We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life.

We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece at Yarmouth, and will call upon Mr. Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire. That county has few rural beauties. It is very flat; there are few trees; the rivers are merely dikes; and in much of the county the fields are divided simply by ditches, not by hedgerows. Mr. Grey's residence was in the Isle of Ely, a few miles from the Cathedral town, beside a long straight road which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived throughout the year, and intended to live throughout his life.


His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built.

His father had been a prebendary at Ely Cathedral, and a minister in the neighbourhood, who had built the house in which his son now lived. His wife had lived there for only a few months, dying soon after the birth of their son. After that, the old clergyman had gone back to the Cathedral Close at Ely, and there John Grey grew up under his father's eye. He had taken honours at a Cambridge college, and had then, when his father died, declined a fellowship. His father had left him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he settled near to his college friends and the old cathedral he loved, in the house which his father had built.


But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed.

But though Nethercoats possessed no beautiful scenery, it was an excellent residence for a country gentleman of small means. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats, which all opened out on to the garden. The library, which was a handsome chamber, was known as one of the best private collections in that part of England.
But perhaps the spacious gardens of Nethercoats were its greatest glory. They were excellently tended, and had been laid out wisely. There could be no fine forest trees there; nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks.


Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them.
It must be understood that there were no grounds, according to the meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house at Nethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was a paddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but divided from it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up to the house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividing it equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which made the beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which side opened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the public road there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. There was another field of some six or seven acres, to which there was a gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went round two sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estate covered about twelve acres.

But the shrubs were of the rarest kind, and mature enough to be in their full beauty. The fruit-trees were perfect, and the glass-houses extensive. The whole estate, with gardens, lawns and fields, covered about twelve acres.


It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generally popular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in his residence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since he had left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably done much to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tedium of his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations, found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, with all the delight he could derive from these two sources, there had still been many solitary hours in his life, and he had gradually learned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home.

Mr. Grey had lived there for seven years. He had easy access to Cambridge, and found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But he had gradually learned to feel that he wanted a companion in his home.


His visits to London had generally been short and far between, occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessity of some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of a periodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had remained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to share his home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved before he went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and we know that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto at Nethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants had been everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with an infinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have been content to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusion which he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but now he became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had ever loved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, and fully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself that Alice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothing now,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected to share. But as yet it could not be so with her.

His visits to London had generally been short and far between, to visit libraries or the editor of some periodical. On one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and had resolved to ask her to share his home. He had obtained her promise, and from that moment all his life had been changed.
At Nethercoats he now began to surround himself with feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinity of feminine blessings. He became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea of happiness - longing to have that as his own which he certainly loved beyond all else in the world.
But he acknowledged that Alice could not be expected to share his impatience.


She had her house in London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure which a girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest, if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxing strong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we have spoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that a marriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year. It was not yet late in August when the party returned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two months suffice for his bride?

She had her house in London, her town society, and her father; and as the change for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it was natural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressed her. But in truth his impatience was now growing strong, and during her absence in Switzerland, he resolved that a marriage late in the autumn - even in winter - would be better than a marriage postponed till the following year.


Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had referred almost exclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with her style, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, it was not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been once assured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himself or her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till the fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as he might think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her love would fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been very pleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her a melancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, and which he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also, but soon with so plain a flavour that he recognised it, and made it a matter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had not written. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having then received from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would now agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. This letter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered at once.

Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and her first two letters had been very charming. They had described the tour pleasantly, with some slightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate's obedience to her brother. Alice had never written much of love in her love-letters, and Grey was contented. He did not doubt her love. He was a man who could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him till she accepted him; but after that, he could never think that her love would fail.
After those first two letters, however, there seemed to have crept into them an unconscious melancholy, which he soon recognised and thought much about. During the three or four last days of the journey, while they were on their way home, she had not written.
But on her arrival she received from Mr. Grey a letter which told her how very much she would add to his happiness if she would agree that their marriage should not be postponed beyond October. She answered this letter at once,


And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he would at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length, as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly.
Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--.
DEAREST JOHN,--
We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind.

 in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that he must go to her in London. I will give her letter here.
Dearest John,
We reached home yesterday tired, as we came through from Paris without stopping.


I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you.

I got your letter when I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would willingly delay doing so, if I did not know that this would be mere cowardice. I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you have a right to ask me why, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If so, I can only ask your pardon.


Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad?

Marriage is a great change in life - much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing - except that you will have a companion who may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will seem to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own.
Dear John, do not think that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad?


You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter.

Do not ask me again till after winter. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess it, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this: if a delay is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage not that which you had expected, you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I will obey your wishes in anything - except in that one thing which you urged in your letter.


Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there.
Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy.
Most affectionately yours,

Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall probably see no more of her till next year, as she will be in Westmorland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to leave London. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two.
Beyond that, I shall be at home. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall - not including George of course - but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there.
Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy.
Most affectionately yours,


ALICE VAVASOR.
At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what he would do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also very carefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had been wearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and, with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs and lawns.

Alice Vavasor.
At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr. Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he read Alice's letter. He read it twice, and then carefully referred to one or two others which he had received from Switzerland. After that, with the letters in his hand, he walked out into his garden.


He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation to take at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now, then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, and unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagement between them should be broken. In the first place he loved her too well to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrow to himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, specially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly, had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such a sacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without a word of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healed but by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seen that he had been injured. But it did not once occur to him that such a proceeding on his part would be beneficial to Alice. Without being aware of it, he reckoned himself to be the nobler creature of the two, and now thought of her as of one wounded, and wanting a cure.

He thought that there was more in Alice's mind than a mere wish for delay. He felt that she was unhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but it never for a moment occurred to him that therefore the engagement should be broken.
In the first place he loved her too well. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, and unwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, especially unwilling to break away from those which he had made. Breaking the engagement would have caused him great unhappiness. If he felt that that Alice's happiness demanded it, he would have made the sacrifice without a word of complaint, although the bruise would have remained on his heart, indelible but unseen by others.
But it did not occur to him that his breaking the engagement could be beneficial to Alice. He thought of her as of one wounded, and wanting a cure.


Some weakness had fallen on her, and strength must be given to her from another. He did not in the least doubt her love, but he knew that she had been associated, for a few weeks past, with two persons whose daily conversation would be prone to weaken the tone of her mind. He no more thought of giving her up than a man thinks of having his leg cut off because he has sprained his sinews. He would go up to town and see her, and would not even yet abandon all hope that she might be found sitting at his board when Christmas should come. By that day's post he wrote a short note to her.
"Dearest Alice," he said, "I have resolved to go to London at once. I will be with you in the evening at eight, the day after to-morrow.
"Yours, J. G."
There was no more in the letter than that.
"And now," she said, when she received it, "I must dare to tell him the whole truth."

Some weakness had fallen on her, and strength must be given to her from another. He assumed himself to be the stronger. He did not doubt her love, but he knew that she had associated for the last few weeks with two people whose daily conversation would tend to weaken the tone of her mind. He would go up to town and see her. By that day's post he wrote a short note to her.
Dearest Alice.
I have resolved to go to London at once. I will be with you at eight in the evening, the day after tomorrow.
Yours, J. G.
"And now," she said, when she received it, "I must dare to tell him the whole truth."


And what was the whole truth? Alice Vavasor, when she declared to herself that she must tell her lover the whole truth, was expressing to herself her intention of putting an end to her engagement with Mr. Grey. She was acknowledging that that which had to be told was not compatible with the love and perfect faith which she owed to the man who was her affianced husband. And yet, why should it be so? She did not intend to tell him that she had been false in her love to him. It was not that her heart had again veered itself round and given itself to that wild cousin of hers. Though she might feel herself constrained to part from John Grey, George Vavasor could never be her husband. Of that she assured herself fifty times during the two days' grace which had been allowed her. Nay, she went farther than that with herself, and pronounced a verdict against any marriage as possible to her if she now decided against this marriage which had for some months past been regarded as fixed by herself and all her friends.

