And what you mean us to understand is, that you won't begin at all without your money,


That's about it, Mr. Scruby.


Take a fifty-pound note, Grimes,


Fifty-pound notes are not so ready. Oh, he'll be only too happy to have your acceptance; won't you, Grimes.


Not for fifty pounds, Mr. Scruby. It's the odd money that I wants. I don't mind the thirteen and four, because that's neither here nor there among friends, but if I didn't get all them ninety-two pounds I should be a broken-hearted man; I should indeed, Mr. Vavasor. I couldn't go about your work for next year so as to do you justice among the electors. I couldn't indeed.


You'd better give him a bill for ninety pounds at three months, Mr. Vavasor. I have no doubt he has got a stamp in his pocket.


That I have, Mr. Scruby; there ain't no mistake about that. A bill stamp is a thing that often turns up convenient with gents as mean business like Mr. Vavasor and you. But you must make it ninety-two; you must indeed, Mr. Vavasor. And do make it two months if you can, Mr. Vavasor; they do charge so unconscionable on ninety days at them branch banks; they do indeed. If it must be, it must. And now, gents, I'll tell you what it is. We'll make safe work of this here next election. We know what's to be our little game in time, and if we don't go in and win, my name ain't Jacob Grimes, and I ain't the landlord of the 'Handsome Man.' As you gents has perhaps got something to say among yourselves, I'll make so bold as to wish you good morning.


You couldn't have done it cheaper; you couldn't, indeed,


Perhaps not; but what a thief the man is! I remember your telling me that the bill was about the most preposterous you had ever seen.


So it was, and if we hadn't wanted him again of course we shouldn't have paid him. But we'll have it all off his next account, Mr. Vavasor,--every shilling of it. It's only lent; that's all;--it's only lent.


But one doesn't want to lend such a man money, if one could help it.


That's true. If you look at it in that light, it's quite true. But you see we cannot do without him. If he hadn't got your bill, he'd have gone over to the other fellows before the week was over; and the worst of it would have been that he knows our hand. Looking at it all round you've got him cheap, Mr. Vavasor;--you have, indeed.


Looking at it all round is just what I don't like, Mr. Scruby, But if a man will have a whistle, he must pay for it.


You can't do it cheap for any of these metropolitan seats; you can't, indeed, Mr. Vavasor. That is, a new man can't. When you've been in four or five times, like old Duncombe, why then, of course, you may snap your fingers at such men as Grimes. But the Chelsea districts ain't dear. I don't call them by any means dear. Now Marylebone is dear,--and so is Southwark. It's dear, and nasty; that's what the borough is. Only that I never tell tales, I could tell you a tale, Mr. Vavasor, that'd make your hair stand on end; I could indeed.


Ah! the game is hardly worth the candle, I believe.


That depends on what way you choose to look at it. A seat in Parliament is a great thing to a man who wants to make his way;--a very great thing;--specially when a man's young, like you, Mr. Vavasor.


Young! Sometimes it seems to me as though I've been living for a hundred years. But I won't trouble you with that, Mr. Scruby, and I believe I needn't keep you any longer. Young! There's my uncle, or the old squire,--they're both younger men than I am. One cares for his dinner, and the other for his bullocks and his trees. But what is there that I care for, unless it is not getting among the sheriff's officers for debt?


I feel myself driven, to write all this, as otherwise,--if I were simply to tell you that I have resolved to part from Mr. Grey,--you would think that the other thing might follow. The other thing cannot follow. I should think myself untrue in my friendship to you if I did not tell you about Mr. Grey; and you will be untrue in your friendship to me if you take advantage of my confidence by saying more about your brother. But the other thing shall follow. It shall follow.


It's all paid for, Mrs. Greenow, every bottle of it. Everything in this house is my own; it's all paid for. I don't call anything a man's own till it's paid for. Now that jacket that Bellfield swells about with on the sands at Yarmouth,--that's not his own,--and it's not like to be either.


Kate, it's simply the best-furnished house I ever went over in my life!


It does seem very comfortable,


Comfortable! Yes, I don't think there's anybody can say that Oileymead isn't comfortable. Mrs. Greenow, look at that. Look at that!


There's a great deal,


I believe you. I've more muck upon this place here than any farmer in Norfolk, gentle or simple; I don't care who the other is.


He wants a wife, my dear, and you may pick him up to-morrow by putting out your hand. Money's never dirty, nor yet what makes money.


I will go to Cheltenham. He has recommended it. I shall never be his wife;--but, till we have parted altogether, I will show him that I think well of his advice.


I tell you this, in consequence of what you said to me on the matter. My father will know it to-morrow, and on the following morning I shall start for Cheltenham. I have heard from Lady Macleod and she expects me.


What! What! not marry John Grey!


No, papa; I know how strange you must think it.


And you say that there has been no quarrel.


No;--there has been no quarrel. By degrees I have learned to feel that I should not make him happy as his wife.


It's d----d nonsense,


Oh, papa! don't talk to me in that way.


But it is. I never heard such trash in my life. If he comes to me I shall tell him so. Not make him happy! Why can't you make him happy?


We are not suited to each other.


But what's the matter with him? He's a gentleman.


Yes; he's a gentleman.


And a man of honour, and with good means, and with all that knowledge and reading which you profess to like. Look here, Alice; I am not going to interfere, nor shall I attempt to make you marry anyone. You are your own mistress as far as that is concerned. But I do hope, for your sake and for mine,--I do hope that there is nothing again between you and your cousin.


There is nothing, papa.


I did not like your going abroad with him, though I didn't choose to interrupt your plan by saying so. But if there were anything of that kind going on, I should be bound to tell you that your cousin's position at present is not a good one. Men do not speak well of him.


There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speaking ill of him would not deter me.


And men speaking well of Mr. Grey will not do the other thing. I know very well that women can be obstinate.


I haven't come to this resolution without thinking much about it, papa.


I suppose not. Well;--I can't say anything more. You are your own mistress, and your fortune is in your own keeping. I can't make you marry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me I shall tell him so. You are going down to Cheltenham, are you?


Yes, papa; I have promised Lady Macleod.


Very well. I'd sooner it should be you than me; that's all I can say.


She's got her own money, and what does it matter? I don't suppose she'll marry her cousin. I don't think she's fool enough for that. And after all she'll probably make it up again with John Grey.


She can turn it all into capital to-morrow, if she pleases. You must have thought I had vanished out of the world,


Somebody told me that you were shooting,


So I was, but my shooting is not like the shooting of your great Nimrods,--men who are hunters upon the earth. Two days among the grouse and two more among the partridges are about the extent of it. Capel Court is the preserve in which I am usually to be found.


Oh, indeed.


Have you heard from Kate?


Yes, once or twice; she is still at Yarmouth with Aunt Greenow.


And is going to Norwich, as she says. Kate seems to have made a league with Aunt Greenow. I, who don't pretend to be very disinterested in money matters, think that she is quite right. No doubt Aunt Greenow may marry again, but friends with forty thousand pounds are always agreeable.


I don't believe that Kate thinks much of that,


Not so much as she ought, I dare say. Poor Kate is not a rich woman, or, I fear, likely to become one. She doesn't seem to dream of getting married, and her own fortune is less than a hundred a year.


Girls who never dream of getting married are just those who make the best marriages at last,


Perhaps so, but I wish I was easier about Kate. She is the best sister a man ever had.


Indeed she is.


And I have done nothing for her as yet. I did think, while I was in that wine business, that I could have done anything I pleased for her. But my grandfather's obstinacy put me out of that; and now I'm beginning the world again,--that is, comparatively. I wonder whether you think I'm wrong in trying to get into Parliament?


No; quite right. I admire you for it. It is just what I would do in your place. You are unmarried, and have a right to run the risk.


I am so glad to hear you speak like that,


I have always thought so.


But you have never said it.


Haven't I? I thought I had.


Not heartily like that. I know that people abuse me;--my own people, my grandfather, and probably your father,--saying that I am reckless and the rest of it. I do risk everything for my object; but I do not know that any one can blame me,--unless it be Kate. To whom else do I owe anything?


Kate does not blame you.


No; she sympathizes with me; she, and she only, unless it be you. She is brave enough to give me her hearty sympathy. But perhaps for that very reason I ought to be the more chary in endangering the only support that she is like to have. What is ninety pounds a year for the maintenance of a single lady?


I hope that Kate will always live with me, that is, as soon as she has lost her home at Vavasor Hall.


What;--at Nethercoats? Neither she nor I doubt your love, but few men would like such an intruder as that into their household, and of all men Mr. Grey, whose nature is retiring, would like it the least.


I was not thinking of Nethercoats,


Ah, no; that is it, you see. Kate says so often to me that when you are married she will be alone in the world.


I don't think she will ever find that I shall separate myself from her.


No; not by any will of your own. Poor Kate! You cannot be surprised that she should think of your marriage with dread. How much of her life has been made up of her companionship with you;--and all the best of it too! You ought not to be angry with her for regarding your withdrawal into Cambridgeshire with dismay.


Kate may still live with me. Everything is over between me and Mr. Grey.


Alice!--is that true?


Yes, George; it is true. If you will allow me to say so, I would rather not talk about it;--not just at present.


And does Kate know it?


Yes, Kate knows it.


And my uncle?


Yes, papa knows it also.


Alice, how can I help speaking of it? How can I not tell you that I am rejoiced that you are saved from a thraldom which I have long felt sure would break your heart?


Pray do not talk of it further.


