Yes, in Westmoreland. Why not in Westmoreland as well as anywhere else? If you don't like Westmoreland, it's not too late yet, you know. I've been talking to my niece about it, and I find that such an arrangement can be made very conveniently. The property is left between her and her uncle,--the father of my other niece, and neither of them want to live here.


But won't you be rather dull, my dear?


We could go to Yarmouth, you know, in the autumn. And perhaps, if you are not extravagant, we could manage a month or so in London during the winter, just to see the plays and do a little shopping.


That will be delightful,


And as for being dull, when people grow old they must be dull. Dancing can't go on for ever. There goes my cap. What a goose you are! What will Jeannette say?


Bother Jeannette. She can do another cap, and many more won't be wanted.


We'll have her afterwards, when you are gone, and we shall want her more. And I'll get Cheesacre here, and make him marry her. There's no good in paying for two journeys.


Captain Bellfield, of Vavasor Hall, Westmoreland. It don't sound badly,


Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it,


All ready, your honour,


I shan't want you to-night, go away.


And about the things, your honour?


Take them to the devil. No; stop. Take them back with you, and ask somebody to keep them till I send for them. I shall want them and another carriage in a day or two.


It's a 'eiress, I'll go bail,


Pretty dear! I suppose her parints was too many for her,


Ah! I saw you once before.


Then you saw the most miserable devil alive,


You can't be miserable. What makes you miserable? You've plenty of money.


I wish I had,


And plenty to eat and drink, and you are so handsome! I remember you. You gave me supper one night when I was starving. I ain't hungry now. Will you give me a kiss?


I'll give you a shilling, and that's better,


But give me a kiss too,


I'm d----d if I wouldn't change with her!


I wonder whether anything really ails him? He said he was wretched before. Shouldn't I like to be good to such a one as him!


Tell me, Lucy, how is the old girl?


She's as cross as cross, Mr. Burgo. Indeed, I shan't;--not a minute longer. Don't, now; will you? I tell you she's waiting for me.


Did not Lucy tell you that I wanted to see you? Never mind your hair now. I want to speak to you. Come in here for a few minutes. Burgo. I don't think you will ever do any good.


I don't much think I shall, aunt.


What do you mean, then, to do with yourself?


Oh,--I don't know. I haven't thought much about it.


You can't stay here in this house. Sir Cosmo was speaking to me about you only yesterday morning.


I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes it better;--that is, when the season is a little more through.


He won't have you at Monkshade. He won't let you go there again. And he won't have you here. You know that you are turning what I say into joke.


No, indeed, aunt,


Yes, you are;--you know you are. You are the most ungrateful, heartless creature I ever met. You must make up your mind to leave this house at once.


Where does Sir Cosmo mean that I should go, then?


To the workhouse, if you like. He doesn't care.


I don't suppose he does;--the least in the world,


What a fool you made of yourself last night, Burgo!


Did I;--more of a fool than usual?


I believe that you will never be serious about anything. Why did you go on waltzing in that way when every pair of eyes in the room was watching you?


I couldn't help going on, if she liked it.


Oh, yes,--say it was her fault. That's so like a man!


Look here, aunt, I'm not going to sit here and be abused. I couldn't take her in my arms, and fly away with her out of a crowd.


Who wants you to fly away with her?


For the matter of that, I suppose that you do.


No, I don't.


Well, then, I do.


You! you haven't spirit to do that, or anything else. You are like a child that is just able to amuse itself for the moment, and never can think of anything further. You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too,--and her; but, of course, you care nothing about that.


I had a plan all ready;--only he came back.


Of course he came back. Of course he came back, when they sent him word how you and she were going on. And now he will have forgiven her, and after that, of course, the thing will be all over.


I tell you what, aunt; she would go if she knew how. When I was forced to leave her last night, she promised to see me again. And as for being idle, and not doing anything;--why, I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed.


What good did that do?


It didn't do any good, as it happened. But a fellow can only try. I believe, after all, it would be easier down in the country,--especially now that he has taken it into his head to look after her.


What did she say to you when you were parting? What were her exact words?


She said she would see me again. She promised it twice. And was that all? What could she say more, when she was forced to go away? Had she said that she would go with you?


I had asked her,--half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse. I know she means it, if she knew how to get away. She hates him;--I'm sure of it. A woman, you know, wouldn't absolutely say that she would go, till she was gone.


If she really meant it, she would tell you.


I don't think she could have told me plainer. She said she would see me again. She said that twice over.


I will try and help you, if you have courage to make an attempt yourself.


Courage! What is it you think I am afraid of? Mr. Palliser? I'd fight him,--or all the Pallisers, one after another, if it would do any good.


Fighting! There's no fighting wanted, as you know well enough. Men don't fight nowadays. Look here! If you can get her to call here some day,--say on Thursday, at three o'clock,--I will be here to receive her; and instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab for her somewhere near. She can come, as it were, to make a morning call.


A cab!


Yes; a cab won't kill her, and it is less easily followed than a carriage.


And where shall we go?


There is a train to Southampton at four, and the boat sails for Jersey at half-past six; you will be in Jersey the next morning, and there is a boat goes on to St. Malo, almost at once. You can go direct from one boat to the other,--that is, if she has strength and courage.


That would do excellently well,


She will have difficulty in getting away from me, out of the house. Of course I shall say nothing about it, and shall know nothing about it. She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere to pick some one up, and to return;--out somewhere to Tyburnia, or down to Pimlico. Then she can leave me, and go out on foot, to where you have the cab. She can tell the hall-porter that she will walk to her carriage. Do you understand? You must call on her, and make your way in, and see her, and arrange all this. It must be a Thursday, because of the boats. Bid her come in a stout travelling-dress. She can wear some lace or something over it, so that the servants won't observe it. I will take no notice of it.


We are so much obliged to you, Miss Vavasor. I feel it quite as deeply as Glencora.


Oh, no, it is I that am under obligation to you for taking me.


You must forgive me if I was cross to you that night she went out among the ruins.


Dear Alice, this is so good of you! I am all in the midst of packing, and Plantagenet is helping me. You have nothing left to pack, and I don't know what you can do to amuse yourself.


I will help you,


But we have so very nearly done. I think we shall have to pull all the things out, and put them up again, or we shall never get through to-morrow. We couldn't start to-morrow;--could we, Plantagenet?


Not very well, as your rooms are ordered in Paris for the next day.


As if we couldn't find rooms at every inn on the road. Men are so particular. Now in travelling I should like never to order rooms,--never to know where I was going or when I was going, and to carry everything I wanted in a market-basket. And I would never travel among Christians. Christians are so slow, and they wear chimney-pot hats everywhere. The further one goes from London among Christians, the more they wear chimney-pot hats. I want Plantagenet to take us to see the Kurds, but he won't.


I don't think that would be fair to Miss Vavasor,


Don't put the blame on her head. Women have always pluck for anything. Wouldn't you like to see a live Kurd, Alice?


I don't exactly know where they live,


Nor I. I have not the remotest idea of the way to the Kurds. You see my joke, don't you, though Plantagenet doesn't? But one knows that they are Eastern, and the East is such a grand idea!


I think we'll content ourselves with Rome, or perhaps Naples, on this occasion,


Not that I shall ever use it, but he insists upon it, to show that I am not supposed to be taken away in disgrace. He is so good;--isn't he?


Very good. I know no one better.


And so dull! But I fancy that all husbands are dull from the nature of their position. If I were a young woman's husband, I shouldn't know what to say to her that wasn't dull. or a dozen, if you want them. Mr. Palliser in his present mood would think nothing too much to do for you. If you were to ask him to go among the Kurds, he'd go at once;--or on to Crim Tartary, if you made a point of it. You shall have one all to yourself. I only take two for the same reason that I take the carriage,--just as you let a child go out in her best frock, for a treat, after you've scolded her. You see, my dear, I have told him everything. I always do tell everything. Nobody can say I am not candid. He knows about your not letting me come to your house in the old days. Oh, Alice!--you were wrong then; I shall always say that. But it's done and gone; and things that are done and gone shall be done and gone for me. And I told him all that you said,--about you know what. I have had nothing else to do but make confessions for the last ten days, and when a woman once begins, the more she confesses the better. And I told him that you refused Jeffrey.


You didn't?


I did indeed, and he likes you the better for that. I think he'd let Jeffrey marry you now if you both wished it;--and then, oh dear!--supposing that you had a son and that we adopted it?


Cora, if you go on in that way I will not remain with you.


But you must, my dear. You can't escape now. At any rate, you can't when we once get to Paris. Oh dear! you shouldn't grudge me my little naughtinesses. I have been so proper for the last ten days. Do you know I got into a way of driving Dandy and Flirt at the rate of six miles an hour, till I'm sure the poor beasts thought they were always going to a funeral. Poor Dandy and poor Flirt! I shan't see them now for another year. But he never tells me why,


I think it is pleasant when people are travelling,


It isn't that, but we are all to be such particularly good children. It's hardly fair, because he went to sleep last night after dinner while you and I kept ourselves awake: but we needn't do that another night, to be sure.


Nothing has been said about it, but I regard it as part of the bond that I'm not to go out anywhere. Who knows but what I might be found in Gloucester Square?


