Then he touched lightly, and almost with grace to his opponents, on many subjects, promising support, and barely hinting that they were totally and manifestly wrong in all things. But--. Then the tone of his voice changed, and the well-known look of fury was assumed upon his countenance. Then great Jove on the other side pulled his hat over his eyes, and smiled blandly. Then members put away the papers they had been reading for a moment, and men in the gallery began to listen. But--. The long and the short of it was this; that the existing Government had come into power on the cry of a reduction of taxation, and now they were going to shirk the responsibility of their own measures. They were going to shirk the responsibility of their own election cry, although it was known that their own Chancellor of the Exchequer was prepared to carry it out to the full. He was willing to carry it out to the full were he not restrained by the timidity, falsehood, and treachery of his colleagues, of whom, of course, the most timid, the most false, and the most treacherous was--the great god Jove, who sat blandly smiling on the other side.
[Illustration: Great Jove.]

Then he touched lightly and gracefully on many subjects of legislation, promising support, and just hinting that they were totally and manifestly wrong in all things.
But- The tone of his voice changed, and he assumed a well-known look of fury. Members put away the papers they had been reading, and began to listen. But - the existing Government had come into power on the promise of a reduction of taxation, and now they were going to shirk the responsibility of their own promise. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was prepared to carry it out - but was restrained by the timidity and treachery of his colleagues, of whom, of course, the most timid and treacherous was - the great god Jove, who sat blandly smiling on the government side.


No one should ever go near the House of Commons who wishes to enjoy all this. It was so manifestly evident that neither Jove nor any of his satellites cared twopence for what the irate gentleman was saying; nay, it became so evident that, in spite of his assumed fury, the gentleman was not irate. He intended to communicate his look of anger to the newspaper reports of his speech; and he knew from experience that he could succeed in that. And men walked about the House in the most telling moments,--enemies shaking hands with enemies,--in a way that showed an entire absence of all good, honest hatred among them. But the gentleman went on and finished his speech, demanding at last, in direct terms, that the Treasury Jove should state plainly to the House who was to be, and who was not to be, the bearer of the purse among the gods.
Then Treasury Jove got up smiling, and thanked his enemy for the cordiality of his support. "He had always," he said, "done the gentleman's party justice for their clemency, and had feared no opposition from them; and he was glad to find that he was correct in his anticipations as to the course they would pursue on the present occasion." He went on saying a good deal about home matters, and foreign matters, proving that everything was right, just as easily as his enemy had proved that everything was wrong. On all these points he was very full, and very courteous; but when he came to the subject of taxation, he simply repeated the passage from the Queen's Speech, expressing a hope that his right honourable friend, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, would be able to satisfy the judgement of the House, and the wishes of the people. That specially personal question which had been asked he did not answer at all.

It was obvious Jove did not care twopence for what the irate gentleman was saying; and in fact the gentleman was not irate. His look of anger was for the newspaper reports. But he finished his speech by demanding that Jove should state plainly to the House who was to be the bearer of the purse among the gods.
Then got up smiling, and thanked his enemy. He spoke a good deal about home matters, and foreign matters, proving that everything was right just as easily as his enemy had proved that everything was wrong. When he came to the subject of taxation, he simply repeated the passage from the Queen's Speech, expressing a hope that his right honourable friend, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, would be able to satisfy the judgement of the House, and the wishes of the people.


But the House was still all agog, as was the crowded gallery. The energetic and still existing Chancellor of the Exchequer was then present, divided only by one little thin Secretary of State from Jove himself. Would he get up and declare his purposes? He was a man who almost always did get up when an opportunity offered itself,--or when it did not. Some second little gun was fired off from the Opposition benches, and then there was a pause. Would the purse-bearer of Olympus rise upon his wings and speak his mind, or would he sit in silence upon his cloud? There was a general call for the purse-bearer, but he floated in silence, and was inexplicable. The purse-bearer was not to be bullied into any sudden reading of the riddle. Then there came on a general debate about money matters, in which the purse-bearer did say a few words, but he said nothing as to the great question at issue. At last up got Mr. Palliser, towards the close of the evening, and occupied a full hour in explaining what taxes the Government might remit with safety, and what they might not,--Mr. Bott, meanwhile, prompting him with figures from behind with an assiduity that was almost too persistent.

But the House was all agog, as was the crowded gallery. The energetic and still existing Chancellor of the Exchequer was divided only by one little thin Secretary of State from Jove himself. Would he get up and declare his purposes? No. He floated in silence, and was inexplicable. Then there was a general debate about money matters, in which the purse-bearer did say a few words, but nothing about the great question.
At last up got Mr. Palliser, towards the close of the evening, and occupied a full hour in explaining what taxes the Government might remit with safety, and what they might not, Mr. Bott prompting him with figures from behind almost too assiduously.


According to Mr. Palliser, the words used in the Queen's Speech were not at all too cautious. The Members went out gradually, and the House became very thin during this oration; but the newspapers declared, next morning, that his speech had been the speech of the night, and that the perspicuity of Mr. Palliser pointed him out as the coming man.

The Members went out gradually during this oration; but the newspapers declared, next morning, that his speech had been the speech of the night, and that Mr. Palliser was the coming man.


He returned home to his house in Park Lane quite triumphant after his success, and found Lady Glencora, at about twelve o'clock, sitting alone. She had arrived in town on that day, having come up at her own request, instead of remaining at Matching Priory till after Easter, as he had proposed. He had wished her to stay, in order, as he had said, that there might be a home for his cousins. But she had expressed herself unwilling to remain without him, explaining that the cousins might have the home in her absence, as well as they could in her presence; and he had given way. But, in truth, she had learned to hate her cousin Iphy Palliser with a hatred that was unreasonable,--seeing that she did not also hate Alice Vavasor, who had done as much to merit her hatred as had her cousin. Lady Glencora knew by what means her absence from Monkshade had been brought about. Miss Palliser had told her all that had passed in Alice's bedroom on the last night of Alice's stay at Matching, and had, by so doing, contrived to prevent the visit. Lady Glencora understood well all that Alice had said: and yet, though she hated Miss Palliser for what had been done, she entertained no anger against Alice. Of course Alice would have prevented that visit to Monkshade if it were in her power to do so. Of course she would save her friend.