Well; if I am forbidden I shall of course obey. But I own it is hard to me. How can I not congratulate you? Yes, Alice, I understand. You are angry with me. And yet you have no right to be surprised that when you tell me this I should think of all that passed between us in Switzerland. Surely the cousin who was with you then has a right to say what he thinks of this change in your life; at any rate he may do so, if as in this case he approves altogether of what you are doing.


I am glad of your approval, George; but pray let that be an end to it.


Do you remember asking me whether I ever shivered, --whether I ever thought of things that made me shiver? Don't you remember; on the bridge at Basle?


Yes; I remember.


Well, Alice;--one cause for my shivering is over. I won't say more than that now. Shall you remain long at Cheltenham?


Just a month.


And then you come back here?


I suppose so. Papa and I will probably go down to Vavasor Hall before Christmas. How much before I cannot say.


I shall see you at any rate after your return from Cheltenham? Of course Kate will know, and she will tell me.


Yes; Kate will know. I suppose she will stay here when she comes up from Norfolk. Good-bye.


Good-bye, Alice. I shall have fewer fits of that inward shivering that you spoke of,--many less, on account of what I have now heard. God bless you, Alice; good-bye.


Good-bye, George.


I can understand well, what your present feelings are; but I do not think you will be really angry with me because I have been unable to repress my joy at what I cannot but regard as your release from a great misfortune.


My release! My release from a misfortune! No;--but my fall from heaven! Oh, what a man he is! That he should have loved me, and that I should have driven him away from me!


I should be very humble to him, but he is so good, that I may dare to be humble before him.


Alice! oh, Alice, what is this?


Repent! Yes; I hope you will repent. Poor Mr. Grey;--what must he think of it? I can only hope, aunt, that he won't think of it at all for very long. Shall I, aunt? Of course you will. Why, Alice, hasn't it been all settled among families? Lady Midlothian knew all the particulars of it just as well as I did. And is not your word pledged to him? I really don't understand what you mean. I don't see how it is possible you should go back. Gentlemen when they do that kind of thing are put out of society;--but I really think it is worse in a woman. Then they may if they please put me out of society;--only that I don't know that I'm particularly in it. When you talk to me about society, aunt, and about Lady Midlothian, I give up to you, willingly;--the more willingly, perhaps, because I don't care much for one or the other. But when you tell me about wickedness and my conscience, then I must be my own judge. It is my conscience, and the fear of committing wickedness, that has made me do this. You should submit to be guided by your elders, Alice. No; my elders in such a matter as this cannot teach me. It cannot be right that I should go to a man's house and be his wife, if I do not think that I can make him happy. Because I was mistaken. I am not going to defend that. If you choose to scold me for that, you may do so, aunt, and I will not answer you. But as to marrying him or not marrying him now,--as to that, I must judge for myself. It was a pity you did not know your own mind earlier. It was a pity,--a great pity. I have done myself an injury that is quite irretrievable;--I know that, and am prepared to bear it. I have done him, too, an injustice which I regret with my whole heart. I can only excuse myself by saying that I might have done him a worse injustice.


Well, my dear. I suppose you will like to go up-stairs and take off your bonnet. Mary shall bring you some tea when you come down.


Did John Grey still wish that the match should go on?


There's nothing the matter, my dear, at all,


Alice. I expect a visitor here to-day.


A visitor, aunt,


Yes, Alice, a visitor. I should have told you before, only I thought,--I thought I had better not. It is Mr.--Mr. Grey.


Indeed, aunt! Is he coming to see you?


Well;--he is desirous no doubt of seeing you more especially; but he has expressed a wish to make my acquaintance, which I cannot, under the circumstances, think is unnatural. Of course, Alice, he must want to talk over this affair with your friends.


I wish I could have spared them. I wish I could.


I have brought his letter here, and you can see it if you please. It is very nicely written, and as far as I am concerned I should not think of refusing to see him. And now comes the question. What are we to do with him? Am I to ask him to dinner? I take it for granted that he will not expect me to offer him a bed, as he knows that I live in lodgings.


Oh no, aunt; he certainly will not expect that.


But ought I to ask him to dinner? I should be most happy to entertain him, though you know how very scanty my means of doing so are;--but I really do not know how it might be,--between you and him, I mean.


We should not fight, aunt.


No, I suppose not;--but if you cannot be affectionate in your manner to him--


I will not answer for my manners, aunt; but you may be sure of this,--that I should be affectionate in my heart. I shall always regard him as a dearly loved friend; though for many years, no doubt, I shall be unable to express my friendship.


That may be all very well, Alice, but it will not be what he will want. I think upon the whole that I had better not ask him to dinner.


Perhaps not, aunt.


It is a period of the day in which any special constraint among people is more disagreeable than at any other time, and then at dinner the servants must see it. I think there might be some awkwardness if he were to dine here.


I really think there would,


I hope he won't think that I am inhospitable. I should be so happy to do the best I could for him, for I regard him, Alice, quite as though he were to be your husband. And when anybody at all connected with me has come to Cheltenham I always have asked them to dine, and then I have Gubbins's man to come and wait at table,--as you know.


Of all men in the world Mr. Grey is the last to think about it.


That should only make me the more careful. But I think it would perhaps be more comfortable if he were to come in the evening.


Much more comfortable, aunt.


I suppose he will be here in the afternoon, before dinner, and we had better wait at home for him. I dare say he'll want to see you alone, and therefore I'll retire to my own rooms. But if you wish it, I will receive him first--and then Martha, can fetch you down.


Alice,


You are not angry, that I should have followed you all the way here, to see you.


No, certainly; not angry, Mr. Grey. All anger that there may be between us must be on your side. I feel that thoroughly.


Then there shall be none on either side. Whatever may be done, I will not be angry with you. Your father advised me to come down here to you.


You have seen him, then?


Yes, I have seen him. I was in London the day you left.


It is so terrible to think that I should have brought upon you all this trouble.


You will bring upon me much worse trouble than that unless--. But I have not now come down here to tell you that. I believe that according to rule in such matters I should not have come to you at all, but I don't know that I care much about such rules.


It is I that have broken all rules.


When a lady tells a gentleman that she does not wish to see more of him--


Oh, Mr. Grey, I have not told you that.


Have you not? I am glad at any rate to hear you deny it. But you will understand what I mean. When a gentleman gets his dismissal from a lady he should accept it,--that is, his dismissal under such circumstances as I have received mine. But I cannot lay down my love in that way; nor, maintaining my love, can I give up the battle. It seems to me that I have a right at any rate to know something of your comings and goings as long as,--unless, Alice, you should take another name than mine.


My intention is to keep my own.


And you will not deny me that right?


I cannot hinder you. Whatever you may do, I myself have sinned so against you that I can have no right to blame you.


There shall be no question between us of injury from one to the other. In any conversation that we may have, or in any correspondence--


Oh, Mr. Grey, do not ask me to write.


Listen to me. Should there be any on either side, there shall be no idea of any wrong done.


But I have done you wrong;--great wrong.


No, Alice; I will not have it so. When I asked you to accept my hand,--begging the greatest boon which it could ever come to my lot to ask from a fellow-mortal,--I knew well how great was your goodness to me when you told me that it should be mine. Now that you refuse it, I know also that you are good, thinking that in doing so you are acting for my welfare,--thinking more of my welfare than of your own.


Oh yes, yes; it is so, Mr. Grey; indeed it is so.


Believing that, how can I talk of wrong? That you are wrong in your thinking on this subject,--that your mind has become twisted by false impressions,--that I believe. But I cannot therefore love you less,--nor, so believing, can I consider myself to be injured. Nor am I even so little selfish as you are. I think if you were my wife that I could make you happy; but I feel sure that my happiness depends on your being my wife.


I hope--and believe that you will find your happiness elsewhere, Mr. Grey.


Well; we can but differ, Alice. In that we do differ. And now I will say one word to explain why I have come here. If I were to write to you against your will, it would seem that I were persecuting you. I cannot bring myself to do that, even though I had the right. But if I were to let you go from me, taking what you have said to me and doing nothing, it would seem that I had accepted your decision as final. I do not do so. I will not do so. I come simply to tell you that I am still your suitor. If you will let me, I will see you again early in January,--as soon as you have returned to town. You will hardly refuse to see me.


No. I cannot refuse to see you.


Then it shall be so, and I will not trouble you with letters, nor will I trouble you longer now with words. Tell your aunt that I have said what I came to say, and that I give her my kindest thanks.


Here's Vavasor, and now we won't play this blackguard game any longer. Somebody told me, Vavasor, that you were gone away.


Gone away;--what, like a fox?


I don't know what it was; that something had happened to you since last season; that you were married, or dead, or gone abroad. By George, I've lost the trick after all! I hate dummy like the devil. I never hold a card in dummy's hand. Yes, I know; that's seven points on each side. Vavasor, come and cut. Upon my word if any one had asked me, I should have said you were dead.


But you see, nobody ever does think of asking you anything.


What you probably mean, is that Vavasor was not returned for Chelsea last February; but you've seen him since that. Are you going to try it again, Vavasor?


If you'll lend me the money I will.


I don't see what on earth a man gains by going into the house. I couldn't help myself as it happened, but, upon my word it's a deuce of a bore. A fellow thinks he can do as he likes about going,--but he can't. It wouldn't do for me to give it up, because--


Oh no, of course not; where should we all be?


It's you and me, Grindems. D---- parliament, and now let's have a rubber.


I wonder he likes coming in here,


I can't understand it. Last year he seemed to walk in just when he liked, as though he were one of us.