Give me the umbrella, John,


Is Lady Glencora at home?


I am not sure. The servant will find out for you.


Yes; Lady Glencora was at home,


Ask Miss Vavasor to come to me,


Cora. Cora, I have come to you, to ask you to go with me.


I will not go with you,


Do not answer me in that way, without a moment's thought. Everything is arranged--


Yes, everything is arranged. Mr. Fitzgerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr. Palliser and I, and my friend, are starting to-morrow. Wish me God-speed and go, and be generous.


And is this to be the end of everything? Give me your hand, Cora,


No;--I will never give you my hand again. You should be generous to me and go. This is to be the end of everything,--of everything that is common to you and to me. Go, when I ask you.


Cora; did you ever love me?


Yes; I did love you. But we were separated, and there was no room for love left between us.


You are as dear to me now,--dearer than ever you were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell me when we last parted that I might come to you again? Are we children, that others should come between us and separate us like that?


Yes, Burgo; we are children. Here is my cousin coming. You must leave me now. Miss Vavasor, Mr. Fitzgerald. I have told him to go and leave me. Now that you have come, Alice, he will perhaps obey me. Mr. Fitzgerald, why do you not leave me and go?


I had hoped. I had hoped to be allowed to speak to you alone for a few minutes.


No, Mr. Fitzgerald; it cannot be so. Alice do not go. I sent for my cousin when I saw you, because I did not choose to be alone with you. I have asked you to go--


You perhaps have not understood me?


I understand you well enough.


Then, Mr. Fitzgerald, why do you not do as Lady Glencora has asked you? You know--you must know, that you ought not to be here.


I know nothing of the kind,


Alice, we will leave Mr. Fitzgerald here, since he drives us from the room.


No, Lady Glencora. I will not drive you from the room. As one must be driven out, it shall be I. I own I did think that you would at any rate have been--less hard to me.


Oh my God! I am hard,--harder than flint. I am cruel. Burgo!


Glencora, pray,--pray let him go. Mr. Fitzgerald, if you are a man, do not take advantage of her folly.


I will speak to him. I will speak to him, and then he shall leave me. Burgo. Burgo, no good can come of this. Now, you must leave me. You must go. I shall stay with my husband as I am bound to do. Because I have wronged you, I will not wrong him also. I loved you;--you know I loved you.


Sir, you have heard from her all that you can care to hear. If you have any feeling of honour in you, you will leave her.


I will never leave her, while she tells me that she loves me!


Yes, Burgo, you will;--you must! I shall never tell you that again, never. Do as she bids you. Go, and leave us;--but I could not bear that you should tell me that I was hard.


You are hard;--hard and cruel, as you said, yourself.


Am I? May God forgive you for saying that of me!


Then why do you send me away?


Because I am a man's wife, and because I care for his honour, if not for my own. Alice, let us go.


Thank God, that he is gone!


You may say so, for you have lost nothing!


And you have gained everything!


Have I? I did not know that I had ever gained anything, as yet. The only human being to whom I have ever yet given my whole heart,--the only thing that I have ever really loved, has just gone from me for ever, and you bid me thank God that I have lost him. There is no room for thankfulness in any of it;--either in the love or in the loss. It is all wretchedness from first to last!


At any rate, he understands now that you meant it when you told him to leave you.


Of course I meant it. I am beginning to know myself by degrees. As for running away with him, I have not the courage to do it. I can think of it, scheme for it, wish for it;--but as for doing it, that is beyond me. Mr. Palliser is quite safe. He need not try to coax me to remain. Of course I know that I ought to stay where I am. I am not such a fool as to mistake what I should be if I left my husband, and went to live with that man as his mistress. You don't suppose that I should think that sort of life very blessed. But why have I been brought to such a pass as this? And, as for female purity! Ah! What was their idea of purity when they forced me, like ogres, to marry a man for whom they knew I never cared? Had I gone with him,--had I now eloped with that man who ought to have been my husband,--whom would a just God have punished worst,--me, or those two old women and my uncle, who tortured me into this marriage?


Come, Cora,--be silent.


I won't be silent! You have had the making of your own lot. You have done what you liked, and no one has interfered with you. You have suffered, too; but you, at any rate, can respect yourself.


And so can you, Cora,--thoroughly, now.


How;--when he kissed me, and I could hardly restrain myself from giving him back his kiss tenfold, could I respect myself? But it is all sin. I sin towards my husband, feigning that I love him; and I sin in loving that other man, who should have been my husband. There;--I hear Mr. Palliser at the door. Come away with me; or rather, stay, for he will come up here, and you can keep him in talk while I try to recover myself.


You have had a visitor here?


Yes,


I saw him as I went out. Indeed, I met him at the hall door. He, of course, was wrong to come here;--so wrong, that he deserves punishment, if there were any punishment for such offences.


He has been punished, I think,


But as for Glencora. I thought it better that she should see him or not, as she should herself decide.


She had no choice in the matter. As it turned out, he was shown up here at once. She sent for me, and I think she was right to do that.


Glencora was alone when he came in?


For a minute or two,--till I could get to her.


I have no questions to ask about it. I am very glad that you were within reach of her, as otherwise her position might have been painful. For her, and for me perhaps, it may be as well that he has been here. As for him, I can only say, that I am forced to suppose him to be a villain. What a man does when driven by passion, I can forgive; but that he should deliberately plan schemes to ruin both her and me, is what I can hardly understand.


I used to think that he would fall in pieces. What are we to do about it?


Don't seem to notice it,


That's all very well,


but he'll set us off yawning as bad as himself, and then he'll notice it. He has given himself up to politics, till nothing else has any salt in it left for him. I cannot think why such a man as that wanted a wife at all.


You are very hard upon him, Cora.


I wish you were his wife, with all my heart. But, of course, I know why he got married. And I ought to feel for him as he has been so grievously disappointed.


If that is the case, why did not you tell me so before? Richard and the carriage went down yesterday, and are already on board the packet.


If Richard and the carriage are already on board the packet, of course we must follow them, and we must put off the glories of Folkestone till we come back. Alice, haven't you observed that, in travelling, you are always driven on by some Richard or some carriage, till you feel that you are a slave?


Oh, dear! how I have slept!


I think you've been tolerably comfortable,


Since we got out of that horrid boat I have done pretty well. Why do they make the boats so nasty? I'm sure they do it on purpose.


It would be difficult to make them nice, I suppose?


It is the sea that makes them uncomfortable,


Never mind; we shan't have any more of it for twelve months, at any rate. We can get to the Kurds, Alice, without getting into a packet again. That, to my way of thinking, is the great comfort of the Continent. One can go everywhere without being seasick.


But we are not to stop here;--are we?


No, dear;--I have given the keys to Richard. We will go on at once.


But can't we have our things?


In about half an hour,


I suppose we must bear it, Alice?


After all. I doubt whether the burden is not greater than the pleasure.


I do so wish you had married him! You would always have had a pocket-book ready to write down the figures, and you would have pretended to care about the eggs, and the bottles of wine, and the rest of it. As for me, I can't do it. If I see an hungry woman, I can give her my money; or if she be a sick woman, I can nurse her; or if I hear of a very wicked man, I can hate him;--but I cannot take up poverty and crime in the lump. I never believe it all. My mind isn't big enough. I don't know that Baden will be any better, but, you know, we can leave that again after a bit,--and so we shall go on getting nearer to the Kurds.


I think we had better make up our mind to stay a month at Baden.


But why should we make up our minds at all?


I like to have a plan,


And so do I, if only for the sake of not keeping it.


There's nothing I hate so much as not carrying out my intentions,


We will go by Strasbourg, then,


Not that I want to see that horrid church again,


Everything is alike horrid to you, I think. You are determined not to be contented, so that it matters very little which way we go.


That's the truth. It does matter very little.


They would be so out of condition, as not to be worth anything for two or three months.


I only meant to ask for them if they could come in a balloon. Alice, how many eggs are eaten in Baden every morning before ten o'clock? What's the matter, Plantagenet?


The matter! But never mind; I am a fool to care for it.


I declare I didn't know that I had done anything wrong. Alice, do you understand what it is?


Of course she understands. How can she help it? And, indeed, Miss Vavasor, I am more unhappy than I can express myself, to think that your comfort should be disturbed in this way.


Upon my word I think Alice is doing very well. What is there to hurt her comfort? Nobody scolds her. Nobody tells her that she is a fool. She never jokes, or does anything wicked, and, of course, she isn't punished. I wonder whether it would be any harm if I were to put a few pieces of money on the table, just once?


The greatest harm in the world! and what on earth could you gain by it? You don't really want any of those horrid people's money?


I'll tell you what I want,--something to live for,--some excitement. Is it not a shame that I see around me so many people getting amusement, and that I can get none? I'd go and sit out there, and drink beer and hear the music, only Plantagenet wouldn't let me. I think I'll throw one piece on to the table to see what becomes of it.


I shall leave you if you do,


You are such a prude! It seems to me as if it must have been my special fate,--my good fate, I mean,--that has thrown me so much with you. You look after me quite as carefully as Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham ever did; but as I chose you myself, I can't very well complain, and I can't very well get rid of you.


Do you want to get rid of me, Cora?


