to me in not having made that loss irremediable by your marriage with Mr. Grey. I wish you now to consider the matter well, and to tell me whether you can pardon me and still love me. Do I flatter myself when I feel that I doubt your pardon almost more than I doubt your love? Think of this thing in all its bearings before you answer me. I am so anxious that you should think of it that I will not expect your reply till this day week. It can hardly be your desire to go through life unmarried. I should say that it must be essential to your ambition that you should join your lot to that of some man the nature of whose aspirations would be like to your own. It is because this was not so as regarded him whose suit you had accepted, that you found yourself at last obliged to part from him. May I not say that with us there would be no such difference? It is because I believe that in this respect we are fitted for each other, as man and woman seldom are fitted, that I once again ask you to be my wife. This will reach you at Vavasor, where you will now be with the old squire and Kate. I have told her nothing of my purpose in writing this letter. If it should be that your answer is such as I desire, I should use the opportunity of our re-engagement to endeavour to be reconciled to my grandfather. He has misunderstood me and has ill-used me. But I am ready to forgive that, if he will allow me to do so. In such case you and Kate would arrange that, and I would, if possible, go down to Vavasor while you are there. But I am galloping on a-head foolishly in thinking of this, and am counting up my wealth while the crockery in my basket is so very fragile. One word from you will decide whether or no I shall ever bring it into market. If that word is to be adverse do not say anything of a meeting between me and the Squire. Under such circumstances it would be impossible. But, oh, Alice! do not let it be adverse. I think you love me. Your woman's pride towards me has been great and good and womanly; but it has had its way; and, if you love me, might now be taught to succumb. Dear Alice, will you be my wife? Yours, in any event, most affectionately. GEORGE VAVASOR.


I'll bet two to one that she gives way. Women are such out-and-out fools. Jem, there's half a crown lying there on the looking-glass. Is it a head or a tail, Jem?


Then take that letter and post it,


This will be brought to you by Stickling. I send the bill. Couldn't you get the money and send it me, as I don't want to go up to town again before the thing comes off? You're a trump; and will do the best you can. Don't let that rogue off for less than a hundred and twenty.--Yours, B. F.


Oh, Mr. Vavasor, really this is no morning for business!


Time and tide wait for no man, Mr. Magruin, and my friend wants his money to-morrow.


Oh, Mr. Vavasor,--to-morrow!


Yes, to-morrow. If time and tide won't wait, neither will love. Come, Mr. Magruin, out with your cheque-book, and don't let's have any nonsense.


But is the lady sure, Mr. Vavasor?


Ladies never are sure, hardly more sure than bills made over to money-lenders. I'm not going to wait here all day. Are you going to give him the money?


Christmas-day, Mr. Vavasor! There's no getting money in the city to-day. Do tell him to be punctual. I do so like young men to be punctual. But I really think Mr. Fitzgerald is the most unpunctual young man I ever did know yet.


I think he is,


Why didn't your aunt come here to eat her Christmas dinner?


Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her,


And why didn't you ask her;--that is, if she stands upon asking to come to her old home?


Nay, sir, but I couldn't do that without your bidding. We Vavasors are not always fond of meeting each other.


Hold your tongue, Kate. I know what you mean, and you should be the last to speak of it. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I am much obliged to you for coming down all this way to see your old grandfather at Christmas. I am indeed. I only wish you had brought better news about your sweetheart.


She'll think better of it before long, sir,


Papa, you shouldn't say that. You would not wish me to marry against my own judgement.


I don't know much about ladies' judgements. It does seem to me that when a lady makes a promise she ought to keep it.


According to that, if I were engaged to a man, and found that he was a murderer, I still ought to marry him.


But Mr. Grey is not a murderer,


Pray,--pray, don't talk about it. If you do I really cannot sit and hear it.


I have given over saying anything on the subject,


Alice, my dear, you ought to get married. My dear child. I have been thinking a great deal about you, and you ought to get married.


Well, sir, perhaps I shall some day.


Not if you quarrel with all your suitors. You quarrelled with your cousin George, and now you have quarrelled with Mr. Grey. You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in that way.


Why should I be married more than Kate?


Oh, Kate! I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wish you'd think of what I say. If you don't get married before long, perhaps you'll never get married at all. Gentlemen won't stand that kind of thing for ever.


We shan't be able to get to the lake,


No, but we can go as far as the big stone on Swindale Fell, where we can sit down and see it.


Do you remember the last time we sat there? It is nearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all was to be over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was, and how I screamed in my sorrow? I sometimes wonder at myself and my own folly. How is it that I can never get up any interest about my own belongings? And then we got soaking wet through coming home.


I remember that very well.


And how dark it was! That was in September, but we had dined early. If we go as far as Swindale we shall have it very dark coming home to-day;--but I don't mind that through the Beacon Wood, because I know my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark?


Oh, no,


Yes; I do remember that day. Well; it's all for the best, I suppose. And now I must read you my aunt's letter. You must understand all the time, Alice, that the dear man has never given me the slightest ground for the faintest hope, and that I know to a certainty that he makes an offer to her twice a week,--that is, on every market day. You can't enjoy half the joke if you won't bear that in mind. These are not market days at Norwich, and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided.


He comes in, and takes a little tea; and sometimes I think that he will faint at my feet.


That he kneels there on every occasion, and repeats his offer also twice a week, I have not the least doubt in the world.


And will she accept him at last?