He's a bad sort of fellow, he's so uncommonly dark. I don't know where on earth he gets his money from. He was heir to some small property in the north, but he lost every shilling of that when he was in the wine trade.


You're wrong there, Grindems. He made a pot of money at the wine business, and had he stuck to it he would have been a rich man.


He's lost it all since then, and that place in the north into the bargain.


Wrong again, Grindems, my boy. If old Vavasor were to die to-morrow, Vavasor Hall would go just as he might choose to leave it. George may be a ruined man for aught I know--


There's no doubt about that, I believe,


Perhaps not, Grindems; but he can't have lost Vavasor Hall because he has never as yet had an interest in it. He's the natural heir, and will probably get it some day.


All the same, isn't it rather odd he should come in here?


We've asked him often enough, not because we like him, but because we want him so often to make up a rubber. I don't like George Vavasor, and I don't know who does; but I like him better than dummy. And I'd sooner play whist with men I don't like, Grindems, than I'd not play at all.


That's true, of course. We can't pick men just as we please. But I certainly didn't think that he'd make it out for another season.


Does anybody know anything about that brown horse of Vavasor's? I saw him coming into the yard yesterday with that old groom of his.


He had a brown horse last season, --a little thing that went very fast, but wasn't quite sound on the road.


That was a mare, and he sold her to Cinquebars.


For a hundred and fifty, and she wasn't worth the odd fifty.


He won seventy with her at Leamington, and I doubt whether he'd take his money now. Is Cinquebars coming down here this year? I don't know. I hope not. He's the best fellow in the world, but he can't ride, and he don't care for hunting, and he makes more row than any fellow I ever met. I wish some fellow could tell me something about that fellow's brown horse.


I'd never buy a horse of Vavasor's if I were you. He never has anything that's all right all round.


And who has? That's the mistake men make about horses, and that's why there's so much cheating. I never ask for a warranty with a horse, and don't very often have a horse examined. Yet I do as well as others. You can't have perfect horses any more than you can perfect men, or perfect women. You put up with red hair, or bad teeth, or big feet,--or sometimes with the devil of a voice. But a man when he wants a horse won't put up with anything! Therefore those who've got horses to sell must lie. When I go into the market with three hundred pounds I expect a perfect animal. As I never do that now I never expect a perfect animal. I like 'em to see; I like 'em to have four legs; and I like 'em to have a little wind. I don't much mind anything else.


By Jove you're about right,


Have you managed to come along pretty clean?


They be the most beastly roads in all England. But I'll warrant I'm cleaner than most on 'em. What for any county should make such roads as them I never could tell.


The roads about there are bad, certainly;--very bad. But I suppose they would have been better had Providence sent better materials. And what do you think of the brown horse, Bat?


Well, sir.


He's as fine an animal to look at as ever I put my eye on,


He's all that,


He's got lots of pace too.


I'm sure he has, sir.


And they tell me you can't beat him at jumping.


They can mostly do that, sir, if they're well handled.


You see he's a deal over my weight.


Yes, he is, Mr. Vavasor. He is a fourteen stoner.


Or fifteen,


Perhaps he may, sir. There's no knowing what a 'orse can carry till he's tried.


We shall have a run from the big wood,


If they make un break, you will, sir,


At any rate I'll ride the brown horse,


Are you well mounted this year?


No, indeed; I never was what I call well mounted yet. I generally have one horse and three or four cripples. That brown horse behind there is pretty good, I believe. I see your man has got the old chestnut mare with him. She's one of the cripples,--not but what she's as sound as a bell, and as good a hunter as ever I wish to ride; but she makes a little noise when she's going.


So that you can hear her three fields off,


Five if the fields are small enough and your ears are sharp enough. All the same I wouldn't change her for the best horse I ever saw under you.


Had you there, Grindems,


No, he didn't. He didn't have me at all.


Your horses, Grindley, are always up to all the work they have to do, and I don't know what any man wants more than that.


Had you again, Grindems,


I can ride against him any day,


Yes; or against a brick wall either, if your horse didn't know any better,


By George, there's Pollock! I'll bet half a crown that he's come down from London this morning, that he was up all night last night, and that he tells us so three times before the hounds go out of the paddock.


I hope I see you well, Sir William,


Humph--well, yes, I'm pretty well, thank'ee. Just move on, will you? My mare can't stir here.


Yes, Sir William. No, Sir William. No doubt, Sir William.


Who the devil's that fellow, that's all breeches and boots?


Where shall we find first, Sir William?


How the mischief am I to know where the foxes are?


Well, Pollock, when did you come?


By George, just down from London by the 8.30 from Euston Square, and got over here from Winslow in a trap, with two fellows I never saw in my life before. We came tandem in a fly, and did the nineteen miles in an hour.


Come, Athenian, draw it mild,


We did, indeed. I wonder whether they'll pay me their share of the fly. I had to leave Onslow Crescent at a quarter before eight, and I did three hours' work before I started.


Then you did it by candle-light,


Of course I did; and why shouldn't I? Do you suppose no one can work by candle-light except a lawyer? I suppose you fellows were playing whist, and drinking hard. I'm uncommon glad I wasn't with you, for I shall be able to ride.


I bet you a pound, if there's a run, I see more of it than you.


I'll take that bet with Jones, and Vavasor shall be the judge.


Gentlemen, the hounds can't get out, if you will stop up the gate,


I'll ride the chestnut mare in the wood, and do you keep near me.


I bean't to be galloping up and down them rides, I suppose,


I shan't gallop up and down the rides, myself; but do you mark me, to know where I am, so that I can change if a fox should go away.


You'll be here all day, sir. That's my belief.


If so, I won't ride the brown horse at all. But do you take care to let me have him if there's a chance. Do you understand?


Oh, yes, I understand, sir. There ain't no difficulty in my understanding;--only I don't think, sir, you'll ever get a fox out of that wood to-day. Why, it stands to reason. The wind's from the north-east.


You'll make that man cut his throat, if you go on at that,


Shall I? Then I'll certainly stick to him for the sake of humanity in general.


We shan't do any good to-day,


I'm sure I don't know,


That old fellow has got to be so stupid, he doesn't know what he's about,


How can he make the fox break?


It's the cussidest place in all creation. I often said I'd not come here any more, and now I say it again.


And yet you'll be here the next meet,


Grindems, you know a sight too much, you do indeed. An ordinary fellow has no chance with you. He isn't away, Tom, surely?


He's out of the wood somewheres,


Hold hard. The hounds are not out of the wood yet.


Is the fox away, sir?


What's the good of that if we can't get the hounds out? Yes, he's away. He passed out where I'm standing. He's gone for Claydon's. Try them up that hedgerow.


By George! that's too big for me yet awhile; and there's no end of a river at the bottom.


Where the devil is my fellow?


I wonder what it is that's amiss with him,


Where are we now?


This is Bulby's farm, and we're going right away for Elmham Wood.


Elmham Wood be d----. You won't see Elmham Wood to-day.


I suppose you know best. He's been through them firs, any way. To him, Gaylass!


I say,--that took some of the wind out of a fellow,


You mustn't mind about wind now,


Wasn't the pace awful, coming up to that farmhouse?


Darned if the Squire warn't right,


We ain't going for Claydon's now?


Them's Claydon's beeches we sees over there, 'Tain't often the Squire's wrong.


I didn't see you at the start,


And I didn't see you, so it's even.


A jolly thing so far, about the best we've had this year.


I didn't see a yard of it. I hadn't nerve to get off the first road, and I haven't been off it ever since. Who's been with you?


There've been Tom and I;--and Calder Jones was there for a while. I think he killed himself somewhere. And there was Pollock, and your friend Grindley, and a chap whose name I don't know who dropped out of heaven about half-way in the run; and there was another man whose back I saw just now; there he is,--by heavens, it's Vavasor! I didn't know he was here.


Same fox! in course it was; why shouldn't it be the same?


I'm about done for,


Luckily for you, the fox is much in the same way.


Yoicks, tally; gone away!


What the d---- are you roaring at? Do you suppose I don't know where the fox is?


Are you hurt? can I do anything?


If you can find a chap just send him to me,


What do you want for that horse, Vavasor?


A hundred and fifty,


He's mine,


I shall never marry now,--that is all,


Was Alice, afraid of the marquises and the countesses, or of all the rank and all the money which they boasted? Then would she permit Lady Glencora and Burgo to see each other in the drawing-room at Queen Anne Street, just once! Why should I not marry him? He is my equal. If you will not help me, I am helpless! How shall I bribe you? Next to him I will love you better than all the world.


She had been counselled that it was not fitting for her to love as she had thought to love, and she had resolved to give up her dream. Her cousin Alice, she knew, would respect her secret. She was going to become the wife of the best man, she thought, in all the world; and it should be the one care of her life to make him happy. She was to be married at once. Would Alice be one among the bevy of bridesmaids who were to grace the ceremony?


heartily,


MY DEAR MISS VAVASOR. I have not the pleasure of knowing you personally, though I have heard of you very often from our dear mutual friend and relative Lady Macleod, with whom I understand that you are at present on a visit. Your grandmother,--by the mother's side,--Lady Flora Macleod, and my mother the Countess of Leith, were half-sisters; and though circumstances since that have prevented our seeing so much of each other as is desirable, I have always remembered the connection, and have ever regarded you as one in whose welfare I am bound by ties of blood to take a warm interest.


'Since that!'--what does she mean by 'since that'? She has never set eyes on me at all. Why does she talk of not having seen as much of me as is desirable?