Sometimes. Do you know, there are moments when I almost make up my mind to go headlong to the devil,--when I think it is the best thing to be done. It's a hard thing for a woman to do, because she has to undergo so much obloquy before she gets used to it. A man can take to drinking, and gambling and all the rest of it, and nobody despises him a bit. The domestic old fogies give him lectures if they can catch him, but he isn't fool enough for that. All he wants is money, and he goes away and has his fling. Now I have plenty of money,--or, at any rate, I had,--and I never got my fling yet. I do feel so tempted to rebel, and go ahead, and care for nothing.


Throwing one piece on to the table wouldn't satisfy that longing.


You think I should be like the wild beast that has tasted blood, and can't be controlled. Look at all these people here. There are husbands gambling, and their wives don't know it; and wives gambling, and their husbands don't know it. I wonder whether Plantagenet ever has a fling? What a joke it would be to come and catch him!


I don't think you need be afraid.


Afraid! I should like him all the better for it. If he came to me, some morning, and told me that he had lost a hundred thousand pounds, I should be so much more at my ease with him.


You have no chance in that direction, I'm quite sure.


None the least. He'd make a calculation that the chances were nine to seven against him, and then the speculation would seem to him to be madness.


I don't suppose he'd wish to try, even though he were sure of winning.


Of course not. It would be a very vulgar kind of thing then. Look,--there's an opening there. I'll just put on one napoleon.


You shall not. If you do, I'll leave you at once. Look at the women who are playing. Is there one there whom it would not disgrace you to touch? Look what they are. Look at their cheeks, and their eyes, and their hands. Those men who rake about the money are bad enough, but the women look like fiends.


You're not going to frighten me in that hobgoblin sort of way, you know. I don't see anything the matter with any of the people. What do you think of that young woman who has just got a handful of money from the man next to her? I think she is very happy. I never get money given to me by handfuls, and the man to whom I belong gives me no encouragement when I want to amuse myself. There. I have done it. I was determined you shouldn't frighten me out of it,


Come away. You must come away! You shall not sit there!


I must get rid of that money, and then I will come away.


Leave it, and come away.


I can't leave it. If I do, there'll be a fuss. I'll go the next time.


Come away at once, and leave it, or I shall go.


It is all gone,


I am so glad that you are come,


Why did you bring her here?


Here's a piece of work, about a little accident.


An accident!


Yes, an accident. You don't suppose that I sat down there meaning to win all that money?


Mr. Palliser, you have treated me this evening in a manner I did not expect from you. It is clear that you blame me.


I have not said a word, Miss Vavasor.


No; you have not said a word. You know well how to show your anger without speaking. As I do not choose to undergo your displeasure, I will return to England by myself.


Alice! Alice! that is nonsense! What is all this trumpery thing about? Leave me, because he chooses to be angry about nothing?


Is it nothing that I find my wife playing at a common gambling-table, surrounded by all that is wretched and vile,--established there, seated, with heaps of gold before her?


You wrong me, Plantagenet. There was only one heap, and that did not remain long. Did it, Alice?


It is impossible to make you ashamed of anything,


I certainly don't like being ashamed, and don't feel any necessity on this occasion.


If you don't object, Mr. Palliser. I will go to bed. You can think over all this at night,--and so can I. Good night, Glencora.


You are not such a fool, as to think anything of what occurred yesterday?


In point of fact. I can't stand it. He expects me to take care of you, and chooses to show himself offended if you don't do just what he thinks proper; whereas, as you know well enough, I have not the slightest influence over you.


And you know what a man he is, how stiff, and hard, and unpleasant he can be without meaning it.


There is no reason why I should bear his unpleasantness,


Yes, there is,--great reason. You are to do it for the sake of friendship. And as for my not doing what you tell me, you know that's not true. Did I not beg you to keep away from the table? Of course you did, and of course I was naughty; but that was only once. Alice, I want you more than I ever wanted you before. I cannot tell you more now, but you must stay with me.


Of course, he understands that it didn't mean anything. He knows that I don't want to gamble.


It is not that you trouble me, but that you trouble yourself about that which is of no use. It is all done and over; and though I know that I have behaved badly,--very badly,--yet I believe that everything has been done for the best. I am inclined to think that I can live alone, or perhaps with my cousin Kate, more happily than I could with any husband.


That is such nonsense.


Perhaps so; but, at any rate, I mean to try. We Vavasors don't seem to be good at marrying.


You want some one to break your heart for you; that's what you want,


George has lost his election. It was worth our while to try it,


I and Aunt Greenow are up in London, and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me.


Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married, and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him. I had tried my hand on a tiger, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible.


She mistakes me. She is not the enemy who has wounded me.


Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge,


Who? I! yes; I'm returned,


Yes; I have been returned. I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate.


So I find. It will be a great misfortune to him.


Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times.


This has been the third time with him, and he is a poor man.


Dear, dear. I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out.


Who is that unfortunate?


Mr. Bott,


Mr. Bott out! Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now.


I did not know, that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies.


Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies. But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking.


He was a man I specially disliked. He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy.


Bravo, Alice!


I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--,


Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences.


And then he was so ugly,


I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief,


Of course he did, and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable.


I suppose he will remain now among his own people,


Let us hope he will, and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence.


Oh, how I wish I could do that!


It seems to be very dangerous. I don't know how they can stop themselves.


Why should they want to stop themselves? Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?


How I do hate this carriage. I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever.


If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?


You are so hard,


So you tell me very often, and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence.


something savage,


I believe that he spoke to Mr. Palliser.


I am Mr. Palliser,


My name is John Grey,


Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage? If so, we had better go through the town and up the river.


Alice. I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?


Who is it, Glencora?


Whom in all the world would you best like to see?


My cousin Kate, certainly,


Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool.


Perhaps I am a fool,


Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?


Of course I know now, that Mr. John Grey has come.


Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom. Well? Well?


Well?


Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?


No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it.


I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed.


It would not have made much difference.


Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?


What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come.


And you have never said a word about it.


He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away.


Why;--why;--why would it be better?


Because his being here will do no good to any one.


No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will. What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call.


He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!


And may we ask him to dine with us?


Oh, yes.


And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all.


Glencora has told you, I think, that Mr. Grey is here? Mr. Grey is an old friend of yours, I believe?


I shall be glad to see him,--if you will allow me?


Glencora suggests that we should ask him to dinner,


Indeed you need not go,


Indeed I shall go. I know what's proper on these occasions, if you don't.


I told you I should come. I told you that I should follow you, and here I am.


I am very glad to see you,--as an old friend, but I hope--


Well;--you hope what?


I hope you have had some better cause for travelling than a desire to see me?


No, dearest; no. I have had no better cause, and, indeed, none other. I have come on purpose to see you; and had Mr. Palliser taken you off to Asia or Africa, I think I should have felt myself compelled to follow him. You know why I follow you?


Hardly,


Because I love you. You see what a plain-spoken John Bull I am, and how I come to the point at once. I want you to be my wife; and they say that perseverance is the best way when a man has such a want as that.


You ought not to want it,


But I do, you see. And why should I not want it?


I am not fit to be your wife.


I am the best judge of that, Alice. You have to make up your mind whether I am fit to be your husband.


You would be disgraced if you were to take me, after all that has passed;--after what I have done. What would other men say of you when they knew the story?


Other men, I hope, would be just enough to say, that when I had made up my mind, I was tolerably constant in keeping to it. I do not think they could say much worse of me than that.


They would say that you had been jilted, and had forgiven the jilt.


As far as the forgiveness goes, they would tell the truth. But, indeed, Alice, I don't very much care what men do say of me.


But I care, Mr. Grey;--and though you may forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Indeed I know now, as I have known all along, that I am not fit to be your wife. I am not good enough. And I have done that which makes me feel that I have no right to marry anyone. I have thought about it, and I will not. I will not. After what has passed, I know that it will be better,--more seemly, that I should remain as I am. In spite of everything, I hope that we may always be friends,--dear friends,


I hope we may, the very dearest.


I have always liked her, though, to tell the truth, I have twice been very angry with her.


I have never been angry with her,


And my anger was in both instances unjust. You may imagine how great is my confidence in her, when I have thought she was the best companion my wife could have for a long journey, taken under circumstances that were--that were--; but I need not trouble you with that.


About her and her character I have no doubt in the world. In all that she has done I think that I have seen her motives; and though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. Had she married that man, I should have forgiven her even that,--though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself. Living as she is with you, and with your wife, she may, perhaps, just now be more under your influence and your wife's than she can possibly be under mine. I think she loves me,


It's no use. I have done what you asked, and would have done more had you asked for more at that time. As it is, I cannot make another payment before the election.


Laws, Mr. Vavasor! you're not at all the fellow for us chaps along the river,--you ain't. You're afraid to come down with the stumpy,--that's what you are.


Ha! ha! Ha! ha! Ha! ha! Curse him! Curse him, now and for ever! May all the evils which the dead can feel cling to him for ever and ever!


By ----! I believe it is the best thing a man can do. It's a beggarly thing to do, and if I do do it, I'll use it first for another purpose. Who's there? Who's there?


It is I,


D----ation!


George, what am I to do?


Don't let me stand here, without speaking a word to me.