And what was the whole truth? Alice Vavasor intended to end her engagement with Mr. Grey.
And yet, why? She had not been false in her love to him. It was not that her heart had veered round and given itself to her wild cousin George. Although she felt herself constrained to part from John Grey, George Vavasor could never be her husband. Of that she assured herself fifty times. Nay, she went farther, and vowed to herself that if she did not marry John Grey, she would never marry.


People often say that marriage is an important thing, and should be much thought of in advance, and marrying people are cautioned that there are many who marry in haste and repent at leisure. I am not sure, however, that marriage may not be pondered over too much; nor do I feel certain that the leisurely repentance does not as often follow the leisurely marriages as it does the rapid ones. That some repent no one can doubt; but I am inclined to believe that most men and women take their lots as they find them, marrying as the birds do by force of nature, and going on with their mates with a general, though not perhaps an undisturbed satisfaction, feeling inwardly assured that Providence, if it have not done the very best for them, has done for them as well as they could do for themselves with all the thought in the world. I do not know that a woman can assure to herself, by her own prudence and taste, a good husband any more than she can add two cubits to her stature; but husbands have been made to be decently good,--and wives too, for the most part, in our country,--so that the thing does not require quite so much thinking as some people say.

People often say that marriage is an important thing, and should be deeply considered. However, I feel that marriage may be pondered over too much. I am inclined to believe that most men and women take their lots as they find them, marrying by force of nature, and going on with their mates with a general if not an undisturbed satisfaction.


That Alice Vavasor had thought too much about it, I feel quite sure. She had gone on thinking of it till she had filled herself with a cloud of doubts which even the sunshine of love was unable to drive from her heavens. That a girl should really love the man she intends to marry,--that, at any rate, may be admitted. But love generally comes easily enough. With all her doubts Alice never doubted her love for Mr. Grey. Nor did she doubt his character, nor his temper, nor his means. But she had gone on thinking of the matter till her mind had become filled with some undefined idea of the importance to her of her own life. What should a woman do with her life? There had arisen round her a flock of learned ladies asking that question, to whom it seems that the proper answer has never yet occurred. Fall in love, marry the man, have two children, and live happy ever afterwards.

That Alice Vavasor had thought too much about it, I feel quite sure. She had gone on thinking of it till she had filled herself with a cloud of doubts which even the sunshine of love was unable to drive away.
With all her doubts, Alice never doubted her love for Mr. Grey. Nor did she doubt his character. But she had gone on thinking of the matter till her mind had become filled with some undefined idea of the importance to her of her own life.
What should a woman do with her life? At that time a flock of learned women asked that question. Fall in love, marry, have two children, and live happy ever afterwards


I maintain that answer has as much wisdom in it as any other that can be given;--or perhaps more. The advice contained in it cannot, perhaps, always be followed to the letter; but neither can the advice of the other kind, which is given by the flock of learned ladies who ask the question.
A woman's life is important to her,--as is that of a man to him,--not chiefly in regard to that which she shall do with it. The chief thing for her to look to is the manner in which that something shall be done. It is of moment to a young man when entering life to decide whether he shall make hats or shoes; but not of half the moment that will be that other decision, whether he shall make good shoes or bad. And so with a woman;--if she shall have recognised the necessity of truth and honesty for the purposes of her life, I do not know that she need ask herself many questions as to what she will do with it.

 - that answer has as much wisdom in it as any other. That advice cannot, perhaps, always be followed to the letter; but neither can the advice given by the flock of learned ladies.
A woman's life is important to her - as is a man's to him - not chiefly with regard to what she shall do with it. The chief thing is the manner in which that something shall be done. It is important to a young man to decide whether he shall make hats or shoes; but not half so important as that other decision, whether he shall make good shoes or bad. And so with a woman; if she recognises the necessity of truth and honesty in her life, I do not know that she need ask what she will do with it.


Alice Vavasor was ever asking herself that question, and had by degrees filled herself with a vague idea that there was a something to be done; a something over and beyond, or perhaps altogether beside that marrying and having two children;--if she only knew what it was. She had filled herself, or had been filled by her cousins, with an undefined ambition that made her restless without giving her any real food for her mind. When she told herself that she would have no scope for action in that life in Cambridgeshire which Mr. Grey was preparing for her, she did not herself know what she meant by action. Had any one accused her of being afraid to separate herself from London society, she would have declared that she went very little into society and disliked that little. Had it been whispered to her that she loved the neighbourhood of the shops, she would have scorned the whisperer. Had it been suggested that the continued rattle of the big city was necessary to her happiness, she would have declared that she and her father had picked out for their residence the quietest street in London because she could not bear noise;--and yet she told herself that she feared to be taken into the desolate calmness of Cambridgeshire.

Alice Vavasor was always asking herself that question, and had filled herself with a vague idea that there was a something to be done beyond that marrying and having two children - if she only knew what it was. She was full of an undefined ambition that made her restless without giving her any real food for her mind. When she told herself that she would have no scope for action in life in Cambridgeshire with Mr. Grey, she did not herself know what she meant by action. She assured herself that she cared little for London society, or the shops, or the city's bustle; and yet she told herself that she feared the desolate calm of Cambridgeshire.


When she did contrive to find any answer to that question as to what she should do with her life,--or rather what she would wish to do with it if she were a free agent, it was generally of a political nature. She was not so far advanced as to think that women should be lawyers and doctors, or to wish that she might have the privilege of the franchise for herself; but she had undoubtedly a hankering after some second-hand political manoeuvering. She would have liked, I think, to have been the wife of the leader of a Radical opposition, in the time when such men were put into prison, and to have kept up for him his seditious correspondence while he lay in the Tower. She would have carried the answers to him inside her stays,--and have made long journeys down into northern parts without any money, if the cause required it. She would have liked to have around her ardent spirits, male or female, who would have talked of "the cause," and have kept alive in her some flame of political fire. As it was, she had no cause. Her father's political views were very mild. Lady Macleod's were deadly conservative. Kate Vavasor was an aspiring Radical just now, because her brother was in the same line; but during the year of the love-passages between George and Alice, George Vavasor's politics had been as conservative as you please. He did not become a Radical till he had quarrelled with his grandfather.

When she did manage to find any answer to that question of what she should do with her life, it was generally of a political nature. She was not so far advanced as to think that women should be lawyers and doctors, or to wish for the vote; but she undoubtedly hankered after some second-hand political manuvering. She would have liked to have around her ardent spirits, male or female, who talked of "the cause," and kept alive in her some flame of political fire.
As it was, she had no cause. Her father's political views were very mild. Lady Macleod's were deadly conservative. Kate Vavasor was an aspiring Radical just now, because her brother was; but during the year of the love-passages between George and Alice, George Vavasor's politics had been as conservative as you please. He did not become a Radical till he quarrelled with his grandfather.


Now, indeed, he was possessed of very advanced views,--views with which Alice felt that she could sympathize. But what would be the use of sympathizing down in Cambridgeshire? John Grey had, so to speak, no politics. He had decided views as to the treatment which the Roman Senate received from Augustus, and had even discussed with Alice the conduct of the Girondists at the time of Robespierre's triumph; but for Manchester and its cares he had no apparent solicitude, and had declared to Alice that he would not accept a seat in the British House of Commons if it were offered to him free of expense. What political enthusiasm could she indulge with such a companion down in Cambridgeshire?
She thought too much of all this,--and was, if I may say, over-prudent in calculating the chances of her happiness and of his. For, to give her credit for what was her due, she was quite as anxious on the latter head as on the former. "I don't care for the Roman Senate," she would say to herself. "I don't care much for the Girondists. How am I to talk to him day after day, night after night, when we shall be alone together?"