I had learned with great gratification that you were going to be married to a most worthy gentleman, Mr. John Grey of Nethercoats, in Cambridgeshire. When I first heard this I made it my business to institute some inquiries, and I was heartily glad to find that your choice had done you so much credit. I was informed that Mr. Grey is in every respect a gentleman,--that he is a man of most excellent habits, and one to whom any young woman could commit her future happiness with security, that his means are very good for his position, and that there was no possible objection to such a marriage. All this gave great satisfaction to me, in which I was joined by the Marchioness of Auld Reekie, who is connected with you almost as nearly as I am, and who, I can assure you, feels a considerable interest in your welfare. I am staying with her now, and in all that I say, she agrees with me. You may feel then how dreadfully we were dismayed when we were told by dear Lady Macleod that you had told Mr. Grey that you intended to change your mind! My dear Miss Vavasor, can this be true? There are things in which a young lady has no right to change her mind after it has been once made up; and certainly when a young lady has accepted a gentleman, that is one of them. He cannot legally make you become his wife, but he has a right to claim you before God and man. Have you considered that he has probably furnished his house in consequence of his intended marriage,--and perhaps in compliance with your own especial wishes? Have you reflected that he has of course told all his friends? Have you any reason to give? I am told, none! Nothing should ever be done without a reason; much less such a thing as this in which your own interests and, I may say, respectability are involved. I hope you will think of this before you persist in destroying your own happiness and perhaps that of a very worthy man. I had heard, some years ago, when you were much younger, that you had become imprudently attached in another direction--with a gentleman with none of those qualities to recommend him which speak so highly for Mr. Grey. It would grieve me very much, as it would also the Marchioness, who in this matter thinks exactly as I do, if I were led to suppose that your rejection of Mr. Grey had been caused by any renewal of that project. Nothing, my dear Miss Vavasor, could be more unfortunate,--and I might almost add a stronger word. I have been advised that a line from me as representing your poor mother's family, especially as I have at the present moment the opportunity of expressing Lady Auld Reekie's sentiments as well as my own, might be of service. I implore you, my dear Miss Vavasor, to remember what you owe to God and man, and to carry out an engagement made by yourself, that is in all respects comme il faut, and which will give entire satisfaction to your friends and relatives. MARGARET M. MIDLOTHIAN.


DEAR COUSIN. I have just come home from Scotland, where they have been telling me something of your little troubles. I had little troubles once too, and you were so good to me! Will you come to us here for a few weeks? We shall be here till Christmas-time, when we go somewhere else. I have told my husband that you are a great friend of mine as well as a cousin, and that he must be good to you. He is very quiet, and works very hard at politics; but I think you will like him. Do come! There will be a good many people here, so that you will not find it dull. If you will name the day we will send the carriage for you at Matching Station, and I dare say I can manage to come myself. Yours affectionately. G. PALLISER. I know what will be in your mind. You will say, why did not she come to me in London? She knew the way to Queen Anne Street well enough. Dear Alice, don't say that. Believe me, I had much to do and think of in London. And if I was wrong, yet you will forgive me. Mr. Palliser says I am to give you his love,--as being a cousin,--and say that you must come!


Aunt. I have had a letter this morning from your friend, Lady Midlothian.


She is my cousin, Alice; and yours as much as mine.


Your cousin then, aunt. But it is of more moment that she is your friend. She certainly is not mine, nor can her cousinship afford any justification for her interfering in my affairs. Alice,--from her position-- Her position can be nothing to me, aunt. I will not submit to it. There is her letter, which you can read if you please. After that you may burn it. I need hardly say that I shall not answer it.


And what am I to say to her, Alice?


Nothing from me, aunt;--from yourself, whatever you please, of course.


And I have had another letter, from Lady Glencora, who married Mr. Palliser, and whom I knew in London last spring.


And has that offended you, too?


No, there is no offence in that. She asks me to go and see her at Matching Priory, her husband's house; but I shall not go.


except so far as I myself may do so,


I have money. I have money, but I have nothing else in the world. I have no home. Why should I not remain here in Norfolk, where I know a few people? If you'll say that you'll go anywhere else with me, I'll go to any place you'll name.


Only think, only think, that it is barely nine months since he was with me?


Six, you mean, aunt,


Only nine months Only nine months!


It happened in May, Miss, and that, as we reckons, it will be just a twelvemonth come Christmas.


That's all very well, my dear. A girl must settle herself some day, you know;--and you'd have it all your own way at Oileymead.


I am all for Mr. Cheesacre, Miss. The Captain is perhaps the nicerer-looking gentleman, and he ain't so podgy like; but what's good looks if a gentleman hasn't got nothing? I can't abide anything that's poor; neither can't Missus.


You won't see much of the Captain, I suppose,


Not much, I dare say. He tells me that he must be on duty ten or twelve hours a day. Poor fellow!


It's a deuced good thing for him, and he ought to be very much obliged to me for putting him in the way of getting it. But he told me to tell you that if he didn't call, you were not to be angry with him.


Oh, no;--I shall remember, of course.


You see, if he don't work now he must come to grief. He hasn't got a shilling that he can call his own.


Hasn't he really?


Not a shilling, Mrs. Greenow;--and then he's awfully in debt. He isn't a bad fellow, you know, only there's no trusting him for anything. He hasn't been here, has he, Jenny?


We haven't seen a sight of him yet, sir,--and I have thought it a little odd.


What am I to do about it?


It's as much as Jeannette has been able to carry.


What am I to do, Kate? He is such a good creature.


And he do admire you both so much,


Of course I don't want to offend him for many reasons,


I don't know anything about your reasons, aunt, but if I were you, I should leave the basket just as it is till he comes in the afternoon.


Would you mind seeing him yourself, Kate, and explaining to him that it won't do to get on in this way. Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling him that if he'll promise not to bring any more, you won't object to take this one.


Indeed, aunt, I can't do that. They're not brought to me.


Oh, Kate!


Nonsense, aunt;--I won't have you say so;--before Jeannette, too.


I think it's for both, ma'am; I do indeed. And there certainly ain't any cream to be bought like it in Norwich:--nor yet eggs.


It's out of the question that I should take upon myself to say anything to him about it,


Upon my word I don't see why you shouldn't, as well as I,


let me just ask him who they're for;--he'll tell me anything.


Don't do anything of the kind, Jeannette. Of course, aunt, they're brought for you. There's no doubt about that. A gentleman doesn't bring cream and turkeys to-- I've never heard of such a thing!


I don't see why a gentleman shouldn't bring cream and turkeys to you just as well as to me. Indeed, he told me once as much himself.


Then, if they're for me, I'll leave them down outside the front door, and he may find his provisions there.


Leave it alone, Kate. Leave it alone. I'll see Mr. Cheesacre myself.


If you don't object, aunt. I will write to grandpapa and tell him that I will return home at once.


What!--because of Mr. Cheesacre? I don't think you'll be so silly as that, my dear.


I just called in, to see how you were.


We are not likely to starve,


Just a few trifles that my old woman asked me to bring in. She insisted on putting them up.


But your old woman is by far too magnificent. She really frightens Kate and me out of our wits.


Dear Mrs. Greenow, there is no cause for you to be alarmed, I can assure you. Mere trifles;--light as air, you know. I don't think anything of such things as these.


But I and Kate think a great deal of them,--a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?


Return them, Mrs. Greenow!


Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed.


And have I been too liberal, Mrs. Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?


You've got a great deal more in the world, Mr. Cheesacre, than you'd like to part with. But we won't talk of that, now.


When shall we talk of it?


If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself.


Mrs. Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me.


You may take these things down, Jeannette. Mr. Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come.


But I haven't promised,


You will oblige me and Kate, I know;--and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her.


He is the most generous man I ever met,


So he is, and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife.


I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy,


No, indeed. I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful.


Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond,


Poor man, if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room! looking back, to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy. I'm afraid the wine is not very good. But one can't get good wine in lodgings.


I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth. I daresay the wine is very good of its kind. I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?


I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do.


It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow.


That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it. I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield.


There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears.


Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone.


But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?


By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?


And how much better is the warm glow of love? How much better is the warm glow of love?


The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--


If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong.


Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?


Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--


I did not know that you had seen active service.


What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!


Not for seven weeks?


No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!


I really hadn't heard,


Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman? So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable.


But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in.


I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope. Arabella, will you not speak a word to me?


Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way.


But I want you to become my wife,--and then--


Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then. You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man. He's a very handsome man, is the Captain,


You shouldn't think about handsome men, child. And I'm sure I don't. Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome.


I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves.


As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her.


That means you, Kate. No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me. I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know.


Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--


Than he is of me, you were going to say.


No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all.


Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse.


But if I don't want to do at all?


Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think.


Thanks for the flowers. It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept.


As for that. I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long.


How goes everything at Oileymead?


Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day.


I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings.


In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast.


I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters.


And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese.


I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre.


Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing.


But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre.


He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes.


But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--


He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead.


A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it.


That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?


I, Mr. Cheesacre!


Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended.


Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere.


No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--


Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?


What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!


Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months.


But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?


I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence.


No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that. Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest.


Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly,


D---- Captain Bellfield!


I think you owe it as a duty to your family to go. I am becoming a very old woman, Alice, and I suppose I had better not interfere any further. Whatever I have said I have always meant to be for your good. And because they are cousins as well,


I'm very glad you are going, Alice,


Why, papa?


Why?--because I think it's the proper thing to do. You know I've never said much to you about these people. They're not connected with me, and I know that they hate the name of Vavasor;--not but what the name is a deal older than any of theirs, and the family too.