I don't want you to stand there. That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to stand here. I know you don't want to see me ever again. Never.


I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?


That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink, and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all.


It was only for your sake,--because you liked it.


Well;--I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all my other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you. What good do you do yourself by coming here to annoy me? Have I not told you over and over again that you were never to look for me here? Is it likely that I should give you money now, simply because you have disobeyed me!


Where else was I to find you?


Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. I shall give you nothing;--not a penny. You know very well that we've had all that out before. When I put you into business I told you that we were to see no more of each other.


Business! I never could make enough out of the shop to feed a bird.


That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to take the place.


I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my other home away from me.


Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you;--and more than most men would have done, when all things are considered. At any rate, you may be sure of this, Jane;--that I shall do nothing more. You have come here to torment me, but you shall get nothing by it.


I have come here because I am starving.


I have nothing for you. Now go; Go. Do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for you.


Will you give me a sovereign?


No;--I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to me here, and I will not pay for you coming.


Then I will not go; I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. You may put me out of the room if you can, but I will lie at the door of the stairs. And if you get me out of the house, I will sit upon the door-step.


If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you.


Let them. It has come to that with me, that I care for nothing. Out of this I will not go till you give me money--unless I am put out.


Jane, you talk of starving and of being ruined,--


I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world.


Perhaps it may be a comfort to you in your troubles to know that I am, at any rate, as badly off as you are? I won't say that I am starving, because I could get food to eat at this moment if I wanted it; but I am utterly ruined. My property,--what should have been mine,--has been left away from me. I have lost the trumpery seat in Parliament for which I have paid so much. All my relations have turned their backs upon me--


Are you not going to be married?


Married! No;--but I am going to blow my brains out. Look at that pistol, my girl. Of course you won't think that I am in earnest,--but I am.


Oh! George, you won't do that?


But I shall do that. There is nothing else left for me to do. You talk to me about starving. I tell you that I should have no objection to be starved, and so be put an end to in that way. It's not so bad as some other ways when it comes gradually. You and I, Jane, have not played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we've been beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd better go somewhere else and begin a new game.


Go where?


Ah!--that's just what I can't tell you.


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


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


But, George, where are you going?


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


George. George, you frighten me. Do not do that. Say that you will not do that!


But I am just saying that I shall.


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


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


It isn't over; it isn't over,--at any rate for you.


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


You must tell me, first, that you are not going to--kill yourself.


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


And you are not going to be married?


No; I'm not going to be married, certainly.


And I must go now?


Yes; I think you'd better go now.


That's a good line. They generally go to the bottom, and save a man from any further trouble on his own account.


You had better join our club,


After all. I know that I shall never start; and, if I do, nobody can hinder me, and my own name would be as good as any other. As for a man with such a face as mine not being known, that is out of the question. He was going, going that very day. There will be some things left about, Mrs. Bunsby, and I will get you to keep them till I call or send.


The chances are that I shall never see anything of it again,


Mr. Grey is at home. I will go up to him.


Mr. Vavasor. I hardly expected to see you in my lodgings again!


I dare say not, but, nevertheless, here I am.


May I ask why you have come?


I intend to tell you, at any rate, whether you ask me or not. I have come to declare in your own hearing,--as I am in the habit of doing occasionally behind your back,--that you are a blackguard,--to spit in your face, and defy you. I have come here to see if you are man enough to resent any insult that I can offer you; but I doubt whether you are.


Nothing that you can say to me, Mr. Vavasor, will have any effect upon me;--except that you can, of course, annoy me.


And I mean to annoy you, too, before I have done with you. Will you fight me?


Fight a duel with you,--with pistols? Certainly not.


Then you are a coward, as I supposed.


I should be a fool if I were to do such a thing as that.


Look here, Mr. Grey. You managed to worm yourself into an intimacy with my cousin, Miss Vavasor, and to become engaged to her. When she found out what you were, how paltry, and mean, and vile, she changed her mind, and bade you leave her.


Are you here at her request?


I am here as her representative.


Self-appointed, I think.


Then, sir, you think wrong. I am at this moment her affianced husband; and I find that, in spite of all that she has said to you,--which was enough, I should have thought, to keep any man of spirit out of her presence,--you still persecute her by going to her house, and forcing yourself upon her presence. Now, I give you two alternatives. You shall either give me your written promise never to go near her again, or you shall fight me.


I shall do neither one nor the other,--as you know very well yourself.


Stop till I have done, sir. If you have courage enough to fight me, I will meet you in any country. I will fight you here in London, or, if you are afraid of that, I will go over to France, or to America, if that will suit you better.


Nothing of the kind will suit me at all. I don't want to have anything to do with you.


Then you are a coward.


Perhaps I am;--but your saying so will not make me one.


You are a coward, and a liar, and a blackguard. I have given you the option of behaving like a gentleman, and you have refused it. Now, look here. I have come here with arms, and I do not intend to leave this room without using them, unless you will promise to give me the meeting that I have proposed.


Do you mean that you are going to murder me?


I mean that you shall not leave this room alive unless you promise to meet me, and fight it out. If you move a step, I will fire at you. I will,


That would be murder,


Don't think that you will frighten me by ugly words. I am beyond that.


D----ation!


Has that gentleman left the house? Don't admit him again, that is, if you can avoid it. I believe he is not in his right senses. Mr. Jones,


that man whom I had to put out of the room once before, has been here again.


Has there been another tussle, sir?


No;--nothing of that kind. But we must take some steps to prevent his getting in again, if we can help it.


Pity! Pity's no name for it. It's the greatest shame as ever I knew since I joined the force. A man as was a Member of Parliament only last Session,--as belongs to no end of swell clubs, a gent as well known in London as any gent about the town! And I'd have had him back in three months, as sure as my name's Walker.


He was always mysterious, and now he has vanished. I hate mysteries, and, as for myself, I think it will be much better that he should not come back again.


And he tried to murder you! He should be caught and,--and--


It is better as it is,


He actually walked into your rooms in the day time, and fired a pistol at you as you were sitting at your breakfast! He did that in London, and then walked off and went abroad, as though he had nothing to fear!


That was just it,


And he has got your money too!


He is simply the greatest miscreant of whom I ever heard in my life. The wonder is that Miss Vavasor should ever have brought herself to--to like him.


He attempted public life and made himself miserable by failing, as most men do who make that attempt. The end of it all is, that public men in England should be rich like you, and not poor like that miserable wretch, who has now lost everything that the Fates had given him.


Poor George! he is a man very much to be pitied.


He is a man very much to be pitied,


I believe he misbehaved himself, my dear, but then, you know, he always does that. I believe that he saw Mr. Grey and insulted him. Perhaps you had better not ask anything about it till by-and-by. You'll be able to get anything out of him then. We shall be going on to Italy before it's settled, and I don't suppose you can go with us, unless it is settled. Then it will be put off for another year or two, and you are both of you as old as Adam and Eve already.


We ancient people are never impatient,


If I were you I would go to her and tell her, roundly, that she should marry me, and then I would shake her. If you were to scold her, till she did not know whether she stood on her head or her heels, she would come to reason.


Suppose you try that, Lady Glencora!


I can't. It's she that always scolds me,--as you will her, when she's your wife. You and Mr. Palliser are very much alike. You're both of you so very virtuous that no woman would have a chance of picking a hole in your coats.


Alice, would you mind going up to Glencora's room? She wishes to speak to you.


She isn't ill, I hope?


No;--she isn't ill. At least I think she had better not get up quite yet. Don't let her excite herself, if you can help it.


I'll go to her at once,


I'm so much obliged to you;--but, Miss Vavasor--


You called me Alice just now, Mr. Palliser, and I took it as a great compliment.


Did I? Very well. Then I'll do it again--if you'll let me. But, if you please, do be as calm with her as you can. She is so easily excited, you know. Of course, if there's anything she fancies, we'll take care to get it for her; but she must be kept quiet.


Oh, Alice, I'm so glad you've come. I do so want to hear your voice. He hasn't told you? But of course he wouldn't. How could he? But, Alice, how did he look? Did you observe anything about him? Was he pleased?


I did observe something, and I think he was pleased. But what is it? He called me Alice. And seemed to be quite unlike himself. But what is it? He told me that I was to come to you instantly.


Oh, Alice, can't you guess? I suppose it is so. I know what they'll do. They'll kill me by fussing over me. If I could go about my work like a washerwoman, I should be all right. I am so happy. I won't deny that I am very happy. It seemed as though I were destined to bring nothing but misery to everybody, and I used to wish myself dead so often. I shan't wish myself dead now.


We shall all have to go home, I suppose?


He says so;--but he seems to think that I oughtn't to travel above a mile and a half a day. When I talked of going down the Rhine in one of the steamers, I thought he would have gone into a fit. When I asked him why, he gave me such a look. I know he'll make a goose of himself;--and he'll make geese of us, too; which is worse.


It is a matter, you see, of such immense importance to me,


Indeed, it is. Every man feels that when a child is about to be born to him.


Yes. That's of course. It is an important thing to everybody;--very important, no doubt. But, when a man--. You see, Grey, I don't think a man is a bit better because he is rich, or because he has a title; nor do I think he is likely to be in any degree the happier. I am quite sure that he has no right to be in the slightest degree proud of that which he has had no hand in doing for himself.