Now, indeed, George held very advanced Radical views, with which Alice felt that she could sympathize. But what would be the use of sympathizing down in Cambridgeshire? John Grey had no interest in modern politics. He had decided views about the Roman Senate and Augustus, and the Girondists in the French Revolution; but for Manchester and its concerns he cared nothing, and had declared to Alice that he would not accept a seat in the House of Commons if it were offered to him free. What political enthusiasm could she indulge with such a companion?
She thought too much of all this; and to give her due credit, was quite as anxious for his happiness as for her own.
"I don't care for the Roman Senate," she said to herself, "or for the Girondists. How am I to talk to him day after day, when we are alone together?"


No doubt her tour in Switzerland with her cousin had had some effect in making such thoughts stronger now than they had ever been. She had not again learned to love her cousin. She was as firmly sure as ever that she could never love him more. He had insulted her love; and though she had forgiven him and again enrolled him among her dearest friends, she could never again feel for him that passion which a woman means when she acknowledges that she is in love. That, as regarded her and George Vavasor, was over. But, nevertheless, there had been a something of romance during those days in Switzerland which she feared she would regret when she found herself settled at Nethercoats. She envied Kate. Kate could, as his sister, attach herself on to George's political career, and obtain from it all that excitement of life which Alice desired for herself. Alice could not love her cousin and marry him; but she felt that if she could do so without impropriety she would like to stick close to him like another sister, to spend her money in aiding his career in Parliament as Kate would do, and trust herself and her career into the boat which he was to command. She did not love her cousin; but she still believed in him,--with a faith which he certainly did not deserve.

No doubt her tour in Switzerland with her cousin had strengthened these thoughts. She was not in love with her cousin, and was firmly sure that she never could be. He had insulted her love; and though she had forgiven him and he was a dear friend, she could never again feel that passion for him. That was over.
But, nevertheless, there had been something of romance during those days in Switzerland which she feared she would regret when she found herself settled at Nethercoats. She envied Kate, who could attach herself to George's political career, and obtain from it all that excitement of life which Alice desired for herself. Alice could not marry her cousin; but she felt that if she could do so without impropriety, she would like to stick close to him like another sister, and to spend her money in aiding his career in Parliament as Kate would do. She did not love her cousin; but she still believed in him - with a faith which he certainly did not deserve.


As the two days passed over her, her mind grew more and more fixed as to its purpose. She would tell Mr. Grey that she was not fit to be his wife--and she would beg him to pardon her and to leave her. It never occurred to her that perhaps he might refuse to let her go. She felt quite sure that she would be free as soon as she had spoken the word which she intended to speak. If she could speak it with decision she would be free, and to attain that decision she would school herself with her utmost strength. At one moment she thought of telling all to her father and of begging him to break the matter to Mr. Grey; but she knew that her father would not understand her, and that he would be very hostile to her,--saying hard, uncomfortable words, which would probably be spared if the thing were done before he was informed. Nor would she write to Kate, whose letters to her at this time were full of wit at the expense of Mrs. Greenow. She would tell Kate as soon as the thing was done, but not before. That Kate would sympathize with her, she was quite certain.

In the two days before she was to see Mr. Grey, her mind grew more fixed in its purpose. She would tell Mr. Grey that she was not fit to be his wife. It never occurred to her that he might refuse to let her go. She felt that she merely needed the strength to speak in order to be free. She thought of telling all to her father and of begging him to break the matter to Mr. Grey; but she knew that her father would not understand. Nor would she write to Kate, although Kate would sympathize with her. She would tell Kate once the thing was done, but not before.


So the two days passed by and the time came at which John Grey was to be there. As the minute hand on the drawing-room clock came round to the full hour, she felt that her heart was beating with a violence which she could not repress. The thing seemed to her to assume bigger dimensions than it had hitherto done. She began to be aware that she was about to be guilty of a great iniquity, when it was too late for her to change her mind. She could not bring herself to resolve that she would, on the moment, change her mind. She believed that she could never pardon herself such weakness. But yet she felt herself to be aware that her purpose was wicked. When the knock at the door was at last heard she trembled and feared that she would almost be unable to speak to him. Might it be possible that there should yet be a reprieve for her? No; it was his step on the stairs, and there he was in the room with her.

As the hour approached at which John Grey was to arrive, she felt her heart was beating with a violence which she could not repress. She began to be aware that she was about to be guilty of a great iniquity. She would not change her mind. Yet she felt that her purpose was wicked.
When the knock at the door was at last heard she trembled. Then he was in the room with her.


"My dearest," he said, coming to her. His smile was sweet and loving as it ever was, and his voice had its usual manly, genial, loving tone. As he walked across the room Alice felt that he was a man of whom a wife might be very proud. He was tall and very handsome, with brown hair, with bright blue eyes, and a mouth like a god. It was the beauty of his mouth,--beauty which comprised firmness within itself, that made Alice afraid of him. He was still dressed in his morning clothes; but he was a man who always seemed to be well dressed. "My dearest," he said, advancing across the room, and before she knew how to stop herself or him, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.

"My dearest," he said, coming towards her. His smile was sweet and loving as always, and his voice had its usual manly, loving tone. As he walked across the room Alice felt that he was a man of whom a wife might be very proud. He was tall and handsome, with bright blue eyes, and a mouth like a god. It was the firm beauty of his mouth that made Alice afraid of him.
"My dearest," he said, advancing across the room, and before she knew how to stop him, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.


He did not immediately begin about the letter, but placed her upon the sofa, seating himself by her side, and looked into her face with loving eyes,--not as though to scrutinize what might be amiss there, but as though determined to enjoy to the full his privilege as a lover. There was no reproach at any rate in his countenance;--none as yet; nor did it seem that he thought that he had any cause for fear. They sat in this way for a moment or two in silence, and during those moments Alice was summoning up her courage to speak. The palpitation at her heart was already gone, and she was determined that she would speak.
"Though I am very glad to see you," she said, at last, "I am sorry that my letter should have given you the trouble of this journey."
"Trouble!" he said. "Nay, you ought to know that it is no trouble. I have not enough to do down at Nethercoats to make the running up to you at any time an unpleasant excitement. So your Swiss journey went off pleasantly?"

He did not immediately begin to talk about the letter, but placed her upon the sofa, sitting by her side, and looked at her lovingly. There was no reproach or scrutiny in his face - as yet; nor any fear.
Alice summoned up her courage to speak.
"Though I am very glad to see you," she said, "I am sorry that my letter should have given you the trouble of this journey."
"Trouble!" he said. "Nay, you ought to know that it is no trouble. So your Swiss journey went pleasantly?"


"Yes; it went off very pleasantly." This she said in that tone of voice which clearly implies that the speaker is not thinking of the words spoken.
"And Kate has now left you?"
"Yes; she is with her aunt, at the seaside."
"So I understand;--and your cousin George?"
"I never know much of George's movements. He may be in Town, but I have not seen him since I came back."

"Yes; very pleasantly." This she said as if not thinking of it.
"And Kate has now left you?"
"Yes; she is with her aunt, at the seaside."
"And your cousin George?"
"I never know much of George's movements. He may be in town, but I have not seen him since I came back.


"Ah! that is the way with friends living in London. Unless circumstances bring them together, they are in fact further apart than if they lived fifty miles asunder in the country. And he managed to get through all the trouble without losing your luggage for you very often?"
"If you were to say that we did not lose his, that would be nearer the mark. But, John, you have come up to London in this sudden way to speak to me about my letter to you. Is it not so?"
"Certainly it is so. Certainly I have."
"I have thought much, since, of what I then wrote, very much,--very much, indeed; and I have learned to feel sure that we had better--"

John, you have come to me about my letter. Is it not so?"
"Certainly it is so."
"I have thought much, since, of what I wrote; and I feel sure that we had better-"


"Stop, Alice; stop a moment, love. Do not speak hurriedly. Shall I tell you what I learned from your letter?"
"Yes; tell me, if you think it better that you should do so."
"Perhaps it may be better. I learned, love, that something had been said or done during your journey,--or perhaps only something thought, that had made you melancholy, and filled your mind for a while with those unsubstantial and indefinable regrets for the past which we are all apt to feel at certain moments of our life. There are few of us who do not encounter, now and again, some of that irrational spirit of sadness which, when over-indulged, drives men to madness and self-destruction. I used to know well what it was before I knew you; but since I have had the hope of having you in my house, I have banished it utterly. In that I think I have been stronger than you. Do not speak under the influence of that spirit till you have thought whether you, too, cannot banish it."