And therefore I don't understand why you think I'm specially right. If you were to say I was specially wrong, I should be less surprised, and of course I shouldn't go. But I shan't get them by going to Matching Priory.


Well, papa, I hope I shall find myself growing towards the light,


I hear you are going down to the Pallisers at Matching Priory to-morrow, and as I shall be glad to say one word to you before you go, will you let me see you this evening,--say at nine?--G. V.


I'm so glad you're going to Matching Priory,


How did you learn that I was going?


I heard it from a friend of mine. Well;--from Burgo Fitzgerald, if you must know.


From Mr. Fitzgerald?


That's more than I know, Alice. Not directly from Lady Glencora, I should say.


That would be impossible.


Yes; quite so, no doubt. I think she keeps up her intimacy with Burgo's sister, and perhaps it got round to him in that way.


And did he tell you also that I was going to-morrow? He must have known all about it very accurately.


No; then I asked Kate, and Kate told me when you were going. Yes; I know. Kate has been wrong, hasn't she? Kate was cautioned, no doubt, to say nothing about your comings and goings to so inconsiderable a person as myself. But you must not be down upon Kate. She never mentioned it till I showed by my question to her that I knew all about your journey to Matching. I own I do not understand why it should be necessary to keep me so much in the dark. I cannot understand it. It was but the other day that we were such dear friends! Do you remember the balcony at Basle? and now it seems that we are quite estranged;--nay, worse than estranged; that I am, as it were, under some ban. Have I done anything to offend you, Alice? If so, speak out, like a woman of spirit as you are.


Nothing,


Then why am I tabooed? Why was I told the other day that I might not congratulate you on your happy emancipation? I say boldly, that had you resolved on that while we were together in Switzerland, you would have permitted me, as a friend, almost as a brother, to discuss it with you.


I think not, George.


I am sure you would. And why has Kate been warned not to tell me of this visit to the Pallisers? I know she has been warned though she has not confessed it. If there be any reason, Alice, I think that I have a right to ask it.


I think that you have such a right. I think that you have such a right, but I think also that you are ungenerous to exercise it.


I cannot understand that. By heavens, Alice, I cannot be left in this suspense! If I have done anything to offend you, perhaps I can remove the offence by apology.


You have done nothing to offend me.


Or if there be any cause why our friendship should be dropped,--why we should be on a different footing to each other in London than we were in Switzerland, I may acknowledge it, if it be explained to me. But I cannot put up with the doubt, when I am told that I have a right to demand its solution.


Then I will be frank with you, George, though my being so will, as you may guess, be very painful. Your sister, George, has thought that my parting with Mr. Grey might lead to a renewal of a purpose of marriage between you and me. You know her eagerness, and will understand that it may have been necessary that I should require silence from her on that head. You ought now to understand it all.


I then am being punished for her sins,


I have said nothing about any sins, George, but I have found it necessary to be on my guard.


Well. You are an honest woman, Alice,--the honestest I ever knew. I will bring Kate to order,--and, now, we may be friends again; may we not?


Yes, certainly, if you wish it.


I certainly do wish it very much,


No, no. Do not speak of that. A woman does not do what I have done in that affair without great suffering. I have to think of it daily; but do not make me speak of it.


But this other subject, this visit to Matching; surely I may speak of that?


I don't see what you can have to say about it.


But I have a great deal. I am so glad you are going. Mind you cement a close intimacy with Mr. Palliser.


With Mr. Palliser?


Yes; with Mr. Palliser. You must read all the blue books about finance. I'll send them to you if you like it.


Oh, George!


I'm quite in earnest. That is, not in earnest about the blue books, as you would not have time; but about Mr. Palliser. He will be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer without a doubt.


Will he indeed? But why should I make a bosom friend of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I don't want any public money.


But I do, my girl. Don't you see?


No; I don't.


I think I shall get returned at this next election.


I'm sure I hope you will.


And if I do, of course it will be my game to support the ministry;--or rather the new ministry; for of course there will be changes.


I hope they will be on the right side.


Not a doubt of that, Alice.


I wish they might be changed altogether.


Ah! that's impossible. It's very well as a dream; but there are no such men as you want to see,--men really from the people,--strong enough to take high office. A man can't drive four horses because he's a philanthropist,--or rather a philhorseophist, and is desirous that the team should be driven without any hurt to them. A man can't govern well, simply because he is genuinely anxious that men should be well governed.


And will there never be any such men?


I won't say that. I don't mind confessing to you that it is my ambition to be such a one myself. But a child must crawl before he can walk. Such a one as I, hoping to do something in politics, must spare no chance. It would be something to me that Mr. Palliser should become the friend of any dear friend of mine,--especially of a dear friend bearing the same name.


I'm afraid, George, you'll find me a bad hand at making any such friendship.


They say he is led immensely by his wife, and that she is very clever. But I mean this chiefly, Alice, that I do hope I shall have all your sympathy in any political career that I may make, and all your assistance also.


My sympathy I think I can promise you. My assistance, I fear, would be worthless.


By no means worthless, Alice; not if I see you take that place in the world which I hope to see you fill. Do you think women nowadays have no bearing upon the politics of the times? Almost as much as men have.


Dear Alice, I'm so glad you've come. Look here, dear; your maid can go in the dog-cart with your things, she'll be quite comfortable there; and do you get in here. Are you very cold?


Oh, no; not cold at all.


But it is awfully cold. You've been in the stuffy carriage, but you'll find it cold enough out here, I can tell you.


Oh! Lady Glencora, I am so sorry that I've brought you out on such a morning,


What nonsense! Sorry! Why I've looked forward to meeting you all alone, ever since I knew you were coming. If it had snowed all the morning I should have come just the same. I drive out almost every day when I'm down here,--that is, when the house is not too crowded, or I can make an excuse. Wrap these things over you; there are plenty of them. You shall drive if you like.


I like driving better than anything, I think. Mr. Palliser doesn't like ladies to hunt, and of course it wouldn't do as he does not hunt himself. I do ride, but he never gets on horseback. I almost fancy I should like to drive four-in-hand,--only I know I should be afraid. It would look very terrible,


Yes; wouldn't it? The look would be the worst of it; as it is all the world over. Sometimes I wish there were no such things as looks. I don't mean anything improper, you know; only one does get so hampered, right and left, for fear of Mrs. Grundy. I endeavour to go straight, and get along pretty well on the whole, I suppose. Baker, you must put Dandy in the bar; he pulls so, going home, that I can't hold him in the check. They're called Dandy and Flirt. Ain't they a beautiful match? The Duke gave them to me and named them himself. Did you ever see the Duke?


Never,


He won't be here before Christmas, but you shall be introduced some day in London. He's an excellent creature and I'm a great pet of his; though, after all, I never speak half a dozen words to him when I see him. He's one of those people who never talk. I'm one of those who like talking, as you'll find out. I think it runs in families; and the Pallisers are non-talkers. That doesn't mean that they are not speakers, for Mr. Palliser has plenty to say in the House, and they declare that he's one of the few public men who've got lungs enough to make a financial statement without breaking down.


You're not tired of me already, I hope. I didn't mean that. I delight in the drive. But somehow one expects Matching Station to be near Matching.


Ah, yes; that's a great cheat. It's not Matching Station at all but Matching Road Station, and it's eight miles. It is a great bore, for though the omnibus brings our parcels, we have to be constantly sending over, and it's very expensive, I can assure you. I want Mr. Palliser to have a branch, but he says he would have to take all the shares himself, and that would cost more, I suppose.


Is there a town at Matching?


Oh, a little bit of a place. I'll go round by it if you like, and in at the further gate.


Oh, no!


Ah, but I should like. It was a borough once, and belonged to the Duke; but they put it out at the Reform Bill. They made some kind of bargain;--he was to keep either Silverbridge or Matching, but not both. Mr. Palliser sits for Silverbridge, you know. The Duke chose Silverbridge,--or rather his father did, as he was then going to build his great place in Barsetshire;--that's near Silverbridge. But the Matching people haven't forgiven him yet. He was sitting for Matching himself when the Reform Bill passed. Then his father died, and he hasn't lived there much since. It's a great deal nicer place than Gatherum Castle, only not half so grand. I hate grandeur; don't you?


I never tried much of it, as you have.


Come now; that's not fair. There's no one in the world less grand than I am.


I mean that I've not had grand people about me.


Having cut all your cousins,--and Lady Midlothian in particular, like a naughty girl as you are. I was so angry with you when you accused me of selling you about that. You ought to have known that I was the last person in the world to have done such a thing.


I did not think you meant to sell me, but I thought--


Yes, you did, Alice. I know what you thought; you thought that Lady Midlothian was making a tool of me that I might bring you under her thumb, so that she might bully you into Mr. Grey's arms. That's what you thought. I don't know that I was at all entitled to your good opinion, but I was not entitled to that special bad opinion.


I had no bad opinion;--but it was so necessary that I should guard myself.


You shall be guarded. I'll take you under my shield. Mr. Grey shan't be named to you, except that I shall expect you to tell me all about it; and you must tell me all about that dangerous cousin, too, of whom they were saying such terrible things down in Scotland. I had heard of him before.