Men usually are very proud of such advantages,


I don't think that I am; I don't, indeed. I am proud of some things. Whenever I can manage to carry a point in the House, I feel very proud of it. I don't think I ever knocked under to any one, and I am proud of that. But I don't think I'm proud because chance has made me my uncle's heir.


Not in the least, I should say.


But I do feel that a son to me is of more importance than it is to most men. A strong anxiety on the subject, is, I think, more excusable in me than it might be in another. I don't know whether I quite make myself understood?


Oh, yes! When there's a dukedom and heaven knows how many thousands a year to be disposed of, the question of their future ownership does become important.


This property is so much more interesting to one, if one feels that all one does to it is done for one's own son.


And yet, of all the great plunderers of property throughout Europe, the Popes have been the most greedy.


Perhaps it's different, when a man can't have a wife,


What is the matter, now, Plantagenet?


Nothing, nothing. Never mind.


And shall we make this party up to the chapel?


No! We will not.


You needn't be angry about it,


Good G----! Glencora, do you mean to kill yourself?


Upon my word, Alice, I think this will kill me. I am not to stir out of the house now, unless I go in the carriage, or he is with me.


It won't last long.


I don't know what you call long. As for walking with him, it's out of the question. He goes about a mile an hour. And then he makes me look so much like a fool. I had no idea that he would be such an old coddle.


The coddling will all be given to some one else, very soon.


No baby could possibly live through it, if you mean that. If there is a baby--


I suppose there will be one, by-and-by,


Don't be a fool! But, if there is, I shall take that matter into my own hands. He can do what he pleases with me, and I can't help myself; but I shan't let him or anybody do what they please with my baby. I know what I'm about in such matters a great deal better than he does. I've no doubt he's a very clever man in Parliament; but he doesn't seem to me to understand anything else. Mr. Grey wouldn't make himself so troublesome, I'm quite sure.


I suppose we shall see you in England before long?


I shall be able to tell you that before you go. Not but that in any event I shall return to England before the winter.


Then come to us at Matching. We shall be most happy to have you. Say that you'll come for the first fortnight in December. After that we always go to the Duke, in Barsetshire. Though, by-the-by, I don't suppose we shall go anywhere this year. It isn't nearly so difficult as you think. See the men that get in. There was Mr. Vavasor. Even he got a seat.


But he had to pay for it very dearly.


You might easily find some quiet little borough.


Quiet little boroughs have usually got their own quiet little Members,


They're fond of change; and if you like to spend a thousand pounds, the thing isn't difficult. I'll put you in the way of it.


I suppose books, then, will be your object in life?


I hope they will be my aids. I almost doubt whether any object such as that you mean is necessary for life, or even expedient. It seems to me that if a man can so train himself that he may live honestly and die fearlessly, he has done about as much as is necessary.


He has done a great deal, certainly,


I don't see why a man should not live honestly and be a Member of Parliament as well,


Nor I either. I am sure that there are such men, and that the country is under great obligation to them. But they are subject to temptations which a prudent man like myself may perhaps do well to avoid.


Where are you going?


I am going to walk,--with Mr. Grey.


By appointment?


Yes, by appointment. He asked me yesterday.


Then it's all settled, and you haven't told me!


All that is settled I have told you very often. He asked me yesterday to walk with him this morning, and I could not well refuse him.


Why should you have wished to refuse him?


I haven't said that I did wish it. But I hate scenes, and I think it would have been pleasanter for us to have parted without any occasion for special words.


Alice, you are such a fool!


So you tell me very often.


Of course he is now going to say the very thing that he has come all this way for the purpose of saying. He has been wonderfully slow about it; but then slow as he is, you are slower. If you don't make it up with him now, I really shall think you are very wicked. I am becoming like Lady Midlothian;--I can't understand it. I know you want to be his wife, and I know he wants to be your husband, and the only thing that keeps you apart is your obstinacy,--just because you have said you wouldn't have him. My belief is that if Lady Midlothian and the rest of us were to pat you on the back, and tell you how right you were, you'd ask him to take you, out of defiance. You may be sure of this, Alice; if you refuse him now, it'll be for the last time.


You are making me very unhappy, Glencora,


I wish I could break you down with unhappiness, so that he might find you less stiff, and hard, and unmanageable. So you and Alice are going to make your adieux,


It must be done sooner or later,


We will go in here for a few minutes. It is the prettiest spot about Lucerne, and we don't know when we may see it again.


Probably never again. And yet I have been here now two years running.


And yet I would sooner live in Cambridgeshire,


Why so?


Partly because all beauty is best enjoyed when it is sought for with some trouble and difficulty, and partly because such beauty, and the romance which is attached to it, should not make up the staple of one's life. Romance, if it is to come at all, should always come by fits and starts.


I should like to live in a pretty country.


And would like to live a romantic life,--no doubt; but all those things lose their charm if they are made common. When a man has to go to Vienna or St. Petersburg two or three times a month, you don't suppose he enjoys travelling?


All the same, I should like to live in a pretty country,


And I want you to come and live in a very ugly country. I don't think, that you would let that consideration stand in your way, if on other grounds you were willing to become my wife.


What consideration?


Because Nethercoats is not so pretty as Lucerne.


It would have nothing to do with it,


It should have nothing to do with it.


Nothing; nothing at all,


Will you come, then? Will you come and be my wife, and help me to be happy amidst all that ugliness? Will you come and be my one beautiful thing, my treasure, my joy, my comfort, my counsellor?


You want no counsellor, Mr. Grey.


No man ever wanted one more. Alice, this has been a bad year to me, and I do not think that it has been a happy one for you.


Indeed, no.


Let us forget it,--or rather, let us treat it as though it were forgotten. Twelve months ago you were mine. You were, at any rate, so much mine that I had a right to boast of my possession among my friends.


It was a poor boast.


They did not seem to think so. I had but one or two to whom I could speak of you, but they told me that I was going to be a happy man. As to myself, I was sure that I was to be so. No man was ever better contented with his bargain than I was with mine. Let us go back to it, and the last twelve months shall be as though they had never been.


That cannot be, Mr. Grey. If it could, I should be worse even than I am.


Why cannot it be?


Because I cannot forgive myself what I have done, and because you ought not to forgive me.


But I do. There has never been an hour with me in which there has been an offence of yours rankling in my bosom unforgiven. I think you have been foolish, misguided,--led away by a vain ambition, and that in the difficulty to which these things brought you, you endeavoured to constrain yourself to do an act, which, when it came near to you,--when the doing of it had to be more closely considered, you found to be contrary to your nature. I never believed that you would marry your cousin. When I was told of it, I knew that trouble had blinded you for awhile. You had driven yourself to revolt against me, and upon that your heart misgave you, and you said to yourself that it did not matter then how you might throw away all your sweetness. You see that I speak of your old love for me with the frank conceit of a happy lover.


No;--no, no!


But the storm passes over the tree and does not tear it up by the roots or spoil it of all its symmetry. When we hear the winds blowing, and see how the poor thing is shaken, we think that its days are numbered and its destruction at hand. Alice, when the winds were shaking you, and you were torn and buffeted, I never thought so. There may be some who will forgive you slowly. Your own self-forgiveness will be slow. But I, who have known you better than any one,--yes, better than any one,--I have forgiven you everything, have forgiven you instantly. Come to me, Alice, and comfort me. Come to me, for I want you sorely. My need of you is much greater now, than when I first asked you to share the world with me. Then I could have borne to lose you, as I had never boasted to myself that you were my own,--had never pictured to myself the life that might be mine if you were always to be with me. But since that day I have had no other hope,--no other hope but this for which I plead now. Am I to plead in vain?


You do not know me, how vile I have been! You do not think what it is,--for a woman to have promised herself to one man while she loved another.


But it was me you loved. Ah! Alice, I can forgive that. Do I not tell you that I did forgive it the moment that I heard it? Do you not hear me say that I never for a moment thought that you would marry him? Alice, you should scold me for my vanity, for I have believed all through that you loved me, and me only. Come to me, dear, and tell me that it is so, and the past shall be only as a dream.


I am dreaming it always,


They will cease to be bitter dreams if your head be upon my shoulder. You will cease to reproach yourself when you know that you have made me happy.


I shall never cease to reproach myself. I have done that which no woman can do and honour herself afterwards. I have been--a jilt.


The noblest jilt that ever yet halted between two minds! There has been no touch of selfishness in your fickleness. I think I could be hard enough upon a woman who had left me for greater wealth, for a higher rank,--who had left me even that she might be gay and merry. It has not been so with you.


Yes, it has. I thought you were too firm in your own will, and--


And you think so still. Is that it?


It does not matter what I think now. I am a fallen creature, and have no longer a right to such thoughts. It will be better for us both that you should leave me,--and forget me. There are things which, if a woman does them, should never be forgotten;--which she should never permit herself to forget.


And am I to be punished, then, because of your fault? Is that your sense of justice?


Alice, if you will tell me that you do not love me, I will believe you, and will trouble you no more. I know that you will say nothing to me that is false. Through it all you have spoken no word of falsehood. If you love me, after what has passed, I have a right to demand your hand. My happiness requires it, and I have a right to expect your compliance. I do demand it. If you love me, Alice, I tell you that you dare not refuse me. If you do so, you will fail hereafter to reconcile it to your conscience before God.