"Stop, Alice; stop a moment, love. Do not speak hurriedly. Shall I tell you what I learned from your letter?"
"Yes; if you think it better that you should do so."
"I learned, love, that something had been said or done during your journey - or perhaps only something thought, that had made you melancholy, and filled you with those indefinable regrets which we are all apt to feel at certain moments of our life. There are few of us who do not encounter, now and again, some of that irrational spirit of sadness which, when over-indulged, drives men to madness and self-destruction. I used to know it well, before I knew you; but since I have had the hope of having you in my house, I have banished it utterly. Do not speak under the influence of that spirit till you have thought whether you, too, cannot banish it."


"I have tried, and it will not be banished."
"Try again, Alice. It is a damned spirit, and belongs neither to heaven nor to earth. Do not say to me the words that you were about to say till you have wrestled with it manfully. I think I know what those words were to be. If you love me, those words should not be spoken. If you do not--"
"If I do not love you, I love no one upon earth."

"I have tried, and it will not be banished."
"Try again, Alice. It is an unholy spirit, and belongs neither to heaven nor to earth. Do not say to me the words that you were about to say till you have wrestled with it manfully. I think I know what those words were to be. If you love me, those words should not be spoken. If you do not-"
"If I do not love you, I love no one."


"I believe it. I believe it as I believe in my own love for you. I trust your love implicitly, Alice. I know that you love me. I think I can read your mind. Tell me that I may return to Cambridgeshire, and again plead my cause for an early marriage from thence. I will not take such speech from you to mean more than it says!"
She sat quiet, looking at him--looking full into his face. She had in nowise changed her mind, but after such words from him, she did not know how to declare to him her resolution. There was something in his manner that awed her,--and something also that softened her.

"I believe it. I trust your love implicitly, Alice. Tell me that I may again plead my cause for an early marriage!"
She sat quiet, looking at him. She had not changed her mind, but she did not know how to declare her resolution to him. There was something in his manner that awed her, and also softened her.


"Tell me," said he, "that I may see you again to-morrow morning in our usual quiet, loving way, and that I may return home to-morrow evening. Pronounce a yea to that speech from me, and I will ask for nothing further."
"No; I cannot do so," she said. And the tone of her voice, as she spoke, was different to any tone that he had heard before from her mouth.

"Tell me," said he, "that I may see you again tomorrow morning in our usual quiet, loving way. I will ask for nothing further."
"No; I cannot," she said. And the tone of her voice was different to any tone that he had heard before from her mouth.


"Is that melancholy fiend too strong for you?" He smiled as he said this, and as he smiled, he took her hand. She did not attempt to withdraw it, but sat by him in a strange calmness, looking straight before her into the middle of the room. "You have not struggled with it. You know, as I do, that it is a bad fiend and a wicked one,--a fiend that is prompting you to the worst cruelty in the world. Alice! Alice! Alice! Try to think of all this as though some other person were concerned. If it were your friend, what advice would you give her?"

"Is that melancholy fiend too strong for you?" He smiled as he said this, and took her hand. She did not attempt to withdraw it, but sat by him in a strange calm. "You have not struggled with it. You know, as I do, that it is a wicked fiend, that is prompting you to the worst cruelty in the world. Alice! Alice! Try to think as though some other person were concerned. If it were your friend, what advice would you give her?"


[Illustration: "If it were your friend, what advice would you give her?"]
"I would bid her tell the man who had loved her,--that is, if he were noble, good, and great,--that she found herself to be unfit to be his wife; and then I would bid her ask his pardon humbly on her knees." As she said this, she sank before him on to the floor, and looked up into his face with an expression of sad contrition which almost drew him from his purposed firmness.
He had purposed to be firm,--to yield to her in nothing, resolving to treat all that she might say as the hallucination of a sickened imagination,--as the effect of absolute want of health, for which some change in her mode of life would be the best cure. She might bid him begone in what language she would. He knew well that such was her intention. But he would not allow a word coming from her in such a way to disturb arrangements made for the happiness of their joint lives. As a loving husband would treat a wife, who, in some exceptionable moment of a melancholy malady, should declare herself unable to remain longer in her home, so would he treat her. As for accepting what she might say as his dismissal, he would as soon think of taking the fruit-trees from the southern wall because the sun sometimes shines from the north. He could not treat either his interests or hers so lightly as that.

"I would bid her tell the good and noble man who loved her that she found herself unfit to be his wife; and then I would bid her ask his pardon humbly on her knees." And Alice sank before him to the floor, and looked up into his face with sad contrition.
He had intended to yield to her in nothing, resolving to treat all that she might say as hallucination - as the effect of lack of health, for which some change in her mode of life would be the best cure. He knew what she intended. But he would not allow a word she said to disturb arrangements made for their joint happiness. He would treat her as a loving husband would treat a wife who was in the grip of a melancholy malady.


"But what if he granted no such pardon, Alice? I will grant none such. You are my wife, my own, my dearest, my chosen one. You are all that I value in the world, my treasure and my comfort, my earthly happiness and my gleam of something better that is to come hereafter. Do you think that I shall let you go from me in that way? No, love. If you are ill I will wait till your illness is gone by; and, if you will let me, I will be your nurse."
"I am not ill."

"But what if he granted no such pardon, Alice? I will grant none such. You are my wife, my dearest chosen one. You are all that I value in the world, my treasure and my comfort. Do you think that I shall let you go from me in that way? No, love. If you are ill I will wait till your illness is gone; and, if you will let me, I will be your nurse."
"I am not ill."


"Not ill with any defined sickness. You do not shake with ague, nor does your head rack you with aching; but yet you may be ill. Think of what has passed between us. Must you not be ill when you seek to put an end to all that without any cause assigned."
"You will not hear my reasons,"--she was still kneeling before him and looking up into his face.
"I will hear them if you will tell me that they refer to any supposed faults of my own."
"No, no, no!"

"Not with any defined sickness. You do not shake with fever; but yet you must be ill."
"You will not hear my reasons," she said, still kneeling before him and looking up into his face.
"I will hear them if you refer to supposed faults of my own."
"No, no!"


"Then I will not hear them. It is for me to find out your faults, and when I have found out any that require complaint, I will come and make it. Dear Alice, I wish you knew how I long for you." Then he put his hand upon her hair, as though he would caress her.
But this she would not suffer, so she rose slowly, and stood with her hand upon the table in the middle of the room. "Mr. Grey--" she said.
"If you will call me so, I shall think it only a part of your malady."
"Mr. Grey," she continued, "I can only hope that you will take me at my word."
"Oh, but I will not; certainly I will not, if that would be adverse to my own interests."

"Then I will not hear them. It is for me to find out your faults, and when I have found any that require complaint, I will come and make it. Dear Alice, I wish you knew how I long for you." He put his hand upon her hair, as though he would caress her. But at this she rose, and stood in the middle of the room.
"Mr. Grey," she said, "I hope that you will take me at my word."
"Oh, but I will not, if that would be adverse to my own interests."