Really I don't know what to think of it. Sometimes I fancy that she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake to put herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money, because he wants it sadly and she is very generous. She gives him money, I feel sure, but takes his receipt on stamped paper for every shilling. That's her character all over.


Come and have one other look at Oileymead, and then, if you make up your mind that you don't like it or him, I won't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a very honest fellow.


Did you ever know such a woman? with all her faults I believe she would go through fire and water to serve me. I think she'd lend me money without any stamped paper.


At any rate he does me justice. He is welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether he has it as my friend or as my husband.


There's Helvellyn at last. I'm always happy when I see that.


And isn't that Kidsty Pike?


No; you don't see Kidsty yet. But you will when you get up to the bank there. That's Scaw Fell on the left;--the round distant top. I can distinguish it, though I doubt whether you can. And now we are on Swindale, and in five minutes we shall get to the stone.


I'm so glad I've come here. I cannot bear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes at least.


We'll get over to Windermere one day,


I don't think we shall. I don't think it possible that I should stay long. Kate, I've got a letter to show you.


Is it from Mr. Grey?


No, it is not from Mr. Grey.


Has he offended you?


Read it, and then we'll talk of it afterwards,--as we go home. Well!


Well. Alice, Alice, it will, indeed, be well if you listen to him. Oh, Alice, may I hope? Alice, my own Alice, my darling, my friend! Say that it shall be so. Alice. I did not think I should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have the heart to bring me here and show me this letter in this way, and bid me read it so calmly, and then tell me that it is all for nothing. No; you could not do that? Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this place. I hated it before. But is it not a beautiful letter? Say, Alice,--is it not a letter of which if you were his brother you would feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage, who will yet do manly things. Here out on the mountain, with nobody near us, with Nature all round us, I ask you on your solemn word as a woman, do you love him?


Love him!


Yes;--love him: as a woman should love her husband. Is not your heart his? Alice, there need be no lies now. If it be so, it should be your glory to say so, here, to me, as you hold that letter in your hand.


I can have no such glory, Kate. I have ever loved my cousin; but not so passionately as you seem to think.


Then there can be no passion in you.


Perhaps not, Kate. I would sometimes hope that it is so. But come; we shall be late; and you will be cold sitting there.


I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would be as I would have it. But, Alice, at any rate you shall tell me before I move what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; but make me happy by saying so with your own lips.


I cannot tell you before you move, Kate.


And why not?


Because I have not as yet resolved.


Ah, that is impossible. That is quite impossible. On such a subject and under such circumstances a woman must resolve at the first moment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read the letter;--though, perhaps, it may not suit you to say so.


You are quite mistaken. Come along and let us walk, and I will tell you all.


You will not answer him without speaking to me first?


I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you,


And you will let me see it?


Nay. I will not promise that. But if it is unfavourable I will show it you.


Then I shall never see it. But that is quite enough for me. I by no means wish to criticise the love-sweet words in which you tell him that his offences are all forgiven. I know how sweet they will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him! But, grandpapa, you are always too fast,


And you are always too slow, miss,


Indeed, it is not five yet. Is it, Alice? Not ten minutes;--are we, Alice? And, grandpapa, pray don't wait.


Don't wait! That's what they always say,


Pray for him to-night, as you pray for those you love best.


Why should I keep him in suspense? If it is to be so, there can be no good in not saying so at once.


But it isn't post-day,


I have given a boy sixpence to take it to Shap, and do you keep yours by asking no further questions.


My sister,--my own sister. You have not proposed any horrid stipulations to him?


I don't know what you may call horrid stipulations. My conditions have not been very hard, and I do not think you would have disapproved them.


He is so impetuous! Will he disapprove them?


I have told him-- But, Kate, this is just what I did not mean to tell you.


Why should there be secrets between us?


There shall be none, then. I have told him that I cannot bring myself to marry him instantly;--that he must allow me twelve months to wear off, if I can in that time, much of sadness and of self-reproach which has fallen to my lot.


Twelve months, Alice?


Listen to me. I have said so. But I have told him also that if he wishes it still, I will at once tell papa and grandpapa that I hold myself as engaged to him, so that he may know that I bind myself to him as far as it is possible that I should do so. And I have added something else, Kate, something else which I can tell you, though I could tell it to no other person. I can tell you because you would do, and will do the same. I have told him that any portion of my money is at his service which may be needed for his purposes before that twelve months is over.


Oh, Alice! No;--no. You shall not do that. It is too generous.


But I have done it. Mercury, with sixpence in his pocket, is already posting my generosity at Shap. And, to tell the truth, Kate, it is no more than fair. He has honestly told me that while the old Squire lives he will want my money to assist him in a career of which I do much more than approve. It has been my earnest wish to see him in Parliament. It will now be the most earnest desire of my heart;--the one thing as to which I shall feel an intense anxiety. How then can I have the face to bid him wait twelve months for that which is specially needed in six months' time? It would be like the workhouses which are so long in giving bread, that in the mean time the wretches starve.


But the wretch shan't starve. My money, small as it is, will carry him over this bout. I have told him that he shall have it, and that I expect him to spend it. Moreover, I have no doubt that Aunt Greenow would lend me what he wants.


But I should not wish him to borrow from Aunt Greenow. She would advance him the money, as you say, upon stamped paper, and then talk of it.


He shall have mine,


And who are you? You are not going to be his wife?


He shall not touch your money till you are his wife. I wish you would consent to change your mind about this stupid tedious year, and then you might do as you pleased. I have no doubt such a settlement might be made as to the property here, when my grandfather hears of it, as would make you ultimately safe.