This is the beginning of the park. And that is Matching oak, under which Coeur de Lion or Edward the Third, I forget which, was met by Sir Guy de Palisere as he came from the war, or from hunting, or something of that kind. It was the king, you know, who had been fighting or whatever it was, and Sir Guy entertained him when he was very tired. Jeffrey Palliser, who is my husband's cousin, says that old Sir Guy luckily pulled out his brandy-flask. But the king immediately gave him all the lands of Matching,--only there was a priory then and a lot of monks, and I don't quite understand how that was. But I know one of the younger brothers always used to be abbot and sit in the House of Lords. And the king gave him Littlebury at the same time, which is about seven miles away from here. As Jeffrey Palliser says, it was a great deal of money for a pull at his flask. Jeffrey Palliser is here now, and I hope you'll like him. If I have no child, and Mr. Palliser were not to marry again, Jeffrey would be the heir.


I suppose that's the way most of the old families got their estates.


Either so, or by robbery. Many of them were terrible thieves, my dear, and I dare say Sir Guy was no better than he should be. But since that they have always called some of the Pallisers Plantagenet. My husband's name is Plantagenet. The Duke is called George Plantagenet, and the king was his godfather. The queen is my godmother, I believe, but I don't know that I'm much the better for it. There's no use in godfathers and godmothers;--do you think there is?


Not much as it's managed now.


If I had a child,-- Oh, Alice, it's a dreadful thing not to have a child when so much depends on it!


But you're such a short time married yet.


Ah, well; I can see it in his eyes when he asks me questions; but I don't think he'd say an unkind word, not if his own position depended on it. Ah, well; this is Matching. That other gate we passed, where Dandy wanted to turn in,--that's where we usually go up, but I've brought you round to show you the town. That's the inn,--whoever can possibly come to stay there I don't know; I never saw anybody go in or out. That's the baker who bakes our bread,--we baked it at the house at first, but nobody could eat it; and I know that that man there mends Mr. Palliser's shoes. He's very particular about his shoes. We shall see the church as we go in at the other gate. It is in the park, and is very pretty,--but not half so pretty as the priory ruins close to the house. The ruins are our great lion. I do so love to wander about them at moonlight. I often think of you when I do; I don't know why.--But I do know why, and I'll tell you some day. Come, Miss Flirt!


There's Mr. Palliser, that shows that you are an honoured guest, for you may be sure that he is hard at work and would not have come out for anybody else. Plantagenet, here is Miss Vavasor, perished. Alice, my husband.


I hope you've not found it very cold. The winter has come upon us quite suddenly.


Are the people all out?


The men have not come in from shooting;--at least I think not;--and some of the ladies are driving, I suppose. But I haven't seen anybody since you went.


Of course you haven't. He never has time, Alice, to see any one. But we'll go up-stairs, dear. I told them to let us have tea in my dressing-room, as I thought you'd like that better than going into the drawing-room before you had taken off your things. You must be famished, I know. Then you can come down, or if you want to avoid two dressings you can sit over the fire up-stairs till dinner-time. Here's my dressing-room, and here's your room all but opposite. You look out into the park. It's pretty, isn't it? But come into my dressing-room, and see the ruins out of the window. Isn't it pretty? I call it my dressing-room because in that way I can keep people out of it, but I have my brushes and soap in a little closet there, and my clothes,--my clothes are everywhere I suppose, only there are none of them here. Isn't it pretty?


Very pretty.


The Duke did it all. He understands such things thoroughly. Now to Mr. Palliser a dressing-room is a dressing-room, and a bedroom a bedroom. He cares for nothing being pretty; not even his wife, or he wouldn't have married me.


You wouldn't say that if you meant it.


Well, I don't know. Sometimes when I look at myself, when I simply am myself, with no making up or grimacing, you know, I think I'm the ugliest young woman the sun ever shone on. And in ten years' time I shall be the ugliest old woman. Only think,--my hair is beginning to get grey, and I'm not twenty-one yet. Look at it; But there's one comfort; he doesn't care about beauty. How old are you?


Over five-and-twenty,


Nonsense;--then I oughtn't to have asked you. I am so sorry.


That's nonsense at any rate. Why should you think I should be ashamed of my age?


I don't know why, only somehow, people are; and I didn't think you were so old. Five-and-twenty seems so old to me. It would be nothing if you were married; only, you see, you won't get married.


Perhaps I may yet; some day.


Of course you will. You'll have to give way. You'll find that they'll get the better of you. Your father will storm at you, and Lady Macleod will preach at you, and Lady Midlothian will jump upon you.


I'm not a bit afraid of Lady Midlothian.


I know what it is, my dear, to be jumped upon. We talked with such horror of the French people giving their daughters in marriage, just as they might sell a house or a field, but we do exactly the same thing ourselves. When they all come upon you in earnest how are you to stand against them? How can any girl do it?


I think I shall be able.


To be sure you're older,--and you are not so heavily weighted. But never mind; I didn't mean to talk about that;--not yet at any rate. Well, now, my dear, I must go down. The Duchess of St. Bungay is here, and Mr. Palliser will be angry if I don't do pretty to her. The Duke is to be the new President of the Council, or rather, I believe he is President now. I try to remember it all, but it is so hard when one doesn't really care two pence how it goes. Not but what I'm very anxious that Mr. Palliser should be Chancellor of the Exchequer. And now, will you remain here, or will you come down with me, or will you go to your own room, and I'll call for you when I go down to dinner? We dine at eight.


I shall feel so strange, ma'am, among all those people down-stairs. They all seem to look at me as though they didn't know who I was.


You'll get over that soon, Jane.


I suppose I shall; but you see, they're all like knowing each other, miss.


How do you get on below, Jane?


Why, miss, they are uncommon civil, and I don't think after all it will be so bad. We had our teas very comfortable in the housekeeper's room. There are five or six of us altogether, all ladies'-maids, miss; and there's nothing on earth to do all the day long, only sit and do a little needlework over the fire.


Let me see. I'll tell Jeffrey to take you in to dinner. He's about the easiest young man we have here. He rather turns up his nose at everything, but that doesn't make him the less agreeable; does it, dear?--unless he turns up his nose at you, you know.


But perhaps he will.


No; he won't do that. That would be uncourteous,--and he's the most courteous man in the world. There's nobody here, you see, and I didn't suppose there would be. It's always proper to be first in one's own house. I do so try to be proper,--and it is such trouble. Talking of people earning their bread, Alice;--I'm sure I earn mine. Oh dear!--what fun it would be to be sitting somewhere in Asia, eating a chicken with one's fingers, and lighting a big fire outside one's tent to keep off the lions and tigers. Fancy your being on one side of the fire and the lions and tigers on the other, grinning at you through the flames!


That sort of grin wouldn't frighten me,


I dare say not. I have been reading about it in that woman's travels. Oh, here they are, and I mustn't make any more faces. Duchess, do come to the fire. I hope you've got warm again. This is my cousin, Miss Vavasor.


I don't know how you manage in your house, but the staircases are so comfortable. Now at Longroyston we've taken all the trouble in the world,--put down hot-water pipes all over the house, and everything else that could be thought of, and yet, you can't move about the place without meeting with draughts at every corner of the passages.


I was telling Lady Glencora, Miss Palliser, that I never knew a house so warm as this,--or, I'm sorry to say, so cold as Longroyston.


It's always easy to warm a small house like this, and I suppose equally difficult to warm a large one such as Longroyston.


We've got no pipes, Duchess, at any rate,


My wife has been thinking so much of your coming. I hope we shall be able to amuse you.


You must take my cousin, Alice Vavasor, in to dinner. Alice Vavasor, and;--will you oblige me to-day?


Yes;--as you ask me like that.


Then try to make her comfortable.


Oh, indeed; I'm glad of that. We're sadly in want of a few leading Radicals, and perhaps I may be able to gain one now.


But I'm afraid I never shall be a leading Radical,


You shall lead me at any rate, if you will,


As the little dogs lead the blind men,


No. No, Lady Glencora, not so. But as the pretty women lead the men who have eyes in their head. There is nothing I want so much, Miss Vavasor, as to become a Radical;--if I only knew how. I think it's very easy to know how,


Do you? I don't. I've voted for every liberal measure that has come seriously before Parliament since I had a seat in either House, and I've not been able to get beyond Whiggery yet.


Have you voted for the ballot?


Well; no, I've not. And I suppose that is the crux. But the ballot has never been seriously brought before any House in which I have sat. I hate it with so keen a private hatred, that I doubt whether I could vote for it.


But the Radicals love it,


Palliser, I'm told you can never be entitled to call yourself a Radical till you've voted for the ballot.


I don't want to be called a Radical, or to be called anything at all.


Except Chancellor of the Exchequer,


And that's about the finest ambition by which a man can be moved. The man who can manage the purse-strings of this country can manage anything.


I was especially commissioned to amuse you. But when I undertook the task I had no conception that you would be calling Cabinet Ministers over the coals about their politics.


I did nothing of the kind, surely, Mr. Palliser. I suppose all Radicals do vote for the ballot, and that's why I said it.


Your definition was perfectly just, I dare say, only--


Only what?


Lady Glencora need not have been so anxious to provide specially for your amusement. Not but what I'm very much obliged to her,--of course. But Miss Vavasor, unfortunately I'm not a politician. I haven't a chance of a seat in the House, and so I despise politics.


Women are not allowed to be politicians in this country.


Thank God, they can't do much in that way;--not directly, I mean. Only think where we should be if we had a feminine House of Commons, with feminine debates, carried on, of course, with feminine courtesy. My cousins Iphy and Phemy there would of course be members. You don't know them yet?


No; not yet. Are they politicians?