Alice, the battle is over now, and I have won it.


You win everything,--always,


In winning you I have won everything.


Good morning! good morning! I am going up to the station to see after a carriage for to-morrow. Perhaps you'll come with me. Sometimes, you know, the springs of the carriages are so very rough.


Of course she has,


I really didn't think she would,


That's because you don't understand things of that sort,


Vanquished at last!


Yes, vanquished; if you like to call it so,


It is not what I call it, but what you feel it. Do you think that I don't know you well enough to be sure that you regard yourself now as an unfortunate prisoner,--as a captive taken in war, to be led away in triumph, without any hope of a ransom? I know that it is quite a misery to you that you should be made a happy woman of at last. I understand it all, my dear, and my heart bleeds for you.


Of course; I knew that was the way you would treat me.


In what way would you have me treat you? If I were to hug you with joy, and tell you how good he is, and how fortunate you are,--if I were to praise him, and bid you triumph in your success, as might be expected on such an occasion,--you would put on a long face at once, and tell me that though the thing is to be, it would be much better that the thing shouldn't be. Don't I know you, Alice?


I shouldn't have said that;--not now.


I believe in my heart you would;--that, or something like it. But I do wish you joy all the same, and you may say what you please. He has got you in his power now, and I don't think even you can go back.


No; I shall not go back again.


I would join with Lady Midlothian in putting you into a madhouse, if you did. But I am so glad; I am, indeed. I was afraid to the last,--terribly afraid; you are so hard and so proud. I don't mean hard to me, dear. You have never been half hard enough to me. But you are hard to yourself, and, upon my word, you have been hard to him. What a deal you will have to make up to him!


I feel that I ought to stand before him always as a penitent,--in a white sheet.


He will like it better, I dare say, if you will sit upon his knee. Some penitents do, you know. And how happy you will be! He'll never explain the sugar-duties to you, and there'll be no Mr. Bott at Nethercoats. I'll tell you what, Alice; you shall come and be married at Matching, in August, or perhaps September. That's the only way in which I can be present; and if we can bespeak some sun, we'll have the breakfast out in the ruins.


You are thinking of something, Alice. What is it?


It was here, here, on this very balcony, that I first rebelled against you, and now you have brought me here that I should confess and submit on the same spot. I do confess. How am I to thank you for forgiving me?


I could go from Vienna to London without feeling it, and to tell me that I can't do two easy days' journey running! I've a particular favour to ask of you. I wish I were a milkmaid,


But you are not a milkmaid, my dear. You haven't been brought up like a milkmaid.


I want you to take me up to the gambling-rooms!


The gambling-rooms!


Yes, Plantagenet; the gambling-rooms. If you had been with me before, I should not have made a fool of myself by putting my piece of money on the table. I want to see the place; but then I saw nothing, because I was so frightened when I found that I was winning.


Perhaps I shall get back my napoleon,


And perhaps I shall be forgiven when somebody sees how difficult it is to manage you,


She isn't in earnest,


I don't know that,


Let us stand here a moment. We shall be able to see in a few minutes.


Do you see that little Frenchman? He has just made half a napoleon, and has walked off with it. Isn't it interesting? I could stay here all the night.


All right,


Why doesn't he take it?


He is taking it,


Alice,


it is Burgo Fitzgerald. Alice, what can we do for him? It is Burgo,


Is it he, in truth?


In very truth. What can I do? Can I do anything? Look at him, Alice. If he were to destroy himself, what should I do then? What shall I do, Alice?


Tell Mr. Palliser,


Do something for him;--do, do. Unless I know that something is done, I shall die. You needn't be afraid.


I'm not afraid,


You are so good. Don't let him out of your sight. There; he is going. I will go home with Mr. Grey. I will be ever so good; I will, indeed. You know what he'll want, and for my sake you'll let him have it. But don't let him gamble. If you could only get him home to England, and then do something. You owe him something, Plantagenet; do you not?


If money can do anything, he shall have it.


God bless you, dearest! I shall never see him again; but if you could save him! There;--he is going now. Go;--go.


Well, old Buffer, what do you want?


You are in trouble, I fear, Mr. Fitzgerald,


We will go home. Mr. Palliser has something to do,


Is that a friend of Mr. Palliser?


Yes;--that is, he knows him, and is interested about him. Alice, shall we go home? Oh! Mr. Grey, you must not ask any questions. He,--Mr. Palliser, will tell you everything when he sees you,--that is, if there is anything to be told. Of course I shall sit up for him, but I will do it in my own room. You can tell Mr. Grey, if you like.


You are in trouble, Mr. Fitzgerald, I fear,


Who is that?


Perhaps I have been wrong in following you, but I thought you were in distress, and that probably I might help you. My name is Palliser.


Plantagenet Palliser? By heavens! it is Plantagenet Palliser! Well, Mr. Palliser, what do you want of me?


I want to be of some use to you, if I can. I and my wife saw you leave the gaming-table just now.


Is she here too?


Yes;--she is here. We are going home, but chance brought us up to the salon. She seemed to think that you are in distress, and that I could help you. I will, if you will let me.


So she is here, is she;--and saw me there when I staked my last chance? I should have had over twenty thousand francs now, if the cards had stood to me.


The cards never do stand to any one, Mr. Fitzgerald.


Never;--never,--never! At any rate, they never did to me. Nothing ever does stand to me.


If you want twenty thousand francs,--that's eight hundred pounds, I think--I can let you have it without any trouble.


The devil you can!


Oh, yes. As I am travelling with my family-- As I am travelling with my family, I have been obliged to carry large bills with me, and I can accommodate you without any trouble.


I was not in the least doubting your ability to raise the money, but how would you propose to get it back again?


That would be at your convenience,


I never have any such convenience. Who were those women whose tubs always had holes at the bottom of them? My tub always has such a hole.


You mean the daughters of Danaus,


I don't know whose daughters they were, but you might just as well lend them all eight hundred pounds apiece.


There were so many of them. But as you are only one I shall be most happy, as I said before, to be of service.


Do you see that fellow? I do, though. I don't know his name, but they have sent him out from the hotel with me, to see what I do with myself. I owe them six or seven hundred francs, and they want to turn me out of the house and not let me take my things with me.


That would be very uncomfortable,


It would be uncomfortable, but I shall be too many for them. If they keep my traps they shall keep me. They think I'm going to blow my brains out. That's what they think. The man lets me go far enough off to do that,--so long as it's nowhere about the house.


I hope you're not thinking of such a thing?


As long as I can help it, Mr. Palliser, I never think of anything. Don't you see that I have a friend with me?


Oh! a friend,


Perhaps de friend can advance moneys?


Never mind what he can do. You do as you are bid, and leave me. So Lady Glencora is here?


Yes, she is here. It was she who asked me to come to you,


By George!--isn't it odd that you and I, of all men in the world, should be walking together here at Baden? It's not only that you're the richest man in London, and that I'm the poorest, but--; there are other things, you know, which make it so funny.


There have been things which make me and my wife very anxious to give you aid.


And have you considered, Mr. Palliser, that those things make you the very man in the world,--indeed, for the matter of that, the only man in the world,--from whom I can't take aid. I would have taken it all if I could have got it,--and I tried hard.


I know you have been disappointed, Mr. Fitzgerald.


Disappointed! By G----! yes. Did you ever know any man who had so much right to be disappointed as I have? I did love her, Mr. Palliser. Nay, by heavens! I do love her. Out here I will dare to say as much even to you. I shall never try to see her again. All that is over, of course. I've been a fool about her as I have been about everything. But I did love her.


I believe it, Mr. Fitzgerald.


It was not altogether her money. But think what it would have been to me, Mr. Palliser. Think what a chance I had, and what a chance I lost. I should have been at the top of everything,--as now I am at the bottom. I should not have spent that. There would have been enough of it to have saved me. And then I might have done something good instead of crawling about almost in fear of that beast who is watching us.


It has been ordered otherwise,


Yes; it has been ordered, with a vengeance! It seems to have been ordered that I'm to go to the devil; but I don't know who gave the orders, and I don't know why.


There is an old saying, which you will remember well, that the way to good manners is never too late.


That's nonsense. It's too late when the man feels the knot round his neck at the Old Bailey.


Perhaps not, even then. Indeed, we may say, certainly not, if the man be still able to take the right way. But I don't want to preach to you.


It wouldn't do any good, you know.


But I do want to be of service to you. There is something of truth in what you say. You have been disappointed; and I, perhaps, of all men am the most bound to come to your assistance now that you are in need.


How can I take it from you?


You shall take it from her!


No;--that would be worse; twenty times worse. What! take her money, when she would not give me herself!


I do not see why you should not borrow her money,--or mine. You shall call it which you will.


No; I won't have it.


And what will you do then?


What will I do? Ah! That's the question. I don't know what I will do. I have the key of my bedroom in my pocket, and I will go to bed to-night. It's not very often that I look forward much beyond that.


Will you let me call on you, to-morrow?


I don't see what good it will do? I shan't get up till late, for fear they should shut the room against me. I might as well have as much out of them as I can. I think I shall say I'm ill, and keep my bed.