He returned home to his house in Park Lane quite triumphant, and found Lady Glencora, at about twelve o'clock, sitting alone. She had arrived in town on that day, although he had wished her to stay at Matching Priory till after Easter, with his cousins. But she had said she was unwilling to remain without him, explaining that the cousins might have the home in her absence; and he had given way.
In truth, she had learned to hate her cousin Iphy Palliser with an unreasonable hatred. Lady Glencora knew how her absence from Monkshade had been brought about. Miss Palliser had told her all that had passed in Alice's bedroom on the last night of her stay. Yet Lady Glencora had no anger against Alice.


It is hardly too much to say that Lady Glencora looked to Alice to save her. Nevertheless she hated Iphy Palliser for engaging herself in the same business. Lady Glencora looked to Alice to save her, and yet it may be doubted whether she did, in truth, wish to be saved.

It is hardly too much to say that Lady Glencora looked to Alice to save her. Nevertheless she hated Iphy Palliser for engaging herself in the same business. And it may be doubted whether Lady Glencora did, in truth, wish to be saved.


While she was at Matching, and before Mr. Palliser had returned from Monkshade, a letter reached her, by what means she had never learned. "A letter has been placed within my writing-case," she said to her maid, quite openly. "Who put it there?" The maid had declared her ignorance in a manner that had satisfied Lady Glencora of her truth. "If such a thing happens again," said Lady Glencora, "I shall be obliged to have the matter investigated. I cannot allow that anything should be put into my room surreptitiously." There, then, had been an end of that, as regarded any steps taken by Lady Glencora. The letter had been from Burgo Fitzgerald, and had contained a direct proposal that she should go off with him. "I am at Matching," the letter said, "at the Inn; but I do not dare to show myself, lest I should do you an injury. I walked round the house yesterday, at night, and I know that I saw your room.

While she was at Matching, a letter reached her, by what means she never learned, although she suspected her maid of placing it inside her writing-case. The letter had been from Burgo Fitzgerald, and had contained a direct proposal that she should go off with him.
"I am at Matching," the letter said, "at the Inn; but I do not dare to show myself. I walked round the house yesterday, at night, and I know that I saw your room.


If I am wrong in thinking that you love me, I would not for worlds insult you by my presence; but if you love me still, I ask you to throw aside from you that fictitious marriage, and give yourself to the man whom, if you love him, you should regard as your husband." There had been more of it, but it had been to the same effect. To Lady Glencora it had seemed to convey an assurance of devoted love,--of that love which, in former days, her friends had told her was not within the compass of Burgo's nature. He had not asked her to meet him then, but saying that he would return to Matching after Parliament was met, begged her to let him have some means of knowing whether her heart was true to him.

If you love me still, I ask you to throw aside that fictitious marriage, and give yourself to the man whom, if you love him, you should regard as your husband."
To Lady Glencora the letter had seemed to assure devoted love - that love which, formerly, her friends had told her that Burgo was not capable of feeling. Saying that he would return to Matching after Parliament was met, he begged her to let him know whether her heart was true to him.


She told no one of the letter, but she kept it, and read it over and over again in the silence and solitude of her room. She felt that she was guilty in thus reading it,--even in keeping it from her husband's knowledge; but though conscious of this guilt, though resolute almost in its commission, still she determined not to remain at Matching after her husband's departure,--not to undergo the danger of remaining there while Burgo Fitzgerald should be in the vicinity. She could not analyse her own wishes. She often told herself, as she had told Alice, that it would be better for them all that she should go away; that in throwing herself even to the dogs, if such must be the result, she would do more of good than of harm. She declared to herself, in the most passionate words she could use, that she loved this man with all her heart. She protested that the fault would not be hers, but theirs, who had forced her to marry the man she did not love. She assured herself that her husband had no affection for her, and that their marriage was in every respect prejudicial to him. She recurred over and over again, in her thoughts, to her own childlessness, and to his extreme desire for an heir. "Though I do sacrifice myself," she would say, "I shall do more of good than harm, and I cannot be more wretched than I am now." But yet she fled to London because she feared to leave herself at Matching when Burgo Fitzgerald should be there.

She told no one of the letter, but she kept it, and read it over and over again in the silence of her room. She felt that she was guilty in thus reading it; but she determined not to undergo the danger of remaining at Matching while Burgo Fitzgerald was nearby.
She could not analyse her own wishes. She often told herself, as she had told Alice, that it would be better for them all that she should go away. She declared to herself that she loved Burgo with all her heart. She protested that the fault would not be hers, but theirs, who had forced her to marry the man she did not love. She assured herself that her husband had no affection for her, and that their marriage was damaging to him. She recurred over and over again, in her thoughts, to her own childlessness, and to his extreme desire for an heir.
"If I do sacrifice myself," she would say, "I shall do more good than harm, and I cannot be more wretched than I am now."
Yet she fled to London rather than risk having Burgo Fitzgerald near.


She sent no answer to his letter. She made no preparation for going with him. She longed to see Alice, to whom alone, since her marriage, had she ever spoken of her love, and intended to tell her the whole tale of that letter. She was as one who, in madness, was resolute to throw herself from a precipice, but to whom some remnant of sanity remained which forced her to seek those who would save her from herself.
Mr. Palliser had not seen her since her arrival in London, and, of course, he took her by the hand and kissed her. But it was the embrace of a brother rather than of a lover or a husband. Lady Glencora, with her full woman's nature, understood this thoroughly, and appreciated by instinct the true bearing of every touch from his hand. "I hope you are well?" she said.

She sent no answer to his letter. She made no preparation for going with him. She longed to see Alice and to tell her about that letter. She was like one who, in madness, was resolved to throw herself from a precipice, but to whom some remnant of sanity remained which forced her to seek those who would save her from herself.
Mr. Palliser had not seen her since her arrival in London, and of course, he took her by the hand and kissed her. But it was the embrace of a brother rather than a lover or a husband. Lady Glencora understood this thoroughly.
"I hope you are well?" she said.


"Oh, yes; quite well. And you? A little fatigued with your journey, I suppose?"
"No; not much."
"Well, we have had a debate on the Address. Don't you want to know how it has gone?"
"If it has concerned you particularly, I do, of course."
"Concerned me! It has concerned me certainly."
"They haven't appointed you yet; have they?"

"Oh, yes; quite well. And you? A little fatigued with your journey, I suppose?"
"No; not much."
"Well, we have had a debate on the Address. Don't you want to know how it has gone?"
"If it has concerned you particularly, I do, of course."
"It has concerned me certainly."
"They haven't appointed you yet, have they?"


"No; they don't appoint people during debates, in the House of Commons. But I fear I shall never make you a politician."
"I'm almost afraid you never will. But I'm not the less anxious for your success, since you wish it yourself. I don't understand why you should work so very hard; but, as you like it, I'm as anxious as anybody can be that you should triumph."
"Yes; I do like it," he said. "A man must like something, and I don't know what there is to like better. Some people can eat and drink all day; and some people can care about a horse. I can do neither."