Not especially. They have their tendencies, which are decidedly liberal. There has never been a Tory Palliser known, you know. But they are too clever to give themselves up to anything in which they can do nothing. Being women they live a depressed life, devoting themselves to literature, fine arts, social economy, and the abstract sciences. They write wonderful letters; but I believe their correspondence lists are quite full, so that you have no chance at present of getting on either of them.


I haven't the slightest pretension to ask for such an honour.


Oh! if you mean because you don't know them, that has nothing to do with it.


But I have no claim either private or public.


That has nothing to do with it either. They don't at all seek people of note as their correspondents. Free communication with all the world is their motto, and Rowland Hill is the god they worship. Only they have been forced to guard themselves against too great an accession of paper and ink. Are you fond of writing letters, Miss Vavasor?


Yes, to my friends; but I like getting them better.


I shrewdly suspect they don't read half what they get. Is it possible any one should go through two sheets of paper filled by our friend the Duchess there? No; their delight is in writing. They sit each at her desk after breakfast, and go on till lunch. There is a little rivalry between them, not expressed to each other, but visible to their friends. Iphy certainly does get off the greater number, and I'm told crosses quite as often as Phemy, but then she has the advantage of a bolder and larger hand.


Do they write to you?


Oh, dear no. I don't think they ever write to any relative. They don't discuss family affairs and such topics as that. Architecture goes a long way with them, and whether women ought to be clerks in public offices. Iphy has certain American correspondents that take up much of her time, but she acknowledges she does not read their letters.


Then I certainly shall not write to her.


But you are not American, I hope. I do hate the Americans. It's the only strong political feeling I have. I went there once, and found I couldn't live with them on any terms.


But they please themselves. I don't see they are to be hated because they don't live after our fashion.


Oh; it's jealousy of course. I know that. I didn't come across a cab-driver who wasn't a much better educated man than I am. And as for their women, they know everything. But I hated them, and I intend to hate them. You haven't been there?


Oh no.


Then I will make bold to say that any English lady who spent a month with them and didn't hate them would have very singular tastes. I begin to think they'll eat each other up, and then there'll come an entirely new set of people of a different sort. I always regarded the States as a Sodom and Gomorrah, prospering in wickedness, on which fire and brimstone were sure to fall sooner or later.


I think that's wicked.


I am wicked, as Topsy used to say. Do you hunt?


No.


Do you shoot?


Shoot! What; with a gun?


Yes. I was staying in a house last week with a lady who shot a good deal.


No; I don't shoot.


Do you ride?


No; I wish I did. I have never ridden because I've no one to ride with me.


Do you drive?


No; I don't drive either.


Then what do you do?


I sit at home, and--


Mend your stockings?


No; I don't do that, because it's disagreeable; but I do work a good deal. Sometimes I have amused myself by reading.


Ah; they never do that here. I have heard that there is a library, but the clue to it has been lost, and nobody now knows the way. I don't believe in libraries. Nobody ever goes into a library to read, any more than you would into a larder to eat. But there is this difference;--the food you consume does come out of the larders, but the books you read never come out of the libraries.


Except Mudie's,


Ah, yes; he is the great librarian. And you mean to read all the time you are here, Miss Vavasor?


I mean to walk about the priory ruins sometimes.


Then you must go by moonlight, and I'll go with you. Only isn't it rather late in the year for that?


I should think it is,--for you, Mr. Palliser.


Jeffrey is a pleasant fellow, is he not?


Very pleasant;--a little sarcastic, perhaps.


I should think you would soon find yourself able to get the better of that if he tries it upon you,


Then we had better keep continually moving,


I hope we may be warm here too,


But not deliciously warm,


It makes me tremble in every limb when Mrs. Sparkes attacks her, for I know she'll tell the Duke; and he'll tell that tall man with red hair whom you see standing about, and the tall man with red hair will tell Mr. Palliser, and then I shall catch it. He's a political link between the Duke and Mr. Palliser. His name is Bott, and he's a Member of Parliament. I suppose it's his business. I don't quite understand all the ins and outs of it. I believe he's to be one of Mr. Palliser's private secretaries if he becomes Chancellor of the Exchequer. Perhaps he doesn't tell;--only I think he does all the same. He always calls me Lady Glen-cowrer. He comes out of Lancashire, and made calico as long as he could get any cotton.


can you play billiards? Then you shall learn to-night, and if nobody else will teach you, you shall be my pupil. You'll play, Duchess, of course,


It is so nice and warm, that I think I will,


Let us all play, and then it will be nicer,--and perhaps warmer, too.


I wish I could play billiards. I do indeed.


I thought you said you were coming to play,


Only to see your Grace,


I don't know that there is anything more to see in me than in anybody else. Mr. Palliser, that was a cannon. Will you mark that for our side?


Oh no, Duchess, you hit the same ball twice.


Very well;--then I suppose Miss Vavasor plays now. That was a miss. Will you mark that, if you please?


I'll come into your room just for one minute. Would you mind going into my room--it's just there, and sitting with Ellen for a minute? I must keep you up for a quarter of an hour while I tell you something. But first of all, how do you like the people? Will you be able to be comfortable with them? But I've got something to tell you. Sit down opposite to me, and look at the fire while I look at you.


Is it anything terrible?


It's nothing wrong.


Oh, Lady Glencora, if it's--


I won't have you call me Lady Glencora. Don't I call you Alice? Why are you so unkind to me? I have not come to you now asking you to do for me anything that you ought not to do.


But you are going to tell me something.


Tell you something;--of course I am. I'm going to tell you that,--that in writing to you the other day I wrote a fib. But it wasn't that I wished to deceive you;--only I couldn't say it all in a letter.


Say all what?


You know I confessed that I had been very bad in not coming to you in London last year.


I never thought of it for a moment.


You did not care whether I came or not: was that it? But never mind. Why should you have cared? But I cared. I told you in my letter that I didn't come because I had so many things on hand. Of course that was a fib.


Everybody makes excuses of that kind,


But they don't make them to the very people of all others whom they want to know and love. I was longing to come to you every day. But I feared I could not come without speaking of him;--and I had determined never to speak of him again.


Then why do it now, Lady Glencora?


I won't be called Lady Glencora. Call me Cora. I had a sister once, older than I, and she used to call me Cora. If she had lived--. But never mind that now. She didn't live. I'll tell you why I do it now. Because I cannot help it. Besides, I've met him. I've been in the same room with him, and have spoken to him. What's the good of any such resolution now?


And you have met him?


Yes; he--Mr. Palliser--knew all about it. When he talked of taking me to the house, I whispered to him that I thought Burgo would be there.


Do not call him by his Christian name,


Why not?--why not his Christian name? I did when I told my husband. Or perhaps I said Burgo Fitzgerald.


Well.


And he bade me go. He said it didn't signify, and that I had better learn to bear it. Bear it, indeed! If I am to meet him, and speak to him, and look at him, surely I may mention his name. May I not?


What am I to say?


Anything you please, that's not a falsehood. But I've got you here because I don't think you will tell a falsehood. Oh, Alice, I do so want to go right, and it is so hard! I knew you would be good to me. I knew you would. And you may say whatever you like. But I could not bear that you should not know the real reason why I neither came to you nor sent for you after we went to London. You'll come to me now; won't you, dear?


Yes;--and you'll come to me. But I'll come to you, whether you come to me or not.


I will go to you, of course,--why shouldn't I? But you know what I mean. We shall have dinners and parties and lots of people.


And we shall have none,


And therefore there is so much more excuse for your coming to me;--or rather I mean so much more reason, for I don't want excuses. Well, dear, I'm so glad I've told you. I was afraid to see you in London. I should hardly have known how to look at you then. But I've got over that now. I declare it's ever so much past twelve. Good night, now, dear. I wonder whether he's come up. But I should have heard his step if he had. He never treads lightly. He seldom gives over work till after one, and sometimes goes on till three. It's the only thing he likes, I believe. God bless you! good night. I've such a deal more to say to you; and Alice, you must tell me something about yourself, too; won't you, dear?


You must know that I have really loved him.


You must love me now,


If you don't like the people, my dear, we will go away,


No. I do not wish to go away. I have said that we would stay till December, and Longroyston won't be ready before that. But I think that something ought to be done to silence that woman.


I don't think she is worth your attention,


That's all very well, Duke, and perhaps she is not. But I find her in this house, and I don't like to be laughed at. I think Lady Glencora should make her know her place.


Lady Glencora is very young, my dear.


I don't know about being so very young,


And Mr. Bott is coming,


Mr. Bott! Goodness me! who is Mr. Bott?


He is member for St. Helens. A very serviceable man in his way.


And what am I to do with him?


I don't know that you can do anything with him. He is a man who has a great deal of business, and I dare say he will spend most of his time in the library.


I shouldn't dislike Mr. Bott so much, if he didn't rub his hands and smile so often, and seem to be going to say something when he really is not going to say anything.


I don't think you need trouble yourself about him, my dear,


But when he looks at me in that way, I can't help stopping, as I think he is going to speak; and then he always says, 'Can I do anything for you, Lady Glen-cowrer?' Don't be angry with me, dear. You must admit that he is rather a bore.


I am not at all angry, Glencora, and if you insist upon it, I will see that he leaves;--and in such case will of course never ask him again. But that might be prejudicial to me, as he is a man whom I trust in politics, and who may perhaps be serviceable to me.


You seem to have a good man, I should say. What! Hubbings?


Yes;--he was a legacy from my uncle when he gave me up the Priory.


A very good man, I should say. Of course he won't make it pay; but he'll make it look as though it did;--which is the next best thing. I could never get rent out of land that I farmed myself,--never.