Will you take a few napoleons?


No; not a rap. Not from you. You are the first man from whom I ever refused to borrow money, and I should say that you'll be about the last to offer to lend it me.


I don't know what else I can offer?


You can offer nothing. If you will say to your wife from me that I bade her adieu;--that is all you can do for me. Good night, Mr. Palliser; good night.


Misther, Misther!


What do you want of me?


Has he got any money? Have you given him any money?


I have not given him any money,


Then he will have a bad time with it,


And he might have carried away two thousand francs just now! Dear, dear, dear! Has he got any friends, sir?


Yes, he has friends. I do not know that I can assist him, or you.


Fitzgerald;--his name is Fitzgerald?


Yes, his name is Fitzgerald.


Ah! There are so many Fitzgeralds in England. Mr. Fitzgerald, London;--he has no other address?


If he had, and I knew it, I should not give it you without his sanction.


But what shall we do? How shall we act? Perhaps with his own hand he will himself kill. For five weeks his pension he owes; yes, for five weeks. And for wine, oh so much! There came through Baden a my lord, and then, I think he got money. But he went and played. That was of course. But; oh my G----! he might have carried away this night two thousand francs; yes, two thousand francs!


Are you the hotelkeeper?


His friend, sir; only his friend. That is, I am the head Commissionaire. I look after the gentlemen who sometimes are not all--not all--


He will; he will. He will; he will; and if he does, how can you expect that I shall bear it? There can be no reason why he should not take it. None the least. Had it not been promised to him? Had he not a right to it?


Has he had any breakfast? Breakfast! Oh yes;


I think I might venture to pay it,


That was as monsieur pleased,


Should he now send up the bottle of Sauterne? And to whom should the receipted bill be given?


Perhaps there is some little difficulty?


You can't keep him out of the gambling salon, you know, sir; that is, not if he has a franc in his pocket. When I get home, I will see what can be done with his relations there,


But he'll have no clothes,


I regret it. I regret it; not for the money's sake, but I regret it.


Your argument would be very well, if men were to be contented to live for themselves only.


Your argument would be very well, if it were used to a man who felt that he could do good to others by going into public life. But it is wholly inefficacious if it recommends public life simply or chiefly because a man may gratify his own ambition by public services.


Of course there is personal gratification, and of course there is good done,


Is,--or should be,


Exactly; and the two things must go together. The chief gratification comes from the feeling that you are of use.


But if you feel that you would not be of use?


It's all hollow here,


Very hollow,


Mr. Palliser wants me to go into Parliament.


What do I say? Oh, John, what right can I have to say anything?


No one else can have so much right,--putting aside of course myself, who must be responsible for my own actions. He asked me whether I could afford it, and he seems to think that a smaller income suffices for such work now than it did a few years since. I believe that I could afford it, if I could get a seat that was not very expensive at the first outset. He could help me there.


On that point, of course, I can have no opinion.


No; not on that point. I believe we may take that for granted. Living in London for four or five months in the year might be managed. But as to the mode of life!


How odd it is parting in this way, when people have been together so long. It always seems as though there had been a separate little life of its own which was now to be brought to a close. I suppose, Mr. Grey, you and I, when we next meet, will be far too distant to fight with each other.


I hope that may never be the case,


I suppose nothing would prevent his fighting; would it Alice? But, remember, there must be no fighting when we do meet next, and that must be in September.


With all my heart,


Alice, give my compliments to your father, and tell him that I shall take the liberty of asking him to come down to Matching for the early shooting in September, and that I shall expect him to bring you with him. You may tell him also that he will have to stay to see you off, but that he will not be allowed to take you away.


I have got your letter, and am now quite happy. It only wanted that to reconcile me to my departure. I thought through it all that my girl would be happy at last. Will she forgive me if I say that I have forgiven her? It is not that I am dying now, though you will find me much altered and keeping my bed. But the doctor says he fears the first cold weather. I know what that means, my dear; and if I don't see you now, before your marriage, I shall never see you again. Pray get married as soon as you can. I want to know that you are Mrs. Grey before I go. If I were to hear that it was postponed because of my illness, I think it would kill me at once.


that is, unless it takes place at the house of some one of your very grand friends; You should stand by your family. And only think what my condition will be if I have no one here to support me. Do come. Journeys are nothing nowadays. Don't you know I would go seven times the distance for you? Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield are friends after all, and Mr. Cheesacre is to be best man. Is it not beautiful? As for poor me, I'm told I haven't a chance left of becoming mistress of Oileymead and all its wealth.


It's all right, papa. I was very glad to have an hour to write a letter or two. Poor Lady Macleod is very ill. I must go to her the day after to-morrow.


Dear, dear, dear! I had heard that she was poorly. She is very old, you know. So, Alice, you've made it all square with Mr. Grey at last?


Yes, papa;--if you call that square.


Well; I do call it square. It has all come round to the proper thing.


I hope he thinks so.


What do you think yourself, my dear?


I've no doubt it's the proper thing for me, papa.


Of course not; of course not; and I can tell you this, Alice, he is a man in a thousand. You've heard about the money?


What money, papa?


The money that George had.


Paid! he can pay himself now. It may make some difference in the settlements, perhaps, but he and the lawyers may arrange that. I shan't think of interfering with such a man as Grey. If you could only know, my dear, what I've suffered! Bless you, my child! and make you happy, and good, and--and--and very comfortable.


Dearest Alice, it is so good of you.


Good! would I not have gone a thousand miles to you?


I can tell you now, my dear, though I couldn't do it before, that I knew he'd persist for ever. He told me so himself in confidence.


He has persisted, aunt; that is certain.


And I hope you'll reward him. A beautiful woman without discretion is like a pearl in a swine's snout; but a good wife is a crown of glory to her husband. Remember that, my dear, and choose your part for his sake.


I won't be that unfortunate pearl, if I can help it, aunt.


We can all help it, if we set about it in the right way. And Alice, you must be careful to find out all his likes and his dislikes. Dear me! I remember how hard I found it, but then I don't think I was so clever as you are.


Sometimes I think nobody has ever been so stupid as I have.


Not stupid, my dear; if I must say the word, it is self-willed. But, dear, all that is forgiven now. Is it not?


There is a forgiveness which it is rather hard to get,


I am sorry to hear of the symptoms you speak about. I strongly advise you to depend chiefly on beef-tea. They should be very careful to send it up quite free from grease, and it should not be too strong of the meat. There should be no vegetables in it. Not soup, you know, but beef-tea. If any thing acts upon your strength, that will. I need not tell one who has lived as you have done where to look for that other strength which alone can support you at such a time as this. I would go to you if I thought that my presence would be any comfort to you, but I know how sensitive you are, and the shock might be too much for you. If you see Alice Vavasor on her return to England, as you probably will, pray tell her from me that I give her my warmest congratulations, and that I am heartily glad that matters are arranged. I think she treated my attempts to heal the wound in a manner that they did not deserve; but all that shall be forgiven, as shall also her original bad behaviour to poor Mr. Grey. I trust that we may yet meet and be friends. I am extremely gratified at finding that she has been thought so much of by Mr. Palliser. I'm told that Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey have become great friends, and if this is so, Alice must be happy to feel that she has had it in her power to confer so great a benefit on her future husband as he will receive from this introduction.


I ain't a bit happy, and I have conferred no benefit on Mr. Grey. Mr. Palliser has every bit as much cause to be gratified for that as Mr. Grey, and perhaps more.


I'm sure she means well,


Indeed she does, and then you know you'll probably have children; and think what a thing it will be for them to know the Midlothian family. You shouldn't rob them of their natural advantages.


It is such a bore, and I know it will be a girl. But the Duke isn't to be there, except for the Christmas week. whom I long to know, and with whom I should like to pick a crow, if I dared, as I'm sure she did all the mischief.


What has she done to the man?


Coaxed him; simply that. She has made herself so much his master that he doesn't know how to say no to her. Sometimes I have thought that he might possibly run away, but I have abandoned that fear now. She has little confidences with him from day to day, which are so alluring to him that he cannot tear himself off. In the middle of one of them he will find himself engaged.


But, the unfortunate girl! Won't it be a wretched marriage for her?


Not at all. She'll make him a very good wife. He's one of those men to whom any woman, after a little time, will come to be the same. He'll be rough with her once a month or so, and perhaps tell her that she brought no money with her; but that won't break any bones, and Charlie will know how to fight her own battles. She'll save his money if she brings none, and in a few years' time they will quite understand each other.


It's to be very quiet, Alice, as quiet as such a thing can be made. I owe that to the memory of the departed one. I know that he is looking down upon me, and that he approves all that I do. Indeed, he told me once that he did not want me to live desolate for his sake. If I didn't feel that he was looking down and approving it, I should be wretched indeed. Yes, indeed; only three-and-sixpence a piece, and they're quite real. Feel them. You wouldn't get them in the shops under six. I had my eyes about me when I was up in town, my dear. And look here, these are quite new,--have never been on yet, and I had them when I was married before. There is nothing like being careful, my dear. I hate meanness, as everybody knows who knows me; but there is nothing like being careful. You have a lot of rich people about you just now, and will have ever so many things given you which you won't want. Do you put them all by, and be careful. They may turn out useful, you know. He's as good as gold, my dear; he is, indeed,--in his own way. Of course, I know that he has faults, and I should like to know who hasn't. Although poor dear Greenow certainly was more without them than anybody else I ever knew. Bellfield may have been a little extravagant. I dare say he has. But how can a man help being extravagant when he hasn't got any regular income? He has been ill-treated in his profession; very. It makes my blood curdle when I think of it. After fighting his country's battles through blood, and dust, and wounds;--but I'll tell you about that another time.