And do you think I care to be ultimately safe, as you call it? Kate, my dear, you do not understand me.


I suppose not. And yet I thought that I had known something about you.


It is because I do not care for the safety of which you speak that I am now going to become your brother's wife. Do you suppose that I do not see that I must run much risk?


You prefer the excitement of London to the tranquillity, may I say, of Cambridgeshire.


Exactly;--and therefore I have told George that he shall have my money whenever he wants it.


Grandpapa,


you told me the other day that you thought I ought to be--married.


Did I, my dear? Well, yes; so I did. And so you ought;--I mean to that Mr. Grey.


That is impossible, sir. I am come, grandpapa, to tell you of another engagement. You know, that some years ago I was to have been married to my cousin George;


Well,


And I remember you told me then that you were much pleased.


So I was. George was doing well then; or,--which is more likely,--had made us believe that he was doing well. Have you made it up with him again?


Yes, sir.


And that's the meaning of your jilting Mr. Grey, is it?


Grandpapa!


Well, my dear, I don't want to be ill-natured. So you are going at last to marry George, are you? I hope he'll treat you well; that's all. Does your father approve of it?


I have told you first, sir;--because I wish to obtain your consent to seeing George again here as your grandson.


Never,


If he has been wrong, he will beg your pardon.


If he has been wrong! Didn't he want to squander every shilling of the property,--property which has never belonged to him;--property which I could give to Tom, Dick, or Harry to-morrow, if I liked?--If he has been wrong!


I am not defending him, sir;--but I thought that, perhaps, on such an occasion as this--


A Tom Fool's occasion! You've got money of your own. He'll spend all that now.


He will be less likely to do so if you will recognise him as your heir. Pray believe, sir, that he is not the sort of man that he was.


He must be a very clever sort of man, I think, when he has talked you out of such a husband as John Grey. It's astounding to me,--with that ugly mug of his! Well, my dear, if your father approves of it, and if George will ask my pardon,--but I don't think he ever will--


He will, sir. I am his messenger for as much as that.


Oh, you are, are you? Then you may also be my messenger to him, and tell him that, for your sake, I will let him come back here. I know he'll insult me the first day; but I'll try and put up with it,--for your sake, my dear. Of course I must know what your father thinks about it.


I knew it would be so. I knew all along how it would be.


And why should it not be so, Uncle John?


He is your brother, and I will not tell you why.


You think that he is a spendthrift?


I think that he is as unsafe a man as ever I knew to be intrusted with the happiness of any young woman. That is all.


You are hard upon him, uncle.


Perhaps so. Tell Alice this from me,--that as I have never yet been able to get her to think anything of my opinion, I do not at all expect that I shall be able to induce her to do so now. I will not even make the attempt. As my son-in-law I will not receive George Vavasor. Tell Alice that.


And now, let us see what the girl of my heart says to me.


MY DEAR GEORGE. I feel great difficulty in answering your letter. Could I have my own way, I should make no answer to it at present, but leave it for the next six months, so that then such answer might hereafter be made as circumstances should seem to require. This will be little flattering to you, but it is less flattering to myself. Whatever answer I may make, how can anything in this affair be flattering either to you or to me? We have been like children who have quarrelled over our game of play, till now, at the close of our little day of pleasure, we are fain to meet each other in tears, and acknowledge that we have looked for delights where no delights were to be found. Kate, who is here, talks to me of passionate love. There is no such passion left to me;--nor, as I think, to you either. It would not now be possible that you and I should come together on such terms as that. We could not stand up together as man and wife with any hope of a happy marriage, unless we had both agreed that such happiness might be had without passionate love. You will see from all this that I do not refuse your offer. Without passion, I have for you a warm affection, which enables me to take a livelier interest in your career than in any other of the matters which are around me. Of course, if I become your wife that interest will be still closer and dearer, and I do feel that I can take in it that concern which a wife should have in her husband's affairs. If it suits you, I will become your wife;--but it cannot be quite at once. I have suffered much from the past conflicts of my life, and there has been very much with which I must reproach myself. I know that I have behaved badly. Sometimes I have to undergo the doubly bitter self-accusation of having behaved in a manner which the world will call unfeminine. You must understand that I have not passed through this unscathed, and I must beg you to allow me some time for a cure. A perfect cure I may never expect, but I think that in twelve months from this time I may so far have recovered my usual spirit and ease of mind as to enable me to devote myself to your happiness. Dear George, if you will accept me under such circumstances, I will be your wife, and will endeavour to do my duty by you faithfully. I have said that even now, as your cousin, I take a lively interest in your career,--of course I mean your career as a politician,--and especially in your hopes of entering Parliament. I understand, accurately as I think, what you have said about my fortune, and I perfectly appreciate your truth and frankness. If I had nothing of my own you, in your circumstances, could not possibly take me as your wife. I know, moreover, that your need of assistance from my means is immediate rather than prospective. My money may be absolutely necessary to you within this year, during which, as I tell you most truly, I cannot bring myself to become a married woman. But my money shall be less cross-grained than myself. You will take it as frankly as I mean it when I say, that whatever you want for your political purposes shall be forthcoming at your slightest wish. Dear George, let me have the honour and glory of marrying a man who has gained a seat in the Parliament of Great Britain! Of all positions which a man may attain that, to me, is the grandest. I shall wait for a further letter from you before I speak either to my father or to my grandfather. If you can tell me that you accede to my views, I will at once try to bring about a reconciliation between you and the Squire. I think that that will be almost easier than inducing my father to look with favour upon our marriage. But I need hardly say that should either one or the other oppose it,--or should both do so,--that would not turn me from my purpose. I also wait for your answer to write a last line to Mr. Grey. Your affectionate cousin. ALICE VAVASOR.