I suppose not,


We shall muster pretty strong, your Grace,


That depends on how the changes go,


I suppose there will be a change?


Oh yes; there'll be a change,--certainly, I should say. And it will be in your direction.


And in Palliser's?


Yes; I should think so;--that is, if it suits him. By-the-by, Mr. Bott--


We always are to do that. It is the state occasion at Gatherum Castle, but it only lasts for one week. Then we go somewhere else. Oh dear!


Why do you say 'oh dear'?


Because--; I don't think I mean to tell you.


Then I'm sure I won't ask.


That's so like you, Alice. But I can be as firm as you, and I'm sure I won't tell you unless you do ask.


her cousin was a very nice person,--a very nice person indeed. What a pity it was that she had been so ill-treated by that gentleman in Oxfordshire! Do you mean that she--jilted him? Dear me, I'm sorry for that. I shouldn't have thought it.


I rather think not,


But what has thinking to do with it? Who ever thinks about it?


I don't just at present,--at any rate.


Upon my word it would be very nice;--and then perhaps some day you'd be the Duchess.


Glencora, don't talk such nonsense.


Those are the speculations which people make. Only I should spite you by killing myself, so that he might marry again.


How can you say such horrid things?


I think I shall,--some day. What right have I to stand in his way? He spoke to me the other day about Jeffrey's altered position, and I knew what he meant;--or rather what he didn't mean to say, but what he thought. But I shan't kill myself.


I should think not.


I only know one other way,


You are thinking of things which should never be in your thoughts. Have you no trust in God's providence? Cannot you accept what has been done for you?


I did not tell you. I did not tell you before he went that I was right about his tale-bearing.


And did he bear tales?


Yes; I did get the scolding, and I know very well that it came through him, though Mr. Palliser did not say so. But he told me that the Duchess had felt herself hurt by that other woman's way of talking.


But it was not your fault.


No; that's what I said. It was he who desired me to ask Mrs. Conway Sparkes to come here. I didn't want her. She goes everywhere, and it is thought a catch to get her; but if she had been drowned in the Red Sea I shouldn't have minded. When I told him that, he said it was nonsense,--which of course it was; and then he said I ought to make her hold her tongue. Of course I said I couldn't. Mrs. Conway Sparkes wouldn't care for me. If she quizzed me, myself, I told him that I could take care of myself, though she were ten times Mrs. Conway Sparkes, and had written finer poetry than Tennyson.


It is fine;--some of it,


Oh, I dare say! I know a great deal of it by heart, only I wouldn't give her the pleasure of supposing that I had ever thought so much about her poetry. And then I told him that I couldn't take care of the Duchess,--and he told me that I was a child.


He only meant that in love.


I am a child; I know that. Why didn't he marry some strong-minded, ferocious woman that could keep his house in order, and frown Mrs. Sparkes out of her impudence? It wasn't my fault.


You didn't tell him that.


But I did. Then he kissed me, and said it was all right, and told me that I should grow older. 'And Mrs. Sparkes will grow more impudent,' I said, 'and the Duchess more silly.' And after that I went away. Now this horrid Mr. Bott has come back again, and only that it would be mean in me to condescend so far, I would punish him. He grins and smiles at me, and rubs his big hands more than ever, because he feels that he has behaved badly. Is it not horrid to have to live in the house with such people?


I don't think you need mind him much.


Yes; but I am the mistress here, and am told that I am to entertain the people. Fancy entertaining the Duchess of St. Bungay and Mr. Bott! Mr. Bott!


As regards Mr. Bott. I think you should bear it as though there were no such person.


But that would be pretence,--especially to you. No; it would not be pretence; it would be the reticence which all women should practise,--and you, in your position, more almost than any other woman.


What a delightful person is our dear friend, Lady Glencora!


Yes, indeed. How very cold it is to-night!


Yes, it is cold. You and her ladyship are great friends, I believe, Miss Vavasor.


She is my cousin,


Ah! yes; that is so pleasant. I have reason to know that Mr. Palliser is very much gratified that you should be so much with her.


I don't know that I am very much with her, and if I were I can't think it would make any difference to Mr. Palliser.


I can assure you that those are his sentiments. Of course we all know that dear Lady Glencora is young. She is very young.


Mr. Bott, I really would rather not talk about my cousin.


But, dear Miss Vavasor;--when we both have her welfare in view--?


I haven't her welfare in view, Mr. Bott; not in the least. There is no reason why I should. You must excuse me if I say I cannot talk about her welfare with a perfect stranger.


It is a pity you should do nothing all your life,


What am I to do?


At any rate you might marry.


Oh, yes;--I could marry. There's no man so poor but what he can do that. The question would be how I might like the subsequent starvation.


I don't see that you need starve. Though your own fortune is small, it is something,--and many girls have fortunes of their own.


I don't think I'm very good at that kind of thing. When the father and mother came to ask of my house and my home I should break down. I don't say it as praising myself;--indeed, quite the reverse; but I fear I have not a mercenary tendency.


That's nonsense.


Oh, yes; quite so. I admit that.


Men must have mercenary tendencies or they would not have bread. The man who ploughs that he may live does so because he, luckily, has a mercenary tendency.


Just so. But you see I am less lucky than the ploughman.


There is no vulgar error so vulgar,--that is to say, common or erroneous, as that by which men have been taught to say that mercenary tendencies are bad. A desire for wealth is the source of all progress. Civilization comes from what men call greed. Let your mercenary tendencies be combined with honesty and they cannot take you astray.


But I haven't got any such tendencies,


Would you like to occupy a farm in Scotland?


And pay rent?


You would have to pay rent of course.


Thank you, no. It would be dishonest, as I know I should never pay it.


You are too old, I fear, for the public service.


You mean a desk in the Treasury,--with a hundred a year. Yes; I think I am too old.


But have you no plan of your own?


Not much of one. Sometimes I have thought I would go to New Zealand.


You would have to be a farmer there.


No;--I shouldn't do that. I should get up an opposition to the Government and that sort of thing, and then they would buy me off and give me a place.


That does very well here, Jeffrey, if a man can get into Parliament and has capital enough to wait; but I don't think it would do out there. Would you like to go into Parliament?


What; here? Of course I should. Only I should be sure to get terribly into debt. I don't owe very much, now,--not to speak of,--except what I owe you.


You owe nothing to me. No; don't speak of it. I have no brother, and between you and me it means nothing. You see, Jeffrey, it may be that I shall have to look to you as my--my--my heir, in short. That's all true, but still--. In short, I wish you would do something. Do you think about it; and then some day speak to me again.


Are you going to ride with us after lunch?


No. I'm going to study.


To do what?


To study;--or rather I shall spend to-day in sitting down and considering what I will study. My cousin has just been telling me that I ought to do something.


So you ought,


But he didn't seem to have any clear opinion what it ought to be. You see there can't be two Chancellors of the Exchequer at the same time. Mrs. Sparkes, what ought a young man like me to set about doing?


Go into Parliament, I should say,


Ah, yes; exactly. He had some notion of that kind, too, but he didn't name any particular place. I think I'll try the City of London. They've four there, and of course the chance of getting in would thereby be doubled.


I thought that commercial men were generally preferred in the City,


Mr. Palliser means to make a fortune in trade as a preliminary,


I don't think he meant anything of the kind,


At any rate I have got to do something, so I can't go and ride,


And you ought to do something,


What is a man like me to do who wants to do something?


Mrs. Sparkes says you ought to go into Parliament.


Yes;--and the dear Duchess would perhaps suggest a house in Belgrave Square. I want to hear your advice now.


I can only say ditto to Miss Palliser.


What! Iphy? About procrastination? But you see the more of my time he steals the better it is for me.


That's the evil you have got to cure.


My cousin Plantagenet suggested--marriage.


A very good thing too, I'm sure, only it depends something on the sort of wife you get.


You mean, of course, how much money she has.


Not altogether.


Looking at it from my cousin's point of view, I suppose that it is the only important point. Who are there coming up this year,--in the way of heiresses?


Upon my word I don't know. In the first place, how much money makes an heiress?


For such a fellow as me, I suppose ten thousand pounds ought to do.


That's not much,


No--; perhaps that's too moderate. But the lower one went in the money speculation, the greater would be the number to choose from, and the better the chance of getting something decent in the woman herself. I have something of my own,--not much you know; so with the lady's ten thousand pounds we might be able to live,--in some second-rate French town perhaps.


But I don't see what you would gain by that.


My people here would have got rid of me. That seems to be the great thing. If you hear of any girl with about that sum, moderately good-looking, not too young so that she might know something of the world, decently born, and able to read and write, perhaps you will bear me in mind.


Yes, I will. When I meet such a one, I will send for you at once.


You know no such person now?


Well, no; not just at present.


I declare I don't think he could do anything better,


Though your finger were put out for the ring, you should go back, if you did not love him.


But I did love him,


Then I don't understand it. I declare I don't think he could do any better,


If you talk such nonsense, I will not stay,


But why should it be nonsense? You would be very comfortable with your joint incomes. He is one of the best fellows in the world. It is clear that he likes you; and then we should be so near to each other. I am sure Mr. Palliser would do something for him if he married,--and especially if I asked him.


I only know of two things against it.


And what are they?


That he would not take me for his wife, and that I would not take him for my husband.


Why not? What do you dislike in him?


I don't dislike him at all. I like him very much indeed. But one can't marry all the people one likes.


But what reason is there why you shouldn't marry him?


This chiefly, that I have just separated myself from a man whom I certainly did love truly, and that I cannot transfer my affections quite so quickly as that.