"I am thinking of your interests; I am, indeed;--at any rate as much as of my own. I feel quite sure that I should not make you happy as your wife,--quite sure; and feeling that, I think that I am right, even after all that has passed, to ask your forgiveness, and to beg that our engagement may be over."
"No, Alice, no; never with my consent. I cannot tell you with what contentment I would marry you to-morrow,--to-morrow, or next month, or the month after. But if it cannot be so, then I will wait. Nothing but your marriage with some one else would convince me."
"I cannot convince you in that way," she said, smiling.
"You will convince me in no other. You have not spoken to your father of this as yet?"
"Not as yet."

"I am thinking of your interests as much as of my own. I feel quite sure that I should not make you happy as your wife; and feeling that, I think that I am right to ask your forgiveness, and to beg that our engagement may be over."
"No, Alice, never with my consent. I would happily marry you tomorrow. But if it cannot be so, then I will wait. Nothing but your marriage with someone else would convince me."
"I cannot convince you in that way," she said, smiling.
"You will convince me in no other. You have not spoken to your father yet?"
"Not yet."


"Do not do so, at any rate for the present. You will own that it might be possible that you would have to unsay what you had said."
"No; it is not possible."
"Give yourself and me the chance. It can do no harm. And, Alice, I ask you now for no reasons. I will not ask your reasons, or even listen to them, because I do not believe that they will long have effect even on yourself. Do you still think of going to Cheltenham?"
"I have decided nothing as yet."

"Do not do so for the present. You will admit that it might be possible that you would have to unsay what you had said."
"No; it is not possible."
"Give us both the chance. It can do no harm. And, Alice, I ask you for no reasons, because I do not believe that they will long have an effect on you. Do you still think of going to Cheltenham?"
"I have not decided."


"If I were you, I would go. I think a change of air would be good for you."
"Yes; you treat me as though I were partly silly, and partly insane; but it is not so. The change you speak of should be in my nature, and in yours."

"I think a change of air would be good for you."
"Yes; you treat me as though I were partly silly, and partly insane; but it is not so. The change you speak of should be in my nature, and in yours."


He shook his head and still smiled. There was something in the imperturbed security of his manner which almost made her angry with him. It seemed as though he assumed so great a superiority that he felt himself able to treat any resolve of hers as the petulance of a child. And though he spoke in strong language of his love, and of his longing that she should come to him, yet he was so well able to command his feelings, that he showed no sign of grief at the communication she had made to him. She did not doubt his love, but she believed him to be so much the master of his love,--as he was the master of everything else, that her separation from him would cause him no uncontrollable grief. In that she utterly failed to understand his character. Had she known him better, she might have been sure that such a separation now would with him have carried its mark to the grave. Should he submit to her decision, he would go home and settle himself to his books the next day; but on no following day would he be again capable of walking forth among his flowers with an easy heart. He was a strong, constant man, perhaps over-conscious of his own strength; but then his strength was great. "He is perfect!"

He shook his head and still smiled. There was something in the unperturbed security of his manner which almost made her angry with him. It seemed as though he assumed so great a superiority that he felt himself able to treat any resolve of hers as the petulance of a child. And though he spoke of his love, yet he was so well able to command his feelings that he showed no sign of grief. She did not doubt his love, but she believed him to be so much the master of his love - as he was the master of everything else - that their separation would cause him no uncontrollable grief.
In that she utterly failed to understand his character. Had she known him better, she might have been sure that such a separation would carry its mark on him to the grave. He would go home and settle himself to his books; but he would never again be capable of walking forth among his flowers with an easy heart. He was a strong, constant man, perhaps over-conscious of his own great strength.
"He is perfect!"


Alice had said to herself often. "Oh that he were less perfect!"
He did not stay with her long after the last word that has been recorded. "Perhaps," he said, as for a moment he held her hand at parting, "I had better not come to-morrow."
"No, no; it is better not."
"I advise you not to tell your father of this, and doubtless you will think of it before you do so. But if you do tell him, let me know that you have done so."
"Why that?"

Alice had said to herself often. "Oh, if only he were less perfect!"
He did not stay with her long. "Perhaps," he said, as he held her hand at parting, "I had better not come tomorrow."
"No, better not."
"I advise you not to tell your father of this; but if you do tell him, let me know."
"Why?"


"Because in such case I also must see him. God bless you, Alice! God bless you, dearest, dearest Alice!" Then he went, and she sat there on the sofa without moving, till she heard her father's feet as he came up the stairs.
"What, Alice, are you not in bed yet?"
"Not yet, papa."
"And so John Grey has been here. He has left his stick in the hall. I should know it among a thousand."
"Yes; he has been here."

"Because in that case I also must see him. God bless you, dearest, dearest Alice!" Then he went, and she sat on the sofa without moving, till she heard her father's feet coming up the stairs.
"What, Alice, are you not in bed yet?"
"Not yet, papa."
"So John Grey has been here. He has left his stick in the hall."
"Yes; he has been here."


"Is anything the matter, Alice?"
"No, papa, nothing is the matter."
"He has not made himself disagreeable, has he?"
"Not in the least. He never does anything wrong. He may defy man or woman to find fault with him."
"So that is it, is it? He is just a shade too good. Well, I have always thought that myself. But it's a fault on the right side."

"Is anything the matter, Alice?"
"No, papa, nothing."
"He has not made himself disagreeable, has he?"
"Not in the least. He never does anything wrong."
"So that's it, is it? He is just a shade too good. Well, I have always thought that myself. But it's a fault on the right side."


"It's no fault, Papa. If there be any fault, it is not with him. But I am yawning and tired, and I will go to bed."
"Is he to be here to-morrow?"
"No; he returns to Nethercoats early. Good night, papa."
Mr. Vavasor, as he went up to his bedroom, felt sure that there had been something wrong between his daughter and her lover. "I don't know how she'll ever put up with him," he said to himself, "he is so terribly conceited. I shall never forget how he went on about Charles Kemble, and what a fool he made of himself."
Alice, before she went to bed, sat down and wrote a letter to her cousin Kate.

"It's no fault, Papa. If there be any fault, it is not with him. But I am tired, and I will go to bed."
"Is he to be here tomorrow?"
"No; he returns to Nethercoats early. Good night, papa."
Mr. Vavasor, as he went to his bedroom, felt sure that something was wrong between his daughter and her lover. "I don't know how she'll ever put up with him," he said to himself, "he is so terribly conceited."
Alice, before she went to bed, sat down and wrote a letter to her cousin Kate.


About eleven o'clock on that night,--the night of the day on which Kate Vavasor's arm had been broken,--there came a gentle knock at Kate's bedroom door. There was nothing surprising in this, as of all the household Kate only was in bed. Her aunt was sitting at this time by her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned from Penrith and who had set her broken arm, was still in the house, talking over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before he proceeded back on his journey home.
"She will do very well," said the doctor. "It's only a simple fracture. I'll see her the day after to-morrow."
"Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilst walking?" asked Mr. Vavasor.

About eleven o'clock that night, there came a gentle knock at Kate's bedroom door. Her aunt was sitting by her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned from Penrith and who had set her broken arm, was still in the house, talking over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room.
"She will do very well," said the doctor. "It's only a simple fracture. I'll see her the day after tomorrow."
"Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilst walking?" asked Mr. Vavasor.


The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "One never can say how anything may occur," said he. "I know a young woman who broke the os femoris by just kicking her cat;--at least, she said she did."
"Indeed! I suppose you didn't take any trouble to inquire?"

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "One never can say how anything may happen.


"Not much. My business was with the injury, not with the way she got it. Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothing came of it. Good night, Mr. Vavasor. Don't trouble her with questions till she has had some hours' sleep, at any rate." Then the doctor went, and John Vavasor was left alone, standing with his back to the dining-room fire.
There had been so much trouble and confusion in the house since Kate had fainted, almost immediately upon her reaching home, that Mr. Vavasor had not yet had time to make up his mind as to the nature of the accident which had occurred. Mrs. Greenow had at once ascertained that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for. Luckily he had been found at home, and had reached the Hall a little before ten o'clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate recovered her senses, she volunteered her account of what had occurred.