Very well, so be it. It is probably the best thing that I could do, whatever the effect may be on her.


Burgo, your old flame, Lady Glencora, is not coming here. Lady Glencora not coming! But, by heavens, it is. It is matter of moment to me. I am the most unfortunate devil that ever lived. Fie, Burgo, fie! You must not speak in that way of a married woman. I begin to think it is better that she should not come. Come back into your room, Burgo. If this does annoy you, you should keep it to yourself! What will people say? How can I help what they say? You can do as you please about that, but you know as well as I do what I have made up my mind to do.


Palliser is coming without her. She's ill, she says.


I'm sorry for it,


She's a deal the better fellow of the two.


She has twice more go in her than Planty Pall,


Planty is no fool, I can tell you. We think he's about the most rising man we have.


Burgo, do you hear that Palliser is coming without his wife? I have heard,--and be d----d to him,


Burgo, you had better eat your breakfast,


I don't want any breakfast.


If you don't eat any breakfast the less of that you take the better,


I'm all right now,


I can do nothing. He is a man whom no one's words will control. Something has ruffled him this morning, and he must run his chance till he becomes quiet.


We are so sorry. We have been looking forward to having Lady Glencora with us beyond everything. I hope it is nothing serious,


How very wrong!


It was very wrong. However, she caught a cold which, unfortunately, has become worse at my uncle's, and so I was obliged to take her home.


Glencora, you won't be angry, I hope, if I say a word to you?


That depends very much upon what the word is,


Well,--the word shall be as little unpleasant as I can make it,


But why say anything that is unpleasant? However, if it is to be said, let us have it over at once.


You are going to Monkshade, I believe, with Plantagenet.


Well;--and what of that?


Dear Glencora, I think you had better not go. Do you not think so yourself?


Who has been talking to you?


Nobody has been talking to me;--not in the sense you mean.


Plantagenet has spoken to you?


Not a word. You may be sure that he would not utter a word on such a subject to anyone unless it were to yourself. But, dear Glencora, you should not go there;--I mean it in all kindness and love,--I do indeed.


Perhaps you do,


Indeed I do. The world is so hard and cruel in what it says.


I do not care two straws for what the world says.


But he might care.


It is not my fault. I do not want to go to Monkshade. Lady Monk was my friend once, but I do not care if I never see her again. I did not arrange this visit. It was Plantagenet who did it.


But he will not take you there if you say you do not wish it.


I have said so, and he told me that I must go. You will hardly believe me,--but I condescended even to tell him why I thought it better to remain away. He told me, in answer, that it was a silly folly which I must live down, and that it did not become me to be afraid of any man.


Of course you are not afraid, but--


I am afraid. That is just the truth. I am afraid;--but what can I do more than I have done?


I can't see that there's so much in him. I rather think that there is, all the same. There's a good deal in him, I believe! I dare say he's not very bright, but I don't know that we want brightness. A bright financier is the most dangerous man in the world. We've had enough of that already. Give me sound common sense, with just enough of the gab in a man to enable him to say what he's got to say! We don't want more than that nowadays.


I'm sorry that we have not the pleasure of seeing Lady Glencora with you,


She is unfortunately indisposed,


I am sorry for it, very sorry indeed.


I cannot congratulate you,


I hope the time may come, papa, when you will,


I think so badly of him, that I would rather know that almost any other calamity was to befall her, than that she should be united to him.


It would do very well for the property. I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform as well as another. You may tell him, that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his personal bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon his child and yours. I shall always be glad to see you, my dear; and for your sake, I will see him if he will humble himself to me.


There cannot be obedience on one side, without protection and support on the other.


She will be tired to-night, and I will speak to her to-morrow.


I want to speak to you after breakfast to-morrow,


Will you come up-stairs? Alice,


Perhaps that will be best. Alice. I must speak to you about this engagement of yours.


Won't you sit down, papa? It does look so dreadful, your standing up over one in that way.


I was greatly grieved when I heard of this at Vavasor.


I am sorry that you should be grieved, papa.


I was grieved. I must confess that I never could understand why you treated Mr. Grey as you have done.


Oh, papa, that's done and past. Pray let that be among the bygones.


Does he know yet of your engagement with your cousin?


He will know it by this time to-morrow.


Then I beg of you, as a great favour, to postpone your letter to him. I have not troubled you with many such requests, Alice. Will you tell me that this one shall be granted?


I think that I owe it to him as an imperative duty to let him know the truth.


But you may change your mind again.


I have no right to say that it is impossible,


No;--exactly so. And therefore it will be better that you should postpone any such communication.


For how long do you mean?


Till you and I shall have agreed together that he should be told.


No, papa; I will not consent to that. I consider myself bound to let him know the truth without delay. I have done him a great injury, and I must put an end to that as soon as possible.


You have done him an injury certainly, my dear;--a very great injury, and I believe he will feel it as such to the last day of his life, if this goes on.


I hope not. I believe that it will not be so. I feel sure that it will not be so.


But of course what I am thinking of now is your welfare,--not his. When you simply told me that you intended to--. that you intended to break your engagement with Mr. Grey. I said little or nothing to you. I would not ask you to marry any man, even though you had yourself promised to marry him. But when you tell me that you are engaged to your cousin George, the matter is very different. I do not think well of your cousin. Indeed I think anything but well of him. It is my duty to tell you that the world speaks very ill of him. When you were about to travel with him. I ought perhaps to have told you the same. But I did not wish to pain you or his sister; and, moreover, I have heard worse of him since then,--much worse than I had heard before.