"No; they don't appoint people during debates in the House of Commons. But I fear I shall never make you a politician."
"I'm afraid you never will. But I'm not the less anxious for your success, since you wish it yourself. I don't understand why you should work so very hard; but, as you like it, I'm as anxious as anybody can be that you should triumph."
"Yes; I do like it," he said. "A man must like something, and I don't know what there is to like better.


And there were others, Lady Glencora thought, who could love to lie in the sun, and could look up into the eyes of women, and seek their happiness there. She was sure, at any rate, that she knew one such. But she said nothing of this.
"I spoke for a moment to Lord Brock," said Mr. Palliser. Lord Brock was the name by which the present Jove of the Treasury was known among men.
"And what did Lord Brock say?"
"He didn't say much, but he was very cordial."
"But I thought, Plantagenet, that he could appoint you if he pleased? Doesn't he do it all?"

I spoke for a moment to Lord Brock." This was the name of the present Jove.
"And what did Lord Brock say?"
"He didn't say much, but he was very cordial."
"But I thought, Plantagenet, that he could appoint you if he pleased? Doesn't he decide it all?"


"Well, in one sense, he does. But I don't suppose I shall ever make you understand." He endeavoured, however, to do so on the present occasion, and gave her a somewhat longer lecture on the working of the British Constitution, and the manner in which British politics evolved themselves, than would have been expected from most young husbands to their young wives under similar circumstances. Lady Glencora yawned, and strove lustily, but ineffectually, to hide her yawn in her handkerchief.
"But I see you don't care a bit about it," said he, peevishly.
"Don't be angry, Plantagenet. Indeed I do care about it, but I am so ignorant that I can't understand it all at once. I am rather tired, and I think I'll go to bed now. Shall you be late?"

"Well, in one sense, he does. But I don't suppose I shall ever make you understand." He tried, however, to do so, and gave her a somewhat longer lecture on the working of the British Constitution than would have been expected from most young husbands to their young wives. Lady Glencora yawned, and tried to hide her yawn in her handkerchief.
"But I see you don't care a bit about it," said he, peevishly.
"Don't be angry, Plantagenet. Indeed I do care about it, but I am so ignorant that I can't understand it all at once. I am rather tired, and I think I'll go to bed now. Shall you be late?"


"No, not very; that is, I shall be rather late. I've a lot of letters I want to write to-night, as I must be at work all to-morrow. By-the-by, Mr. Bott is coming to dine here. There will be no one else." The next day was a Wednesday, and the House would not sit in the evening.
"Mr. Bott!" said Lady Glencora, showing by her voice that she anticipated no pleasure from that gentleman's company.
"Yes, Mr. Bott. Have you any objection?"

"No, not very; that is, I shall be rather late. I've a lot of letters I want to write tonight, By-the-by, Mr. Bott is coming to dine tomorrow."
"Mr. Bott!" said Lady Glencora with displeasure.
"Have you any objection?"


"Oh, no. Would you like to dine alone with him?"
"Why should I dine alone with him? Why shouldn't you eat your dinner with us? I hope you are not going to become fastidious, and to turn up your nose at people. Mrs. Marsham is in town, and I dare say she'll come to you if you ask her."

"Oh, no. Would you like to dine alone with him?"
"Why should I dine alone with him? Why shouldn't you eat your dinner with us? I hope you are not going to become fastidious, and to turn up your nose at people. Mrs. Marsham is in town, and I dare say she'll come if you ask her."


But this was too much for Lady Glencora. She was disposed to be mild, but she could not endure to have her two duennas thus brought upon her together on the first day of her arrival in London. And Mrs. Marsham would be worse than Mr. Bott. Mr. Bott would be engaged with Mr. Palliser during the greater part of the evening. "I thought," said she, "of asking my cousin, Alice Vavasor, to spend the evening with me."
"Miss Vavasor!" said the husband. "I must say that I thought Miss Vavasor--" He was going to make some allusion to that unfortunate hour spent among the ruins, but he stopped himself.

But this was too much for Lady Glencora. She could not endure to have her two duennas together on the first day of her arrival in London. And Mrs. Marsham would be worse than Mr. Bott, who would be talking to Mr. Palliser most of the evening.
"I thought," said she, "of asking my cousin, Alice Vavasor, to spend the evening with me."
"Miss Vavasor!" said the husband. "I must say that I thought Miss Vavasor-" He was going to allude to that unfortunate hour spent among the ruins, but he stopped himself.


"I hope you have nothing to say against my cousin?" said his wife. "She is my only near relative that I really care for;--the only woman, I mean."
"No; I don't mean to say anything against her. She's very well as a young lady, I dare say. I would sooner that you would ask Mrs. Marsham to-morrow."
Lady Glencora was standing, waiting to go away to her own room, but it was absolutely necessary that this matter should be decided before she went. She felt that he was hard to her, and unreasonable, and that he was treating her like a child who should not be allowed her own way in anything. She had endeavoured to please him, and, having failed, was not now disposed to give way.

"I hope you have nothing to say against my cousin?" said his wife.
"No; I don't mean to say anything against her. But I would rather that you would ask Mrs. Marsham tomorrow."
Lady Glencora felt that he was hard on her, and unreasonable, and that he was treating her like a child who should not be allowed her own way in anything. She had tried to please him, and, having failed, was not now disposed to give way.


"As there will be no other ladies here to-morrow evening, Plantagenet, and as I have not yet seen Alice since I have been in town, I wish you would let me have my way in this. Of course I cannot have very much to say to Mrs. Marsham, who is an old woman."
"I especially want Mrs. Marsham to be your friend," said he.
"Friendships will not come by ordering, Plantagenet," said she.
[Illustration: "Friendships will not come by ordering," said Lady Glencora.]
"Very well," said he. "Of course, you will do as you please. I am sorry that you have refused the first favour I have asked you this year." Then he left the room, and she went away to bed.

"As there will be no other ladies here tomorrow evening, Plantagenet, and as I have not yet seen Alice since I have been in town, I wish you would let me have my way in this. I cannot have very much to say to Mrs. Marsham, who is an old woman."
"I especially want Mrs. Marsham to be your friend," said he.
"Friendships will not come by ordering, Plantagenet," said she.
"Very well," said he. "Of course, you will do as you please. I am sorry that you have refused the first favour I have asked you this year."
Then he left the room, and she went away to bed.