Good night, Mr. Vavasor. Don't trouble her with questions till she has had some sleep."
Then the doctor went, and John Vavasor was left alone in the dining-room. There had been so much confusion in the house since Kate had fainted that he had not yet had time to make up his mind about the nature of the accident. Mrs. Greenow had found that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for, reaching the Hall a little before ten o'clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate had recovered her senses, she gave her account of what had occurred.


Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, she said, and had left her abruptly on the mountain. She had fallen, she went on to say, as she turned from him, and had at once found that she had hurt herself. But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and, indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed out of her sight. This was her story; and there was nothing in it that was false by the letter, though there was much that was false in the spirit. It was certainly true that George had not known that she was injured. It was true that she had asked him for no help. It was true, in one sense, that she had fallen, and it was true that she had not herself known how severe had been the injury done to her till he had gone beyond the reach of her voice. But she repressed all mention of his violence, and when she was pressed as to the nature of the quarrel, she declined to speak further on that matter.

She said that her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, and had left her abruptly on the mountain. She had fallen as she turned from him, and had found that she had hurt herself. But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and, indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed out of her sight.
This was her story; and there was nothing in it that was literally false. It was true, in one sense, that she had fallen, and had not known how severe had been the injury till he had gone. But she repressed all mention of his violence, and declined to speak further about the quarrel.


Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her. That was a matter of course, and she knew that they did not believe her. George's absence, their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which her arm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more to tell if she chose to tell it. But in her present condition they could not question her. Mrs. Greenow did ask as to the probability of her nephew's return.
"I can only tell you," said Kate, "that he went away across the Fell in the direction of Bampton. Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. He was very angry with us all; and as the house is not his own, he has probably resolved that he will not stay another night under the roof. But, who can say? He is not in his senses when he is angered."

Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her, and she knew it. George's absence, their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which her arm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more to tell. But in her present condition they could not question her. Mrs. Greenow did ask whether George was likely to return.
"I can only tell you," said Kate, "that he went away in the direction of Bampton. Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. He was very angry with us all; and he has probably resolved not to stay another night under this roof. But who can say? He is not in his senses when he is angered."


John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor's departure, endeavoured to ascertain the truth by thinking of it. "I am sure," he said to himself, "that the doctor suspects that there has been violence. I know it from his tone, and I can see it in his eye. But how to prove it? and would there be good in proving it? Poor girl! Will it not be better for her to let it pass as though we believed her story?" He made up his mind that it would be better. Why should he take upon himself the terrible task of calling this insane relation to account for an act which he could not prove? The will itself, without that trouble, would give him trouble enough.

John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor's departure, thought, "There is more to this. But how to prove it? and would there be any good in proving it? Poor girl! Will it not be better for her to let it pass as though we believed her story?"


Then he began to long that he was back at his club, and to think that the signing-room in Chancery Lane was not so bad. And so he went up to his bed, calling at Kate's door to ask after the patient.
In the meantime there had come a messenger to Mrs. Greenow, who had stationed herself with her niece. One of the girls of the house brought up a scrap of paper to the door, saying that a boy had brought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was intended for Miss Vavasor, and it was she who knocked at the sickroom door. The note was open and was not addressed; indeed, the words were written on a scrap of paper that was crumpled up rather than folded, and were as follows: "Send me my clothes by the bearer. I shall not return to the house." Mrs. Greenow took it in to Kate, and then went away to see her nephew's things duly put into his portmanteau. This was sent away in the cart, and Mr. Vavasor, as he went up-stairs, was told what had been done.

Then he began to long that he was back at his club; and he went up to his bed.
In the meantime a messenger came knocking at Kate's bedroom door. One of the girls of the house handed a scrap of paper to Mrs. Greenow, saying that a boy had brought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was for Miss Vavasor. The note was open; it was written on a crumpled scrap of paper, and read as follows:
"Send me my clothes by the bearer. I shall not return to the house."
Mrs. Greenow took it to Kate, and then went away to see her nephew's things duly packed up. They were sent away in the cart, and Mr. Vavasor, as he went upstairs, was told what had been done.


Neither on that night or on the following day did Mrs. Greenow ask any further questions; but on the morning after that, when the doctor had left them with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity would brook no further delay. And, indeed, indignation as well as curiosity urged her on. In disposition she was less easy, and, perhaps, less selfish, than her brother. If it were the case that that man had ill-treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring him to punishment. "Kate," she said, when the doctor was gone, "I expect that you will tell me the whole truth as to what occurred between you and your brother when you had this accident."
"I have told you the truth."
"But not the whole truth."
"All the truth I mean to tell, aunt. He has quarrelled with me, as I think, most unnecessarily, but you don't suppose that I am going to give an exact account of the quarrel? We were both wrong, probably, and so let there be an end of it."

Neither on that night or on the following day did Mrs. Greenow ask any further questions; but on the morning after that, when the doctor had left them with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity and indignation urged her on. She was less selfish than her brother. If George had ill-treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring him to punishment.
"Kate," she said, when the doctor was gone, "I expect that you will tell me the whole truth about this accident."
"I have told you the truth."
"But not the whole truth."
"All the truth I mean to tell, aunt. You don't suppose that I am going to give an exact account of our quarrel? We were both wrong, probably, and so let there be an end of it."


"Was he violent to you when he quarrelled with you?"
"When he is angry he is always violent in his language."
"But, did he strike you?"
"Dear aunt, don't be angry with me if I say that I won't be cross-examined. I would rather answer no more questions about it. I know that questioning can do no good."
Mrs. Greenow knew her niece well enough to be aware that nothing more would be told her, but she was quite sure now that Kate had not broken her arm by a simple fall. She was certain that the injury had come from positive violence. Had it not been so, Kate would not have contented herself with refusing to answer the last question that had been asked, but would also have repelled the charge made against her brother with indignation.
"You must have it your own way," said Mrs. Greenow; "but let me just tell you this, that your brother George had better keep out of my way."

"Was he violent to you?"
"When he is angry he is always violent in his language."
"But did he strike you?"
"Dear aunt, don't be angry, but I would rather answer no more questions about it."
Mrs. Greenow was quite sure now that Kate had not broken her arm by a simple fall. She was certain that the injury had come from positive violence, or Kate would have denied it indignantly.
"Have it your own way," said Mrs. Greenow; "but let me tell you that your brother George had better keep out of my path."


"It is probable that he will," said Kate. "Especially if you remain here to nurse me."
Kate's conduct in answering all the questions made to her was not difficult, but she found that there was much difficulty in planning her own future behaviour towards her own brother. Must she abandon him altogether from henceforth; divide herself from him, as it were; have perfectly separate interests, and interests that were indeed hostile? and must she see him ruined and overwhelmed by want of money, while she had been made a rich woman by her grandfather's will? It will be remembered that her life had hitherto been devoted to him; that all her schemes and plans had had his success as their object; that she had taught herself to consider it to be her duty to sacrifice everything to his welfare. It is very sad to abandon the only object of a life! It is very hard to tear out from one's heart and fling away from it the only love that one has cherished! What was she to say to Alice about all this--to Alice whom she had cheated of a husband worthy of her, that she might allure her into the arms of one so utterly unworthy? Luckily for Kate, her accident was of such a nature that any writing to Alice was now out of the question.

"He probably will," said Kate.
Kate found much difficulty in planning her own future behaviour towards her brother. Must she divide herself from him entirely? and must she see him ruined by lack of money, while she had been made rich by her grandfather's will? It will be remembered that her life had until now been devoted to him; all her schemes were for his success; she had taught herself to consider it her duty to sacrifice everything to his welfare. It is very hard to tear out from one's heart and fling away the only love that one has cherished!
And what was she to say to Alice about all this - to Alice, whom she had cheated of a worthy husband, to allure her into the arms of one so utterly unworthy? Luckily for Kate, her broken arm meant that writing to Alice was out of the question.