As you did not tell me before, I think you might spare me now,


No, my dear; I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself without telling you that you are doing so. If it were not for your money he would never think of marrying you.


Of that I am well aware. He has told me so himself very plainly.


And yet you will marry him?


Certainly I will. It seems to me, papa, that there is a great deal of false feeling about this matter of money in marriage,--or rather, perhaps, a great deal of pretended feeling. Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get that for which every man is struggling? At this point of George's career the use of money is essential to him. He could not marry without it.


You had better then give him your money without yourself,


That is just what I mean to do, papa,


What! You mean to give him your money before you marry him?


Certainly I do;--if he should want it;--or, I should rather say, as much as he may want of it.


Heavens and earth! Alice, you must be mad.


To part with my money to my friend? It is a kind of madness of which I need not at any rate be ashamed.


Tell me this, Alice; has he got any of it as yet?


Not a shilling. Papa, pray do not look at me like that. If I had no thought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent to my cousin what money he might need.


I should only say that so much of your fortune was thrown away, and if it were not much that would be an end of it. I would sooner see you surrender to him the half of all you have, without any engagement to marry him, than know that he had received a shilling from you under such a promise.


You are prejudiced against him, sir.


Was it prejudice that made you reject him once before? Did you condemn him then through prejudice? Had you not ascertained that he was altogether unworthy of you?


We were both younger, then. We were both much younger then, and looked at life with other eyes than those which we now use. For myself I expected much then, which I now seem hardly to regard at all; and as for him, he was then attached to pleasures to which I believe he has now learned to be indifferent.


Psha!


I can only speak as I believe. And I think I may perhaps know more of his manner of life than you do, papa. But I am prepared to run risks now which I feared before. Even though he were all that you think him to be, I would still endeavour to do my duty to him, and to bring him to other things.


What is it you expect to get by marrying him?


A husband whose mode of thinking is congenial to my own. A husband who proposes to himself a career in life with which I can sympathize. I think that I may perhaps help my cousin in the career which he has chosen, and that alone is a great reason why I should attempt to do so.


With your money?


Partly with my money. Though it were only with my money, even that would be something.


Well, Alice, as your father, I can only implore you to pause before you commit yourself to his hands. If he demands money from you, and you are minded to give it to him, let him have it in moderation. Anything will be better than marrying him. I know that I cannot hinder you; you are as much your own mistress as I am my own master,--or rather a great deal more, as my income depends on my going to that horrid place in Chancery Lane. But yet I suppose you must think something of your father's wishes and your father's opinion. It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altar without my being there near you. Has any day been fixed between you and him?


No, papa.


Nothing has been said about that?


Yes; something has been said. I have told him that it cannot be for a year yet. It is because I told him that, that I told him also that he should have my money when he wanted it.


Not all of it?


I don't suppose he will need it all. He intends to stand again for Chelsea, and it is the great expense of the election which makes him want money. You are not to suppose that he has asked me for it. When I made him understand that I did not wish to marry quite yet, I offered him the use of that which would be ultimately his own.


And he has accepted it?


He answered me just as I had intended,--that when the need came he would take me at my word.


Then, Alice, I will tell you what is my belief. He will drain you of every shilling of your money, and when that is gone, there will be no more heard of the marriage. We must take a small house in some cheap part of the town and live on my income as best we may. I shall go and insure my life, so that you may not absolutely starve when I die.


And I did love him,


If I can do him good why should I not marry him? For myself, what does it matter? As to this life of mine and all that belongs to it, why should I regard it otherwise than to make it of some service to some one who is dear to me?


It may be as my father says. It may be that he wants my money only; if so, let him have it. Surely when the year is over I shall know. He should have her money as he might call for it,--all of it excepting some small portion of her income, which might suffice to keep her from burdening her father. Then, if he were contented, he should go free, without reproach, and there should be an end of all question of marriage for her.


Alice. Dearest Alice!


Alice. I am a man once again. It is only now that I can tell you what I have suffered during these last few years. Alice. I feel that I am a strong man again, armed to meet the world at all points. Will you not let me thank you for what you have done for me?


I have done nothing for you, George, nothing at all. That you may do much for yourself is my greatest hope. If I can help you, I will do so most heartily.


Of course you will help me. I am full of plans, all of which you must share with me. But now, at this moment, my one great plan is that in which you have already consented to be my partner. Alice, you are my wife now. Tell me that it will make you happy to call me your husband.


That must be still distant, George. I have suffered so much!


And it has been my fault that you have suffered; I know that. These years of misery have been my doing.


I do not say that, nor have I ever thought it. I have myself and myself only to blame.


Alice, dear, let bygones be bygones.


Bygones will not be bygones. It may be well for people to say so, but it is never true. One might as well say so to one's body as to one's heart. But the hairs will grow grey, and the heart will grow cold.


I do not see that one follows upon the other. My hair is growing very grey; If grey hairs make an old man, Alice, you will marry an old husband; but even you shall not be allowed to say that my heart is old.


I spoke of my own heart. I sometimes feel that it has grown very old.


Alice, that is hardly cheering to me.


You have come to me too quickly, George, and do not reflect how much there is that I must remember. You have said that bygones should be bygones. Let them be so, at any rate as far as words are concerned. Give me a few months in which I may learn,--not to forget them, for that will be impossible,--but to abstain from speaking of them.