The second week in July saw Mr. Palliser's party, carriage and all, established at Lucerne, in Switzerland, safe beyond the reach of the German gambling tables. Alice Vavasor was still with them; and the reader will therefore understand that that quarrel about Lady Glencora's wickedness had been settled without any rupture. It had been settled amicably, and by the time that they had reached Lucerne, Alice was inclined to acknowledge that the whole thing was not worth notice; but for many days her anger against Mr. Palliser had not been removed, and her intimacy with him had been much checked. It was now a month since the occurrence of that little scene in the salon at Baden, which was described in the last chapter,--since Mr. Palliser had marched off with his wife, leaving Alice to follow as she best could by herself. After that, as the reader may remember, he had almost told her that she was to be blamed because of his wife's indiscretion; and when she had declared her intention of leaving him, and making her way home to England by herself, he had answered her not at all, and had allowed her to go off to her own room under the full ban of his displeasure. Since that he had made no apology to her; he had not, in so many words, acknowledged that he had wronged her; but Alice had become aware that he intended to apologize by his conduct, and she had been content so far to indulge his obstinacy as to accept this conduct on his part in lieu of any outspoken petition for pardon. The acknowledgement of a mistake and the asking for grace is almost too much for any woman to expect from such a man as Mr. Palliser.

The second week in July saw Mr. Palliser's party established at Lucerne, in Switzerland, safe beyond the reach of the German gambling tables. Alice Vavasor was still with them; for the quarrel about Lady Glencora's wickedness had been settled amicably.
However, for many days Alice's anger against Mr. Palliser had not been removed, and her intimacy with him had been much checked. It was now a month since that little scene in the salon at Baden, which was described in the last chapter. Mr. Palliser had made no apology to her; but Alice had become aware that he intended to apologize by his conduct, and she had been content to accept this conduct in lieu of any spoken request for pardon. The acknowledgement of a mistake and the asking for forgiveness is almost too much for any woman to expect from such a man as Mr. Palliser.


Early on the morning after the scene in question, Lady Glencora had gone into Alice's bedroom, and had found her cousin in her dressing-gown, packing up her things, or looking as though she intended to do so. "You are not such a fool," she said, "as to think anything of what occurred yesterday?" Alice assured her that, whether fool or not, she did think a great deal of it. "In point of fact," said Alice, "I can't stand it. He expects me to take care of you, and chooses to show himself offended if you don't do just what he thinks proper; whereas, as you know well enough, I have not the slightest influence over you." All these positions Lady Glencora contradicted vigorously. Of course, Mr. Palliser had been wrong in walking out of the Assembly Rooms as he had done, leaving Alice behind him. So much Lady Glencora admitted. But this had come of his intense anxiety. "And you know what a man he is," said his wife--"how stiff, and hard, and unpleasant he can be without meaning it."

Early on the morning after the scene in question, Lady Glencora had gone into Alice's bedroom, and had found her cousin packing up her things.
"You are not such a fool," she said, "as to think anything of what happened yesterday?"
Alice assured her that, whether fool or not, she did think a great deal of it.
"In fact," she said, "I can't stand it. He expects me to take care of you, and is offended if you don't do just what he thinks proper; while, as you know well enough, I have not the slightest influence over you."
Lady Glencora contradicted this vigorously. Mr. Palliser had been anxious.
"And you how know how stiff, and hard, and unpleasant he can be without meaning it," said his wife.


--"There is no reason why I should bear his unpleasantness," said Alice. "Yes, there is,--great reason. You are to do it for the sake of friendship. And as for my not doing what you tell me, you know that's not true."
"Did I not beg you to keep away from the table?"
"Of course you did, and of course I was naughty; but that was only once. Alice, I want you more than I ever wanted you before. I cannot tell you more now, but you must stay with me."

"There is no reason why I should bear his unpleasantness," said Alice.
"Yes, there is - friendship. And as for my not doing what you tell me, you know that's not true."
"Did I not beg you to keep away from the table?"
"Of course you did, and of course I was naughty; but that was only once. Alice, I want you more than I ever wanted you before. I cannot tell you more now, but you must stay with me."


Alice consented to come down to breakfast without any immediate continuance of her active preparations for going, and at last, of course, she stayed. When she entered the breakfast-room Mr. Palliser came up to her, and offered her his hand. She had no alternative but to take it, and then seated herself. That there was an intended apology in the manner in which he offered her toast and butter, she was convinced; and the special courtesy with which he handed her to the carriage, when she and Lady Glencora went out for their drive, after dinner, was almost as good as a petition for pardon. So the thing went on, and by degrees Mr. Palliser and Miss Vavasor were again friends.
But Alice never knew in what way the matter was settled between Mr. Palliser and his wife, or whether there was any such settling. Probably there was none. "Of course, he understands that it didn't mean anything," Lady Glencora had said. "He knows that I don't want to gamble." But let that be as it might, their sojourn at Baden was curtailed, and none of the party went up again to the Assembly Rooms before their departure.

Alice consented to come down to breakfast without continuing her packing, and at last, of course, she stayed. When she entered the breakfast-room Mr. Palliser came up and offered her his hand. She had no alternative but to take it. There was an intended apology in the manner in which he offered her toast and butter; and he treated her with special courtesy when he handed her to the carriage for their drive. So by degrees Mr. Palliser and Miss Vavasor were again friends.
But Alice never knew how the matter was settled between Mr. Palliser and his wife, or whether there was any such settling.
"Of course, he knows that I don't want to gamble," Lady Glencora had said. All the same, none of them went to the Assembly Rooms again before their departure.


Before establishing themselves at Lucerne they made a little tour round by the Falls of the Rhine and Zurich. In their preparations for this journey, Alice made a struggle, but a struggle in vain, to avoid a passage through Basle. It was only too clear to her that Mr. Palliser was determined to go by Basle. She could not bring herself to say that she had recollections connected with that place which would make a return to it unpleasant to her. If she could have said as much, even to Glencora, Mr. Palliser would no doubt have gone round,--round by any more distant route that might have been necessary to avoid that eternal gateway into Switzerland. But she could not say it. She was very averse to talking about herself and her own affairs, even with her cousin. Of course Lady Glencora knew the whole story of Mr. John Grey and his rejection,--and knew much also of that other story of Mr. George Vavasor. And, of course, like all Alice's friends, she hated George Vavasor, and was prepared to receive Mr. John Grey with open arms, if there were any possibility that her cousin would open her arms to him also. But Alice was so stubborn about her own affairs that her friend found it almost impossible to speak of them.