But a blow! What woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwards return to him with love? A wife may have to bear it and to return. And she may return with that sort of love which is a thing of custom. The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which they eat and which she eats. Habit and the ways of the world require that she should be careful in his interests, and that she should live with him in what amity is possible to them. But as for love,--all that we mean by love when we speak of it and write of it,--a blow given by the defender to the defenceless crushes it all! A woman may forgive deceit, treachery, desertion,--even the preference given to a rival. She may forgive them and forget them; but I do not think that a woman can forget a blow. And as for forgiveness,--it is not the blow that she cannot forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.

But what woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwards return to him with love? A wife may have to bear it and to return. The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which they eat. Habit and the ways of the world require that she should live with him in what amity is possible to them. But as for love - a blow given to the defenceless crushes it. A woman may forgive deceit, treachery, desertion; but I do not think that a woman can forget a blow. It is not the blow itself that she cannot forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.


Kate, as she thought of it, told herself that everything in life was over for her. She had long feared her brother's nature,--had feared that he was hard and heartless; but still there had been some hope with her fear. Success, if he could be made to achieve it, would soften him, and then all might be right. But now all was wrong, and she knew that it was so. When he had compelled her to write to Alice for money, her faith in him had almost succumbed. That had been very mean, and the meanness had shocked her. But now he had asked her to perjure herself that he might have his own way, and had threatened to murder her, and had raised his hand against her because she had refused to obey him. And he had accused her of treachery to himself,--had accused her of premeditated deceit in obtaining this property for herself!

Kate told herself that everything in life was over for her. She had long feared her brother's nature as hard and heartless; but still she had hoped that success would soften him, and then all might be right. But now all was wrong. When he had compelled her to write to Alice for money, his meanness had shocked her. But now he had asked her to perjure herself, and had threatened to murder her, and had hit her because she had refused to obey. And he had accused her of treachery - of deceit in obtaining the property for herself!


"But he does not believe it," said Kate to herself. "He said that because he thought it would vex me; but I know he does not think it." Kate had watched her brother longing for money all his life,--had thoroughly understood the intensity of his wish for it,--the agony of his desire. But so far removed was she from any such longing on her own account, that she could not believe that her brother would in his heart accuse her of it. How often had she offered to give him, on the instant, every shilling that she had in the world! At this moment she resolved, in her mind, that she never wished to see him more; but even now, had it been practicable, she would have made over to him, without any drawback, all her interest in the Vavasor estate.

"But he does not believe it," thought Kate. "He said that to vex me; but I know he does not think it." She had watched her brother longing for money all his life. How often had she offered to give him every shilling that she had in the world! At this moment she never wished to see him again; but even now, if she could, she would have made over to him all her interest in the Vavasor estate.


But any such making over was impossible. John Vavasor remained in Westmoreland for a week, and during that time many discussions were, of course, held about the property. Mr. Round came down from London, and met Mr. Gogram at Penrith. As to the validity of the will Mr. Round said that there was no shadow of a doubt. So an agent was appointed for receiving the rents, and it was agreed that the old Hall should be let in six months from that date. In the meantime Kate was to remain there till her arm should become strong, and she could make her plans for the future. Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hall for the present, and offered, indeed, indefinite services for the future, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield. Of Mr. Cheesacre she was not forgetful, for she still continued to speak of that gentleman to Kate, as though he were Kate's suitor. But she did not now press upon her niece the acceptance of Mr. Cheesacre's hand as an absolute duty. Kate was mistress of a considerable fortune, and though such a marriage might be comfortable, it was no longer necessary.

But any such making over was impossible. John Vavasor remained in Westmorland for a week, and during that time many discussions were held about the property. Mr. Round came from London, met Mr. Gogram and said there was no doubt about the validity of the will. It was agreed that the old Hall should be let in six months. In the meantime Kate was to remain there till her arm should mend, and she could make her plans for the future.
Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hall, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield. Of Mr. Cheesacre she was not forgetful, for she continued to speak of him as though he were Kate's suitor. But she did not press the acceptance of Mr. Cheesacre's hand upon her niece. Kate was mistress of a considerable fortune now, and such a marriage was no longer necessary.


Mrs. Greenow called him poor Cheesacre, pointing out how easily he might be managed, and how indubitable were his possessions; but she no longer spoke of Kate's chances in the marriage market as desperate, even though she should decline the Cheesacre alliance.
"A young woman, with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty nearly what she pleases," said aunt Greenow. "It's better than having ten years' grace given you."
"And will last longer, certainly," said Kate.
Kate's desire was that Alice should come down to her for a while in Westmoreland, before the six months were over, and this desire she mentioned to her uncle. He promised to carry the message up to Alice, but could not be got to say more than that upon the subject. Then Mr. Vavasor went away, leaving the aunt and niece together at the Hall.
"What on earth shall we do if that wild beast shows himself suddenly among us women?" asked Mrs. Greenow of her brother.
The brother could only say, "that he hoped the wild beast would keep his distance."

Mrs. Greenow pointed out how easily he might be managed; but she no longer spoke of Kate's chances in the marriage market as desperate.
"A young woman with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty nearly what she pleases," said aunt Greenow.
Kate hoped that Alice would come to her for a while in Westmorland, and her uncle promised to carry this message to Alice. Then Mr. Vavasor went away, leaving the aunt and niece together at the Hall.
"What on earth shall we do if that wild beast suddenly appears?" Mrs. Greenow had asked her brother.
He could only say that he hoped the wild beast would keep his distance.


And the wild beast did keep his distance, at any rate as long as Mrs. Greenow remained at the Hall. We will now go back to the wild beast, and tell how he walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton, a little village at the foot of Haweswater. It will be remembered that after he had struck his sister, he turned away from her, and walked with quick steps down the mountain-side, never turning back to look at her. He had found himself to be without any power of persuasion over her, as regarded her evidence to be given, if the will were questioned. The more he threatened her the steadier she had been in asserting her belief in her grandfather's capacity. She had looked into his eye and defied him, and he had felt himself to be worsted. What was he to do? In truth, there was nothing for him to do. He had told her that he would murder her; and in the state of mind to which his fury had driven him, murder had suggested itself to him as a resource to which he might apply himself. But what could he gain by murdering her,--or, at any rate, by murdering her then, out on the mountain-side?

And the wild beast did keep his distance, at any rate as long as Mrs. Greenow remained at the Hall.
We will now go back to him, and tell how he walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton, a village at the foot of Haweswater. It will be remembered that after he had struck his sister, he turned away and walked quickly down the mountain-side. He had found himself to be without any power of persuasion over her. The more he threatened her, the steadier she had been. She had looked into his eye and defied him, and he had felt himself to be worsted. What was he to do?
In truth, there was nothing for him to do. He had told her that he would murder her; but what could he gain by murdering her out on the mountain-side?


Nothing but a hanging! There would be no gratification even to his revenge. If, indeed, he had murdered that old man, who was now, unfortunately, gone beyond the reach of murder;--if he could have poisoned the old man's cup before that last will had been made--there might have been something in such a deed! But he had merely thought of it, letting "I dare not wait upon I would"--as he now told himself, with much self-reproach. Nothing was to be got by killing his sister. So he restrained himself in his passion, and walked away from her, solitary, down the mountain.

Nothing but a hanging! If, indeed, he had murdered that old man - if he could have poisoned the old man's cup before that last will had been made - that might have been something! But nothing was to be got by killing his sister. So he walked away from her down the mountain.