Alice. Alice, your greeting to me is hardly all that I had hoped.


Is it not? Indeed, George, I am sorry that you should be disappointed; but what can I say? You would not have me affect a lightness of spirit which I do not feel?


If you wish, if you wish to retract your letter to me, you now have my leave to do so.


I do not wish to retract my letter, but I wish to be left awhile, that I may recover my strength of mind. Have you not heard doctors say, that muscles which have been strained, should be allowed rest, or they will never entirely renew their tension? It is so with me now; if I could be quiet for a few months, I think I could learn to face the future with a better courage.


And is that all you can say to me, Alice?


What would you have me say?


I would fain hear one word of love from you; is that unreasonable? I would wish to know from your own lips that you have satisfaction in the renewed prospect of our union; is that too ambitious? It might have been that I was over-bold in pressing my suit upon you again; but as you accepted it, have I not a right to expect that you should show me that you have been happy in accepting it?


And you have not a word to say to me?


No other word, at present, George; I have told you that I am not at ease. Why do you press me now?


You wish me then to go from you?


Do not be angry with me, George!


Angry! I have no right to be angry. But, by heaven, I am wrong there. I have the right, and I am angry. I think you owed it me to give me some warmer welcome. Is it to be thus with us always for the next accursed year?


Oh, George!


To me it will be accursed. But is it to be thus between us always? Alice, I have loved you above all women. I may say that I have never loved any woman but you; and yet I am sometimes driven to doubt whether you have a heart in you capable of love. After all that has passed, all your old protestations, all my repentance, and your proffer of forgiveness, you should have received me with open arms. I suppose I may go now, and feel that I have been kicked out of your house like a dog.


If you speak to me like that, and look at me like that, how can I answer you?


I want no answer. I wanted you to put your hand in mine, to kiss me, and to tell me that you are once more my own. Alice, think better of it; kiss me, and let me feel my arm once more round your waist.


You can wait, Smithers. I shan't be very long. You see, when they're in a small way of business, it ruins them. Now that poor devil,--he hasn't had a shilling of his money yet, and the greater part has been paid out of his pocket to the posters. It is hard.


It is astonishing how much a man may get done for him, without paying anything for years.


Yes; that's true. So he may, if he knows how to go about it. But when he does pay, Mr. Vavasor, he does it through the nose;--cent. per cent., and worse, for all his former shortcomings.


How many there are who never pay at all,


Yes, Mr. Vavasor;--that's true, too. But see what a life they lead. It isn't a pleasant thing to be afraid of coming into your agent's office; not what you would like, Mr. Vavasor;--not if I know you.


I never was afraid of meeting anyone yet, but I don't know what I may come to.


Nor never will, I'll go bail. But, Lord love you, I could tell you such tales! I've had Members of Parliament, past, present, and future, almost down on their knees to me in this little room. It's about a month or six weeks before the elections come on when they're at their worst. There is so much you see, Mr. Vavasor, for which a gentleman must pay ready money. It isn't like a business in which a lawyer is supposed to find the capital. If I had money enough to pay out of my own pocket all the cost of all the metropolitan gentlemen for whom I act, why, I could live on the interest without any trouble, and go into Parliament myself like a man.


I suppose so. But you do do it sometimes.


Never, Mr. Vavasor. As a rule, never. I may advance the money, on interest, of course, when I receive a guarantee from the candidate's father, or from six or seven among the committee, who must all be very substantial,--very substantial indeed. But in a general way I don't do it. It isn't my place.


I thought you did;--but at any rate I don't want you to do it for me.


I'm quite sure you don't. I never thought you did, Mr. Vavasor. Lord bless you, Mr. Vavasor, I know the difference between gentlemen as soon as I see them.


Yes, yes;--a family arrangement,


Don't speak of this as yet. Of course when the matter is settled, those few people who know me must know it. But perhaps there may be a doubt as yet, and as long as there is a doubt, it is better that it should not be discussed.


It is right that I should tell you at once. It is right that I should tell you at once that--. that my cousin, George Vavasor, has repeated to me his offer of marriage, and that I have accepted it. I tell you, chiefly in order that I may save you from the trouble which you purposed to take when I last saw you at Cheltenham. I will not tell you any of the circumstances of this engagement, because I have no right to presume that you will care to hear them. I hardly dare to ask you to believe of me that in all that I have done, I have endeavoured to act with truth and honesty. That I have been very ignorant, foolish,--what you will that is bad, I know well; otherwise there could not have been so much in the last few years of my life on which I am utterly ashamed to look back. For the injury that I have done you, I can only express deep contrition. I do not dare to ask you to forgive me.--ALICE VAVASOR. He'll know it, and that is all that is necessary,


Seward,


Is there anything wrong?


Well;--yes; there is something a little wrong. I fear I must leave you, and go up to town to-day.


Nobody ill, I hope?


No;--nobody is ill. But I must go up to London. Mrs. Bole will take care of you, and you must not be angry with me for leaving you. Why not stay here? I wish you would, old fellow; I do, indeed.


If I can be of the slightest service or comfort to you, I will of course.


I wish you would; I do, indeed.


Then I will.


I have got a letter here from--Miss Vavasor,


May I hope that--


No;--it does not bring good news to me. I do not know that I can tell it you all. I would if I could, but the whole story is one not to be told in a hurry. I should leave false impressions. There are things which a man cannot tell.