Before establishing themselves at Lucerne they made a little tour by the Falls of the Rhine and Zurich. Alice had made a struggle, but in vain, to avoid a passage through Basle. It was clear that Mr. Palliser was determined to go by Basle, and she could not bring herself to say that she had unpleasant memories connected with that place. She was very averse to talking about herself and her own affairs, even with her cousin.
Of course Lady Glencora knew the whole story of Mr. John Grey and George Vavasor. And, of course, like all Alice's friends, she hated George Vavasor, and was prepared to receive Mr. John Grey with open arms, if there were any possibility that her cousin would open her arms to him also. But Alice was so stubborn about her own affairs that her friend found it almost impossible to speak of them.


"It is not that you trouble me," Alice once said, "but that you trouble yourself about that which is of no use. It is all done and over; and though I know that I have behaved badly,--very badly,--yet I believe that everything has been done for the best. I am inclined to think that I can live alone, or perhaps with my cousin Kate, more happily than I could with any husband."
"That is such nonsense."
"Perhaps so; but, at any rate, I mean to try. We Vavasors don't seem to be good at marrying."

"It is all over and done," Alice once said; "and though I know that I have behaved badly, yet I believe everything has been for the best. I am inclined to think that I can live alone, or perhaps with my cousin Kate, more happily than I could with any husband."
"That is such nonsense."
"Perhaps; but, at any rate, I mean to try. We Vavasors don't seem to be good at marrying."


"You want some one to break your heart for you; that's what you want," said Lady Glencora. In saying this she knew but little of the state of her friend's heart, and perhaps was hardly capable of understanding it. With all the fuss that Lady Glencora made to herself,--with all the tears that she had shed about her lost lover, and was so often shedding,--with all her continual thinking of the matter, she had never loved Burgo Fitzgerald as Alice Vavasor had loved Mr. Grey. But her nature was altogether different to that of Alice. Love with her had in it a gleam of poetry, a spice of fun, a touch of self-devotion, something even of hero-worship; but with it all there was a dash of devilry, and an aptitude almost for wickedness. She knew Burgo Fitzgerald to be a scapegrace, and she liked him the better on that account. She despised her husband because he had no vices. She would have given everything she had to Burgo,--pouring her wealth upon him with a total disregard of herself, had she been allowed to do so. She would have forgiven him sin after sin, and might perhaps have brought him round, at last, to some life not absolutely reckless and wretched. But in all that she might have done, there would have been no thoughtfulness,--no true care either for him or for herself.

"You want someone to break your heart for you," said Lady Glencora. She understood little of the state of her friend's heart; for with all the tears that Lady Glencora had shed about her lost lover, and her continual thinking of the matter, she had never loved Burgo Fitzgerald as Alice Vavasor had loved Mr. Grey.
But her nature was altogether different to Alice's. Love with her had in it a gleam of poetry, a spice of fun, something even of hero-worship; but with it all there was a dash of devilry, and almost wickedness. She knew Burgo Fitzgerald to be a scapegrace, and she liked him the better on that account. She despised her husband because he had no vices. She would have given everything she had to Burgo; but in all that she might have done for him, there would have been no thoughtfulness - no true care.


And now that she was married there was no thoughtfulness, or care either for herself or for her husband. She was ready to sacrifice herself for him, if any sacrifice might be required of her. She believed herself to be unfit for him, and would have submitted to be divorced,--or smothered out of the way, for the matter of that,--if the laws of the land would have permitted it. But she had never for a moment given to herself the task of thinking what conduct on her part might be the best for his welfare.

And now that she was married there was no thoughtfulness or care either for herself or for her husband. She was ready to sacrifice herself for him, if necessary. She believed herself to be unfit for him, and would have submitted to be divorced. But she had never for a moment set herself the task of thinking what conduct on her part might be best for his welfare.


But Alice's love had been altogether of another kind,--and I am by no means sure that it was better suited for the work of this work-a-day world than that of her cousin. It was too thoughtful. I will not say that there was no poetry in it, but I will say that it lacked romance. Its poetry was too hard for romance. There was certainly in it neither fun nor wickedness; nor was there, I fear, so large a proportion of hero-worship as there always should be in a girl's heart when she gives it away. But there was in it an amount of self-devotion which none of those near to her had hitherto understood,--unless it were that one to whom the understanding of it was of the most importance. In all the troubles of her love, of her engagements, and her broken promises, she had thought more of others than of herself,--and, indeed, those troubles had chiefly come from that self-devotion. She had left John Grey because she feared that she would do him no good as his wife,--that she would not make him happy; and she had afterwards betrothed herself for a second time to her cousin, because she believed that she could serve him by marrying him. Of course she had been wrong. She had been very wrong to give up the man she did love, and more wrong again in suggesting to herself the possibility of marrying the man she did not love.

Alice's love had been altogether of another kind - and it lacked romance. There was certainly in it neither fun nor wickedness; nor was there, I fear, so much hero-worship as there should be in a girl's heart when she gives it away. But in all the troubles of her love, she had thought more of others than of herself; and, indeed, those troubles had chiefly come from that. She had left John Grey because she feared that she would do him no good as his wife; and she had betrothed herself for a second time to her cousin, because she believed that she could help him by marrying him. Of course she had been wrong


She knew that she had been wrong in both, and was undergoing repentance with very bitter inward sackcloth. But she said little of all this even to her cousin.

on both counts. She knew it, was undergoing bitter repentance. But she said little of all this to her cousin.


They went to Lucerne by Basle, and put up at the big hotel with the balcony over the Rhine, which Alice remembered so well. On the first evening of her arrival she found herself again looking down upon the river, as though it might have been from the same spot which she had occupied together with George and Kate. But, in truth, that house is very large, and has many bedrooms over the water. Who has ever been through Basle, and not stood in one of them, looking down upon the father of waters? Here, on this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once.

They went through Basle, and stayed at the big hotel with the balcony over the Rhine, which Alice remembered so well. On the first evening of her arrival she found herself again looking down upon the river.
Here, on one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with news about her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it, and she had no alternative but to read it in his presence.
"George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. She felt a fleeting regret for the futility of the effort. But it passed away at once.


"It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that.

"It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter.
"I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter said, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any pleasant words could pass between us. He lost by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear news about him - or rather, my aunt hears and tells me - which fills me with fear about his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and has no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or


After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me.

 I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am in London to see a lawyer about some steps which George is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled.
"Dear Alice, though so much of your money is gone, I must congratulate you on your escape. You will understand what I feel in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together - after all my hopes and ambitions. The money shall be repaid. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you; and I know that you will pity me.