The rain soon came on, and found him exposed on the hill-side. He thought little about it, but buttoned his coat, as I have said before, and strode on. It was a storm of rain, so that he was forced to hold his head to one side, as it hit him from the north. But with his hand to his hat, and his head bent against the wind, he went on till he had reached the valley at the foot, and found that the track by which he had been led thither had become a road. He had never known the mountains round the Hall as Kate had known them, and was not aware whither he was going. On one thing only had he made up his mind since he had left his sister, and that was that he would not return to the house. He knew that he could do nothing there to serve his purpose; his threats would be vain impotence; he had no longer any friend in the house. He could hardly tell himself what line of conduct he would pursue, but he thought that he would hurry back to London, and grasp at whatever money he could get from Alice. He was still, at this moment, a Member of Parliament; and as the rain drenched him through and through, he endeavoured to get consolation from the remembrance of that fact in his favour.

The rain soon came on, and he buttoned his coat, and strode on till he reached the valley, and found that the track had become a road. He had never known these mountains as Kate knew them, and was not aware of where he was going. He had simply made up his mind that he would not return to the house. He thought that he would hurry back to London, and grasp at whatever money he could get from Alice. He was still, at this moment, a Member of Parliament; and as the rain drenched him through, he tried to get consolation from remembering that fact.


As he got near the village he overtook a shepherd boy coming down from the hills, and learned his whereabouts from him. "Baampton," said the boy, with an accent that was almost Scotch, when he was asked the name of the place. When Vavasor further asked whether a gig were kept there, the boy simply stared at him, not knowing a gig by that name. At last, however, he was made to understand the nature of his companion's want, and expressed his belief that "John Applethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a mickle cart." But the Craigs was a farm-house, which now came in view about a mile off, up across the valley; and Vavasor, hoping that he might still find a speedier conveyance than John Applethwaite's mickle cart, went on to the public-house in the village. But, in truth, neither there, nor yet from John Applethwaite, to whom at last an application was sent, could he get any vehicle; and between six and seven he started off again, through the rain, to make his weary way on foot to Shap. The distance was about five miles, and the little byways, lying between walls, were sticky, and almost glutinous with light-coloured, chalky mud. Before he started he took a glass of hot rum-and-water, but the effect of that soon passed away from him, and then he became colder and weaker than he had been before.

As he got near the village he overtook a shepherd boy coming down from the hills, and learned here he was. "Baampton," said the boy.
When Vavasor asked whether a gig were kept there, the boy simply stared at him. At last, however, he was made to understand, and said that "John Applethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a mickle cart." Vavasor, hoping that he might find a speedier conveyance than John Applethwaite's mickle cart, went on to the public-house in the village.
But neither there, nor from John Applethwaite, to whom at last an application was sent, could he get any vehicle; and between six and seven he started off again, through the rain, to make his weary way on foot to Shap. The distance was about five miles, and the paths were sticky and almost glutinous with pale, chalky mud. Before he started he took a glass of hot rum-and-water, but the effect of that soon passed away, and he became colder and weaker than he had been before.


Wearily and wretchedly he plodded on. A man may be very weary in such a walk as that, and yet be by no means wretched. Tired, hungry, cold, wet, and nearly penniless, I have sat me down and slept among those mountain tracks,--have slept because nature refused to allow longer wakefulness. But my heart has been as light as my purse, and there has been something in the air of the hills that made me buoyant and happy in the midst of my weariness. But George Vavasor was wretched as well as weary, and every step that he took, plodding through the mud, was a new misfortune to him. What are five miles of a walk to a young man, even though the rain be falling and the ways be dirty? what, though they may come after some other ten that he has already traversed on his feet? His sister Kate would have thought nothing of the distance. But George stopped on his way from time to time, leaning on the loose walls, and cursing the misfortune that had brought him to such a pass. He cursed his grandfather, his uncle, his sister, his cousin, and himself.

Wearily and wretchedly he plodded on. A man may be very weary in such a walk as that, and yet be by no means wretched, if his heart is light. But George Vavasor was wretched as well as weary, and he stopped from time to time, leaning on the loose walls, and cursing his misfortune.
He cursed his grandfather, his uncle, his sister, his cousin, and himself.


He cursed the place in which his forefathers had lived, and he cursed the whole county. He cursed the rain, and the wind, and his town-made boots, which would not keep out the wet slush. He cursed the light as it faded, and the darkness as it came. Over and over again he cursed the will that had robbed him, and the attorney that had made it. He cursed the mother that had borne him and the father that had left him poor. He thought of Scruby, and cursed him, thinking how that money would be again required of him by that stern agent. He cursed the House of Commons, which had cost him so much, and the greedy electors who would not send him there without his paying for it. He cursed John Grey, as he thought of those two thousand pounds, with double curses. He cursed this world, and all worlds beyond; and thus, cursing everything, he made his way at last up to the inn at Shap.

He cursed the place in which his forefathers had lived, and he cursed the whole county. He cursed the rain, and the wind, and his town-made boots, which would not keep out the wet slush. He cursed the light as it faded, and the darkness as it came. Over and over again he cursed the will that had robbed him, and the attorney that had made it. He cursed the House of Commons, which had cost him so much, and the greedy electors who would not send him there without his paying for it. He cursed John Grey with double curses. Thus, cursing everything, he made his way at last up to the inn at Shap.


It was nearly nine when he got there. He had wasted over an hour at Bampton in his endeavour to get John Applethwaite's cart to carry him on, and he had been two hours on his walk from Bampton to Shap,--two hours amidst his cursing. He ordered supper and brandy-and-water, and, as we know, sent off a Mercury for his clothes. But the Mercuries of Westmoreland do not move on quick wings, and it was past midnight before he got his possessions. During all this time he had, by no means, ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiled ham and while he swallowed his brandy-and-water. He swore aloud, so that the red-armed servant at the inn could not but hear him, that those thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes;--that they would not send him his property. He could not restrain himself, though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause, as regarded the property in Westmoreland, if ever he could make a cause. He knew that he had been mad to strike his sister, and cursed himself for his madness. Yet he could not restrain himself. He told himself that the battle for him was over, and he thought of poison for himself.

It was nearly nine when he got there. He ordered supper and brandy-and-water, and, as we know, sent off a messenger for his clothes. But it was past midnight before he got his possessions. During all this time he had not ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiled ham and brandy-and-water. He swore aloud, so that the servant could not help hearing, that those thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes. He could not restrain himself, though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause. He knew that he had been mad to strike his sister, and cursed himself for his madness. Yet he could not restrain himself. He thought of poison for himself, and


He thought of poison, and a pistol,--of the pistols he had ever loaded at home, each with six shots, good for a life apiece. He thought of an express train, rushing along at its full career, and of the instant annihilation which it would produce. But if that was to be the end of him, he would not go alone. No, indeed! why should he go alone, leaving those pistols ready loaded in his desk? Among them they had brought him to ruin and to death. Was he a man to pardon his enemies when it was within his power to take them with him, down, down, down--? What were the last words upon his impious lips, as with bloodshot eyes, half drunk, and driven by the Fury, he took himself off to the bed prepared for him, cursing aloud the poor red-haired girl as he went, I may not utter here.

 of his pistols. He thought of an express train, and of the instant annihilation which it would produce.
But he would not go alone. No, indeed! why should he go alone, leaving those pistols ready loaded in his desk? Was he a man to pardon his enemies when he could take them with him, down, down, down? With bloodshot eyes, half drunk, and driven by the Fury, he took himself off to bed, cursing the poor servant as he went.


On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in vain. The old butler and factotum of the house, who was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife's triumphs, was interrogated by his mistress, and said that he thought Mr. Burgo had left the house. Lady Monk herself knocked at her nephew's door, when she went up-stairs, ascending an additional flight of stairs with her weary old limbs in order that she might do so; she even opened the door and saw the careless debris of his toilet about the room. But he was gone. "Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it," she said to herself, as she went down to her own room.

On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone, his aunt inquired for him in vain. The old butler said that he thought Mr. Burgo had left the house. Lady Monk went to her nephew's door, and saw the careless debris of his dressing about the room. But he was gone.
"Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it," she said to herself.