Indeed there are,


I wish with all my heart that you knew it all as I know it; but that is impossible. There are things which happen in a day which it would take a lifetime to explain. I have heard bad news this morning, and I must go up to London at once. I shall go into Ely so as to be there by twelve; and if you will, you shall drive me over. I may be back in a day; certainly in less than a week; but it will be a comfort to me to know that I shall find you here. Seward, if I fail in what I am going to attempt, it is probable that you will never hear Alice Vavasor's name mentioned by me again; but I want you always to bear this in mind;--that at no moment has my opinion of her ever been changed, nor must you in such case imagine from my silence that it has changed. Do you understand me?


I think I do.


To my thinking she is the finest of God's creatures that I have known. It may be that in her future life she will be severed from me altogether; but I shall not, therefore, think the less well of her; and I wish that you, as my friend, should know that I so esteem her, even though her name should never be mentioned between us.


Have you heard from her?


Yes, she has written to me.


And told you about her cousin George. I tried to hinder her from writing, but she is very wilful.


Why should you have hindered her? If the thing was to be told, it is better that it should be done at once.


But I hoped that there might be an escape. I don't know what you think of all this, Grey, but to me it is the bitterest misfortune that I have known. And I've had some bitter things, too,


What is the escape that you hoped?


I hardly know. The whole thing seems to me to be so mad, that I partly trusted that she would see the madness of it. I am not sure whether you know anything of my nephew George?


Very little,


I believe him to be utterly an adventurer,--a man without means and without principle,--upon the whole about as bad a man as you may meet. I give you my word, Grey, that I don't think I know a worse man. He's going to marry her for her money; then he will beggar her, after that he'll ill-treat her, and yet what can I do?


Prevent the marriage.


But how, my dear fellow? Prevent it! It's all very well to say that, and it's the very thing I want to do. But how am I to prevent it? She's as much her own master as you are yours. She can give him every shilling of her fortune to-morrow. How am I to prevent her from marrying him?


Let her give him every shilling of her fortune to-morrow,


And what is she to do then?


Then--then,--then,--then let her come to me,


God bless you; God bless you, my dear fellow. I heartily wish for her sake that I could look forward to any such an end to this affair.


And why not look forward to it? You say that he merely wants her money. As he wants it let him have it!


But Grey, you do not know Alice; you do not understand my girl. When she had lost her fortune nothing would induce her to become your wife.


Leave that to follow as it may. Our first object must be to sever her from a man, who is, as you say, himself on the verge of ruin; and who would certainly make her wretched. I am here now, not because I wish her to be my own wife, but because I wish that she should not become the wife of such a one as your nephew. If I were you I would let him have her money.


If you were I, you would have nothing more to do with it than the man that is as yet unborn. I know that she will give him her money because she has said so; but I have no power as to her giving it or as to her withholding it. That's the hardship of my position;--but it is of no use to think of that now.


Of course he must come if he will. It can make no matter. He will say nothing half so hard to me as what I say to myself all day long.


Alice,


Alice. You may give it me, as to an old friend. Alice. I do not expect you to say much to me; but there is a question or two which I think you will answer. Has a day been fixed for this marriage?


No,


Will it be in a month?


Oh, no;--not for a year,


And now one other question, Alice;--but if you are silent, I will not ask it again. Can you tell me why you have again accepted your cousin's offer?


Because--. But you would never understand me, and there can be no reason why I should dare to hope that you should ever think well of me again.


Alice, nothing has ever yet been done which need to a certainty separate you and me. I am a persistent man, and I do not even yet give up all hope. A year is a long time. As you say yourself, I do not as yet quite understand you. But, Alice,--and I think that the position in which we stood a few months since justifies me in saying so without offence,--I love you now as well as ever, and should things change with you, I cannot tell you with how much joy and eagerness I should take you back to my bosom. My heart is yours now as it has been since I knew you. My heart is still yours, as it has been since I knew you. I cannot tell you with how much joy I would take you back to my bosom!


No, no, no;--it was not in my bargain; I never meant it.


No; he is not specially an ecclesiastical lawyer. He had a partner at Ely, and was always employed by my father, and by most of the clergy there.


I wish you to understand from the lady's father, that the marriage would be regarded by him with as much dismay as by myself.


Certainly;--it would be ruinous,


we only wish to try the man. If he be not such as we believe him to be, he can prove it by his conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her. we only wish to try the man. If he be not such as we believe him to be, he can prove it by his conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her.


You merely wish to open her eyes, Mr. Grey,


I wish that he should have what money he wants, and then we shall find what it is he really wishes.


Yes; we shall know our man. He shall have the money, Mr. Grey,


What; all in the dark?


Yes, papa. Why should I have candles when I am doing nothing? I did not expect you.


No; I suppose not. I came here because I want to say a few words to you about business.


What business, papa?


Well; my love, if I understood you rightly, your cousin George wants some money.


I did not say that he wants it now; but I think he will want it before the time for the election comes.


If so, he will want it at once. He has not asked you for it yet?


No; he has merely said that should he be in need he would take me at my word.


I think there is no doubt that he wants it. Indeed, I believe that he is almost entirely without present means of his own.


I can hardly think so; but I have no knowledge about it. I can only say that he has not asked me yet, and that I should wish to oblige him whenever he may do so.


To what extent, Alice?


I don't know what I have. I get about four hundred a year, but I do not know what it is worth, or how far it can all be turned into money. I should wish to keep a hundred a year and let him have the rest.


What; eight thousand pounds!