"I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply.

"Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, I should say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economies - greatly to his disgust. She holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money.
"'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'but the more I tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do; and she answered me very sharply.


I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds."

I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and since then we have been on the pleasantest terms about the Captain.
"They have arranged with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss. Apart from you, I have nothing left to me; and I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been trying to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped, but not without terrible wounds."


Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me."

It was undoubtedly true that if Alice had neither seen nor heard from Kate during John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But Alice protested against this truth within her own breast. She had been weak and foolish; but she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness.
"She mistakes me," Alice thought. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me."


Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last.

While Alice had been reading, Mr. Palliser had almost buried himself in newspapers which held news about the elections. He was now completely hidden behind a sheet of the Times, and had not spoken a word since he had begun reading. Lady Glencora had also received letters.
"Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last.


"Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser.

"What? yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain about the possibility of anything else in his own family borough. The house of Omnium had been very great in carrying out the Reform Bill. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser.


"I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate."
"So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him."
"Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times."
"This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man."

"I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate," he said.
"So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him."
"Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and money, and are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times."
"This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man."


"Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out."
"Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora.
"Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband.

"Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out."
"Who?" asked Lady Glencora.
"Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband.


"Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now."
A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies."

"Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now."
"I did not know," said Mr. Palliser stiffly, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies."


"Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking."
"He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy."
"Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora.
"I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically.
"Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences."

"Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help disliking."
"He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy."
"Bravo, Alice!" said Lady Glencora.
"I hope he did nothing at Matching, to - to -" began Mr. Palliser.
"Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser - except that he had an unpleasant way of trying to make little secret confidences.


"And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora.
"I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice.
"Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable."
Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser.
"Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott.

I felt certain that he was trying to do mischief," said Alice.
"Of course he was," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the wallpaper, and leaving a mark that was quite unpardonable."
Mr. Palliser felt himself forced to abandon his political ally. Perhaps this was easier now that Mr. Bott had lost his seat.


It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly.
"Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora.
"It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves."

It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, alongside boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the current.
"Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora.
"It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves."


"Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?"
As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey.
On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter.

"Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly!" She stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when George Vavasor was with her - and when she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey.
The next day, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey by slow stages via Schaffhausen and Zurich. At Lucerne, they stayed for some time in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor.


These arrangements as to the return of Mr. Palliser's party to London did not, of course, include Mr. Grey. They were generally discussed in Mr. Grey's absence, and communicated to him by Mr. Palliser. "I suppose we shall see you in England before long?" said Mr. Palliser. "I shall be able to tell you that before you go," said Grey. "Not but that in any event I shall return to England before the winter."

These arrangements for the return of Mr. Palliser's party to London did not, of course, include Mr. Grey.
"I suppose we shall see you in England before long?" said Mr. Palliser.
"I shall be able to tell you that before you go," said Grey. "In any event I shall return to England before winter."


"Then come to us at Matching," said Mr. Palliser. "We shall be most happy to have you. Say that you'll come for the first fortnight in December. After that we always go to the Duke, in Barsetshire. Though, by-the-by, I don't suppose we shall go anywhere this year," Mr. Palliser added, interrupting the warmth of his invitation, and reflecting that, under the present circumstances, perhaps, it might be improper to have any guests at Matching in December. But he had become very fond of Mr. Grey, and on this occasion, as he had done on some others, pressed him warmly to make an attempt at Parliament. "It isn't nearly so difficult as you think," said he, when Grey declared that he would not know where to look for a seat. "See the men that get in. There was Mr. Vavasor. Even he got a seat."

"Then come to us at Matching," said Mr. Palliser. "We shall be most happy to have you. Say that you'll come for the first fortnight in December. After that we always go to the Duke, in Barsetshire - though I don't suppose we shall go anywhere this year." Mr. Palliser reflected that, under the circumstances, it might be improper to have any guests at Matching in December. But he had become very fond of Mr. Grey, and now, as on several occasions, pressed him warmly to make an attempt at Parliament. "It isn't nearly so difficult as you think," said he. "Look at Mr. Vavasor. Even he got a seat."


"But he had to pay for it very dearly."
"You might easily find some quiet little borough."
"Quiet little boroughs have usually got their own quiet little Members," said Grey.


"They're fond of change; and if you like to spend a thousand pounds, the thing isn't difficult. I'll put you in the way of it." But Mr. Grey still declined. He was not a man prone to be talked out of his own way of life, and the very fact that George Vavasor had been in Parliament would of itself have gone far towards preventing any attempt on his part in that direction. Alice had also wanted him to go into public life, but he had put aside her request as though the thing were quite out of the question,--never giving a moment to its consideration. Had she asked him to settle himself and her in Central Africa, his manner and mode of refusal would have been the same. It was this immobility on his part,--this absolute want of any of the weakness of indecision, which had frightened her, and driven her away from him. He was partly aware of this; but that which he had declined to do at her solicitation, he certainly would not do at the advice of any one else. So it was that he argued the matter with himself. Had he now allowed himself to be so counselled, with what terrible acknowledgements of his own faults must he not have presented himself before Alice?

"They're fond of change; and if you like to spend a thousand pounds, the thing isn't difficult. I'll put you in the way of it."
But Mr. Grey still declined. He was not a man to be talked out of his own way of life, and the very fact that George Vavasor had been in Parliament deterred him from making any attempt himself.
Alice had also wanted him to go into public life, but he had put aside her request without giving it consideration. It was this immobility on his part - this absolute lack of any of the weakness of indecision, which had frightened her, and driven her away from him. He was partly aware of this; but if he had not done it at her suggestion, he certainly would not do on the advice of anyone else. If he changed his mind, what terrible acknowledgements of his own faults must he not have made before Alice?


"I suppose books, then, will be your object in life?" said Mr. Palliser.
"I hope they will be my aids," Grey answered. "I almost doubt whether any object such as that you mean is necessary for life, or even expedient. It seems to me that if a man can so train himself that he may live honestly and die fearlessly, he has done about as much as is necessary."
"He has done a great deal, certainly," said Mr. Palliser, who was not ready enough to carry on the argument as he might have done had more time been given to him to consider it. He knew very well that he himself was working for others, and not for himself; and he was aware, though he had not analysed his own convictions on the matter, that good men struggle as they do in order that others, besides themselves, may live honestly, and, if possible, die fearlessly. The recluse of Nethercoats had thought much more about all this than the rising star of the House of Commons; but the philosophy of the rising star was the better philosophy of the two, though he was by far the less brilliant man. "I don't see why a man should not live honestly and be a Member of Parliament as well," continued Mr. Palliser, when he had been silent for a few minutes.