I suppose a man seldom does make a fortune, aunt, by being a soldier?


Never, my dear; much better be a tailor. Don't you ever marry a soldier. But as I was saying, he is the best-tempered creature alive, and the staunchest friend I ever met. You should hear what Mr. Cheesacre says of him! But you don't know Mr. Cheesacre?


No, aunt, not yet. If you remember, he went away before I saw him when he came here before.


Yes, I know, poor fellow! Between you and me, Kate might have had him if she liked; but perhaps Kate was right.


I don't think he would have suited Kate at all.


Because of the farmyard, you mean? Kate shouldn't give herself airs. Money's never dirty, you know. But perhaps it's all for the best. There's a sweet girl here to whom he is violently attached, and who I hope will become Mrs. Cheesacre. But as I was saying, the friendship between these two men is quite wonderful, and I have always observed that when a man can create that kind of affection in the bosom of another man, he invariably is,--the sort of man,--the man, in fact, who makes a good husband.


I don't know, sir. I know you have just come home from Switzerland. Beautiful Switzerland! My heart pants for Switzerland. Do tell me something about Switzerland!


I don't think I shall go there any more,


Not go there any more, Cheesy, why, we are to have the dinner out in the field on Friday. It's your own bespeak.


Well, yes; I'll go on Friday, but not after that.


You'll stop and see me turned off, old fellow?


What's the use? You'll get your wife, and that's enough for you. The truth is, that since that girl came down from London with her d----d airs; the place is quite changed. I'm blessed if the whole thing isn't as dark as ditch-water. I'm a plain man, I am; and I do hate your swells.


You did it admirably, my dear,


Oh, I don't know,


And it's the only way, my dear;--the only way, I mean, for you with such a one as him. And if he does come round, you'll find him an excellent husband.


I don't think he cares for me a bit,


Pooh, nonsense! Girls never know whether men care for them or not. If he asks you to marry him, won't that be a sign that he cares for you? and if he don't, why, there'll be no harm done.


If he thinks it's his money--


Now, don't talk nonsense, Charlie, or you'll make me sick. Of course it's his money, more or less. You don't mean to tell me you'd go and fall in love with him if he was like Bellfield, and hadn't got a rap? I can afford that sort of thing; you can't. I don't mean to say you ain't to love him. Of course, you're to love him; and I've no doubt you will, and make him a very good wife. I always think that worldliness and sentimentality are like brandy-and-water. I don't like either of them separately, but taken together they make a very nice drink. I like them warm, with ---- as the gentlemen say. And now, my dear, mind you look your best on Friday. I'll get him away immediately after dinner, and when he's done with me you can contrive to be in his way, you know.


It will always show,


But the other would show worse, and if you finedraw it, not one person in ten will notice it. We'd always put them on with the name to the feet, you know.


Nothing, nothing makes a man come forward so well as putting him altogether out of his usual tack. A man who wouldn't think of such a thing in the drawing-room would be sure to make an offer if he spent an evening with a young lady down-stairs in the kitchen.


Let me do it,


Oh, certainly,


Captain Bellfield would do it much better, he's as good as a married man, and they always do these things best.


Ah, me; when I think of it sometimes,--but never mind. I know I have done for the best, and therefore I shall never regret it; at any rate, it's done now.


Not done yet,


Yes; done, and done, and done. Besides, a man in your position in the county should always marry a wife younger than yourself,--a good deal younger.


You must have another glass of champagne with me, my friend,


I know what it is, to be connected with such a family as yours, Miss Vavasor.


This is the last time we shall ever be together in this way,


Oh, no. I hope not.


The last time. On Wednesday I become Mrs. Bellfield, and I need hardly say that I have many things to think of before that; but Mr. Cheesacre, I hope we are not to be strangers hereafter? We all know your hospitality,


I wish I was out of this boat,


So that I might be shipwrecked alone!


No; there can be no shipwreck to you. When the day of action comes you will be taken away, up to heaven, upon the clouds. But what are they to do with me?


You'll find that Glencora will not desert you. You can't conceive what taste she has.


I'd sooner be bridesmaid to Charlie Fairstairs. I would indeed. My place in the world is not among Cabinet Ministers and old countesses.


Nor mine.


Yes; it seems that yours is to be there. They are your cousins, and you have made at any rate one great friend among them,--one who is to be the biggest of them all.


And you are going to throw me over, Kate?


To tell the truth, Alice, I sometimes think you had better throw me over. I know it would be sad,--sad for both, but perhaps it would be better. I have done you much harm and no good; and now where I am going I shall disgrace you.


She could not come herself, because Mr. Palliser was a little fussy. You'll understand, dear, but don't say a word. Then I must introduce myself, and my husband also. I have heard so much about you, and I know how good you've been;--and how wicked you have been. Have you heard the news? Mr. Bott is going to marry Mrs. Marsham. There is such a row about it. Plantagenet is nearly mad. I never knew him so disgusted in my life. Of course I don't dare to tell him so, but I am so heartily rejoiced. You know how I love them both, and I could not possibly wish any better reward for either. She's old enough to be his mother, otherwise I really don't know any people better suited to each other. The best is, that Mr. Bott is doing it to regain his footing with Mr. Palliser! I am sure of that;--and Plantagenet will never speak to him again. But, Alice, there is other news.


What other news?


It is hardly news yet, and of course I am very wicked to tell you. But I feel sure Mr. Grey knows all about it, and if I didn't tell, he would.


He hasn't told me anything yet.


He hasn't had time; and when he does, you mustn't pretend to know. I believe Mr. Palliser will certainly be Chancellor of the Exchequer before next month, and, if so, he'll never come in for Silverbridge again.


But he'll be in Parliament; will he not?


Oh, yes; he'll be in Parliament. I don't understand all about it. There is a man going out for the county,--for Barsetshire,--some man whom the Duke used to favour, and he wants Plantagenet to come in for that. I can't understand what difference it makes.


But he will be in the Cabinet?


Oh, yes. But who do you suppose is to be the new Member for Silverbridge?


I can't guess,


Mind, I don't know it. He has never told me. But he told me that he had been with the Duke, and asked the Duke to let Jeffrey have the seat. The Duke became as black as thunder, and said that Jeffrey had no fortune. In short, he wouldn't hear of it. Poor Jeffrey! we must try to do something for him, but I really don't know how. Then the Duke said, that Plantagenet should put in for Silverbridge some friend who would support himself; and I fancy,--mind it's only fancy,--but I fancy that Plantagenet mentioned to his Grace--one Mr. Grey.


Oh, Glencora!


They've been talking together till sometimes I think Mr. Grey is worse than Plantagenet. When Mr. Grey began to say something the other night in the drawing-room about sugar, I knew it was all up with you. He'll be a financial Secretary; you see if he isn't; or a lord of something, or an under-somebody of State; and then some day he'll go mad, either because he does or because he doesn't get into the Cabinet.


Did Lady Macleod read to you what I wrote?


Yes,--that is, she gave me the letter to read.


And I hope you understand me, Alice?


Oh, yes, I suppose so.


You suppose so, my dear! If you only suppose so I shall not be contented. I want you to appreciate my feelings towards you thoroughly. I want you to know that I am most anxious as to your future life, and that I am thoroughly satisfied with the step you are now taking. Thoroughly satisfied, and now, I only wish to refer, in the slightest manner possible, to what took place between us when we were both of us under this roof last winter.


Why refer to it at all, Lady Midlothian?


Because I think it may do good, and because I cannot make you understand that I have thoroughly forgiven everything, unless I tell you that I have forgiven that also. On that occasion I had come all the way from Scotland on purpose to say a few words to you.


I am so sorry that you should have had the trouble.


I do not regret it, Alice. I never do regret doing anything which I believe to have been my duty. There is no knowing how far what I said then may have operated for good. I must confess that what I then understood to be your obstinacy,--and I must say also, if I tell the truth, your indifference to--to--to all prudential considerations whatever, not to talk of appearances and decorum, and I might say, anything like a high line of duty or moral conduct,--shocked me very much. It did, indeed, my dear. Taking it altogether, I don't know that I was ever more shocked in my life. The thing was so inscrutable! so inscrutable! But that is all over now. What was personally offensive to myself I could easily forgive, and I do forgive it. I shall never think of it any more. But what I wish specially to say to you is this; your own conduct is forgiven also!


The Marchioness and I have talked it over, and she has asked me to speak for both her and myself. We have resolved that all those little mistakes should be as though they had never been committed. We shall both be most happy to receive you and your husband, who is, I must say, one of the most gentlemanlike looking men I ever saw. It seems that he and Mr. Palliser are on most friendly,--I may say, most confidential terms, and that must be quite a pleasure to you.


It's a pleasure to him, which is more to the purpose,