I do not imagine that he will want so much; but if he should, I wish that he should have it.


Heaven and earth! Of course we should have to give up the house.


But he has asked me for nothing yet, papa.


No, exactly; and perhaps he may not; but I wish to know what to do when the demand is made. I am not going to oppose you now; your money is your own, and you have a right to do with it as you please;--but would you gratify me in one thing?


What is it, papa?


When he does apply, let the amount be raised through me?


How through you?


Come to me; I mean, so that I may see the lawyer, and have the arrangements made. I will promise you that I will not oppose your wishes,


You will see that I am at Matching, whereas you will remember that I was to have been at Monkshade. I escaped at last by a violent effort, and am now passing my time innocently,--I fear not so profitably as she would induce me to do,--with Iphy Palliser. You remember Iphy. She is a good creature, and would fain turn even me to profit, if it were possible. I own that I am thinking of them all at Monkshade, and am in truth delighted that I am not there. My absence is entirely laid upon your shoulders. That wicked evening amidst the ruins! Poor ruins. I go there alone sometimes and fancy that I hear such voices from the walls, and see such faces through the broken windows! All the old Pallisers come and frown at me, and tell me that I am not good enough to belong to them. There is a particular window to which Sir Guy comes and makes faces at me. I told Iphy the other day, and she answered me very gravely, that I might, if I chose, make myself good enough for the Pallisers. Even for the Pallisers! Isn't that beautiful? That is, if I am still good enough for the Pallisers at that time.


D---- it,


I will pay that fellow;


What a beastly country to live in. What trash it is, hanging on to such a place as that without the means of living like a gentleman, simply because one's ancestors have done so.


Well, Mr. George, a sight of you's guid for sair een. It's o'er lang since you've been doon amang the fells.


He was always one of them cankery chiels as never have a kindly word for man nor beast. Seems as though that raw slash in his face had gone right through into his heart.


Where do you want to go?


Only to Shap, grandpapa.


To Shap! what on earth can take you to Shap? There are no shops at Shap.


I am not going to do shopping. I want to see some one there.


Whom can you want to see at Shap?


My brother has come down, and is at the inn there. I had not intended to tell you, as I did not wish to mention his name till you had consented to receive him here.


And he expects to come here now;--does he?


Oh, no, sir. I think he has no expectation of the kind. He has come down simply to see me;--about business I believe.


Business! what business? I suppose he wants to get your money from you?


I think it is with reference to his marriage. I think he wants me to use my influence with Alice that it may not be delayed.


Look here, Kate; if ever you lend him your money, or any of it,--that is, of the principal I mean,--I will never speak to him again under any circumstance. And more than that! Look here, Kate. In spite of all that has past and gone, the property will become his for his life when I die,--unless I change my will. If he gets your money from you, I will change it, and he shall not be a shilling richer at my death than he is now. You can have the horse to go to Shap.


Grandpapa knows that you are here, George,


The deuce he does! and why did you tell him?


I could not get the car to come in without letting him know why I wanted it.


What nonsense! as if you couldn't have made any excuse! I was particularly anxious that he should not guess that I am here.


I don't see that it can make any difference, George.


But I see that it can,--a very great difference. It may prevent my ever being able to get near him again before he dies. What did he say about my coming?


He didn't say much.


He made no offer as to my going there?


No.


I should not have gone if he had. I don't know now that I ever shall go. To be there to do any good,--so as to make him alter his will, and leave me in the position which I have a right to expect, would take more time than the whole property is worth. And he would endeavour to tie me down in some way I could not stand;--perhaps ask me to give up my notion for going into Parliament.


He might ask you, but he would not make it ground for another quarrel, if you refused.


He is so unreasonable and ignorant that I am better away from him. But, Kate, you have not congratulated me on my matrimonial prospects.


Indeed I did, George, when I wrote to you.


Did you? well; I had forgotten. I don't know that any very strong congratulatory tone is necessary. As things go, perhaps it may be as well for all of us, and that's about the best that can be said for it.


Oh, George!


You see I'm not romantic, Kate, as you are. Half a dozen children with a small income do not generally present themselves as being desirable to men who wish to push their way in the world.


You know you have always longed to make her your wife.


I don't know anything of the kind. You have always been under a match-making hallucination on that point. But in this case you have been so far successful, and are entitled to your triumph.


I don't want any triumph; you ought to know that.


But I'll tell you what I do want, Kate. I want some money. I'm not at all sure that I have not been wrong in making this attempt to get into Parliament,--that I'm not struggling to pick fruit which is above my reach.


Don't say that, George.


Ah, but I can't help feeling it. I need hardly tell you that I am ready to risk anything of my own. If I know myself I would toss up to-morrow, or for the matter of that to-day, between the gallows and a seat in the House. But I cannot go on with this contest by risking what is merely my own. Money, for immediate use, I have none left, and my neck, though I were ever so willing to risk it, is of no service.


Whatever I have can be yours to-morrow,


No; I shall not take your money.


You would not scruple, if you knew how welcome you are.


At any rate, I shall not take it. I should not think it right. All that you have would only just suffice for my present wants, and I should not choose to make you a beggar. There would, moreover, be a difficulty about readjusting the payment.


There would be no difficulty, because no one need be consulted but us two.


I should not think it right, and therefore let there be an end of it,


What is it you wish then?


I will explain to you. When Alice and I are married, of course there will be a settlement made on her, and as we are both the grandchildren of the old squire I shall propose that the Vavasor property shall be hers for life in the event of her outliving me.


Well,