"I suppose books, then, will be your object in life?" said Mr. Palliser.
"I hope they will be my aids," Grey answered. "I almost doubt whether any object is necessary for life. It seems to me that if a man can live honestly and die fearlessly, he has done about as much as is necessary."
"He has done a great deal, certainly," said Mr. Palliser, who would have been ready enough to carry on the argument if he had more time. He knew that he himself was working for others, and not for himself; and he was aware that good men struggle as they do in order that others, besides themselves, may live honestly and die fearlessly. The recluse of Nethercoats had thought much more about all this than the rising star of the House of Commons; but the rising star had the better philosophy of the two, though he was a less brilliant man.
"I don't see why a man should not live honestly and be a Member of Parliament as well," continued Mr. Palliser.


"Nor I either," said Grey. "I am sure that there are such men, and that the country is under great obligation to them. But they are subject to temptations which a prudent man like myself may perhaps do well to avoid." But though he spoke with an assured tone, he was shaken, and almost regretted that he did not accept the aid which was offered to him. It is astonishing how strong a man may be to those around him,--how impregnable may be his exterior, while within he feels himself to be as weak as water, and as unstable as chaff.

"Nor I either," said Grey. "I am sure that there are such men, and that the country is under great obligation to them. But they have temptations which a prudent man may do well to avoid." But though he spoke with an assured tone, he was shaken, and almost regretted that he did not accept the aid which was offered to him.


But the object which he had now in view was a renewal of his engagement with Alice, and he felt that he must obtain an answer from her before they left Lucerne. If she still persisted in refusing to give him her hand, it would not be consistent with his dignity as a man to continue his immediate pursuit of her any longer. In such case he must leave her, and see what future time might bring forth. He believed himself to be aware that he would never offer his love to another woman; and if Alice were to remain single, he might try again, after the lapse of a year or two. But if he failed now,--then, for that year or two, he would see her no more. Having so resolved, and being averse to anything like a surprise, he asked her, as he left her one evening, whether she would walk with him on the following morning. That morning would be the morning of her last day at Lucerne; and as she assented she knew well what was to come. She said nothing to Lady Glencora on the subject, but allowed the coming prospects of the Palliser family to form the sole subject of their conversation that night, as it had done on every night since the great news had become known. They were always together for an hour every evening before Alice was allowed to go to bed, and during this hour the anxieties of the future father and mother were always discussed till Alice Vavasor was almost tired of them. But she was patient with her friend, and on this special night she was patient as ever.

What he now wished for was a renewal of his engagement with Alice, and he felt that he must obtain an answer from her before they left Lucerne. If she still persisted in refusing to give him her hand, it would not be consistent with his dignity to continue his immediate pursuit of her any longer. In that case he must leave her, and see what the future might bring. If Alice were to remain single, he might try again, after a year or two. But if he failed now, then for that year or two he would see her no more.
Having resolved this, he asked her one evening whether she would walk with him on the following morning - the morning of her last day at Lucerne. As she agreed she knew well what was to come. She said nothing to Lady Glencora about it, but that night,


But when she was released and was alone, she made a great endeavour to come to some fixed resolution as to what she would do on the morrow,--some resolution which should be absolutely resolute, and from which no eloquence on the part of any one should move her. But such resolutions are not easily reached, and Alice laboured through half the night almost in vain. She knew that she loved the man. She knew that he was as true to her as the sun is true to the earth. She knew that she would be, in all respects, safe in his hands. She knew that Lady Glencora would be delighted, and her father gratified. She knew that the countesses would open their arms to her,--though I doubt whether this knowledge was in itself very persuasive. She knew that by such a marriage she would gain all that women generally look to gain when they give themselves away. But, nevertheless, as far as she could decide at all, she decided against her lover. She had no right of her own to be taken back after the evil that she had done, and she did not choose to be taken back as an object of pity and forgiveness.

 when she was alone, she tried to decide what she would do.
She knew that she loved the man. She knew that he was as true to her as the sun is true to the earth. She knew that she would be safe in his hands. She knew that Lady Glencora would be delighted, and her father gratified. She knew that by such a marriage she would gain all that women generally look to gain when they give themselves away.
But, nevertheless, as far as she could decide at all, she decided against her lover. She had no right to be taken back after the evil that she had done, and she did not choose to be taken back as an object of pity and forgiveness.


"Where are you going?" said her cousin, when she came in with her hat on, soon after breakfast.
"I am going to walk,--with Mr. Grey."
"By appointment?"
"Yes, by appointment. He asked me yesterday."
"Then it's all settled, and you haven't told me!"
"All that is settled I have told you very often. He asked me yesterday to walk with him this morning, and I could not well refuse him."
"Why should you have wished to refuse him?"

"Where are you going?" said her cousin, when she came in with her hat on, soon after breakfast.
"I am going to walk with Mr. Grey. He asked me yesterday to walk with him this morning, and I could not very well refuse him."
"Why should you have wished to refuse him?"


"I haven't said that I did wish it. But I hate scenes, and I think it would have been pleasanter for us to have parted without any occasion for special words."
"Alice, you are such a fool!"
"So you tell me very often."

"I think it would have been pleasanter for us to have parted without any need for special words."
"Alice, you are such a fool!"
"So you tell me very often."


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

"Of course he is now going to say the very thing that he has come all this way for. He has been wonderfully slow about it; but you are slower. If you don't make up with him now, I really shall think you are very wicked. I can't understand it. I know you want to be his wife, and I know he wants to be your husband, and the only thing that keeps you apart is your obstinacy. You may be sure of this, Alice; if you refuse him now, it'll be for the last time."


This, and much more of the same kind, she bore before Mr. Grey came to take her, and she answered to it all as little as she could. "You are making me very unhappy, Glencora," she said once. "I wish I could break you down with unhappiness," Lady Glencora answered, "so that he might find you less stiff, and hard, and unmanageable." Directly upon that he came in, looking as though he had no business on hand more exciting than his ordinary morning's tranquil employments. Alice at once got up to start with him. "So you and Alice are going to make your adieux," said Lady Glencora. "It must be done sooner or later," said Mr. Grey; and then they went off.

"You are making me very unhappy, Glencora," she said.
"I wish I could break you down with unhappiness," Lady Glencora answered, "so that he might find you less stiff, and hard, and unmanageable." Just then he came in, looking as though he had no business on hand more exciting than his ordinary morning's tranquil employments.
"So you and Alice are going to make your adieux," said Lady Glencora.
"It must be done sooner or later," said Mr. Grey; and off they went.


Those who know Lucerne,--and almost everybody now does know Lucerne,--will remember the big hotel which has been built close to the landing-pier of the steamers, and will remember also the church that stands upon a little hill or rising ground, to the left of you, as you come out of the inn upon the lake. The church is immediately over the lake, and round the church there is a burying-ground, and skirting the burying-ground there are cloisters, through the arches and apertures of which they who walk and sit there look down immediately upon the blue water, and across the water upon the frowning menaces of Mount Pilate. It is one of the prettiest spots in that land of beauty; and its charm is to my feeling enhanced by the sepulchral monuments over which I walk, and by which I am surrounded, as I stand there. Up here, into these cloisters, Alice and John Grey went together. I doubt whether he had formed any purpose of doing so. She certainly would have gone without question in any direction that he might have led her. The distance from the inn up to the church-gate did not take them ten minutes, and when they were there their walk was over. But the place was solitary, and they were alone; and it might be as well for Mr. Grey to speak what words he had to say there as elsewhere. They had often been together in those cloisters before, but on such occasions either Mr. Palliser or Lady Glencora had been with them. On their slow passage up the hill very little was spoken, and that little was of no moment.

The church by Lake Lucerne is one of the prettiest spots in that land of beauty. Up here, into the cloisters, Alice and John Grey went together.


"We will go in here for a few minutes," he said. "It is the prettiest spot about Lucerne, and we don't know when we may see it again." So they went in, and sat down on one of the embrasures that open from the cloisters over the lake.
"Probably never again," said Alice. "And yet I have been here now two years running."
She shuddered as she remembered that in that former year George Vavasor had been with her. As she thought of it all she hated herself. Over and over again she had told herself that she had so mismanaged the latter years of her life that it was impossible for her not to hate herself. No woman had a clearer idea of feminine constancy than she had, and no woman had sinned against that idea more deeply. He gave her time to think of all this as he sat there looking down upon the water.

"We will go in here for a few minutes," he said. "It is a lovely spot, and we don't know when we may see it again." The place was deserted as they went in, and sat down on one of the embrasures that open over the lake.
"Probably never again," said Alice. "And yet I have been here now two years running." She shuddered as she remembered the time when George Vavasor had been with her; and she hated herself. No woman had a clearer idea of feminine constancy than she had, and no woman had sinned against that idea more deeply. He gave her time to think of all this as he sat looking down upon the water.


"And yet I would sooner live in Cambridgeshire," were the first words he spoke.
"Why so?"
"Partly because all beauty is best enjoyed when it is sought for with some trouble and difficulty, and partly because such beauty, and the romance which is attached to it, should not make up the staple of one's life. Romance, if it is to come at all, should always come by fits and starts."
"I should like to live in a pretty country."
"And would like to live a romantic life,--no doubt; but all those things lose their charm if they are made common. When a man has to go to Vienna or St. Petersburg two or three times a month, you don't suppose he enjoys travelling?"
"All the same, I should like to live in a pretty country," said Alice.

"And yet I would sooner live in Cambridgeshire," he said.
"Why so?"
"Partly because such beauty and romance should not make up the staple of one's life. Romance, if it is to come at all, should always come by fits and starts."
"I should like to live in a pretty country."
"And would like to live a romantic life; but all those things lose their charm if they are made common. When a man has to go to Vienna or St. Petersburg two or three times a month, you don't suppose he enjoys travelling?"
"All the same, I should like to live in a pretty country," said Alice.


"And I want you to come and live in a very ugly country." Then he paused for a minute or two, not looking at her, but gazing still on the mountain opposite. She did not speak a word, but looked as he was looking. She knew that the request was coming, and had been thinking about it all night; but now that it had come she did not know how to bear herself. "I don't think," he went on to say, "that you would let that consideration stand in your way, if on other grounds you were willing to become my wife."
"What consideration?"
"Because Nethercoats is not so pretty as Lucerne."
"It would have nothing to do with it," said Alice.
"It should have nothing to do with it."
"Nothing; nothing at all," repeated Alice.

"And I want you to come and live in a very ugly country." Then he paused for a minute or two, not looking at her, but gazing still on the mountain opposite. "I don't think," he went on, "that you would let that stand in your way, if on other grounds you were willing to become my wife."
"Prettiness would have nothing to do with it," said Alice.


"Will you come, then? Will you come and be my wife, and help me to be happy amidst all that ugliness? Will you come and be my one beautiful thing, my treasure, my joy, my comfort, my counsellor?"
"You want no counsellor, Mr. Grey."
"No man ever wanted one more. Alice, this has been a bad year to me, and I do not think that it has been a happy one for you."
"Indeed, no."
"Let us forget it,--or rather, let us treat it as though it were forgotten. Twelve months ago you were mine. You were, at any rate, so much mine that I had a right to boast of my possession among my friends."

"Will you come, then? Will you come and be my wife, and help me to be happy amidst all that ugliness? Will you come and be my one beautiful thing, my treasure, my joy, my comfort, my counsellor?"
"You need no counsellor, Mr. Grey."
"No man ever needed one more. Alice, this has been a bad year to me, and I do not think that it has been a happy one for you."
"Indeed, no."
"Let us forget it - or rather, let us treat it as though it were forgotten. Twelve months ago you were mine - enough mine, at least, that I had a right to boast of my possession among my friends."


"It was a poor boast."
"They did not seem to think so. I had but one or two to whom I could speak of you, but they told me that I was going to be a happy man. As to myself, I was sure that I was to be so. No man was ever better contented with his bargain than I was with mine. Let us go back to it, and the last twelve months shall be as though they had never been."
"That cannot be, Mr. Grey. If it could, I should be worse even than I am."
"Why cannot it be?"
"Because I cannot forgive myself what I have done, and because you ought not to forgive me."

"It was a poor boast."
"They did not seem to think so. And no man was ever better contented with his bargain than I was with mine. Let us go back to it, and the last twelve months shall be as though they had never been."
"That cannot be, Mr. Grey - because I cannot forgive myself what I have done, and you ought not to forgive me."


"But I do. There has never been an hour with me in which there has been an offence of yours rankling in my bosom unforgiven. I think you have been foolish, misguided,--led away by a vain ambition, and that in the difficulty to which these things brought you, you endeavoured to constrain yourself to do an act, which, when it came near to you,--when the doing of it had to be more closely considered, you found to be contrary to your nature." Now, as he spoke thus, she turned her eyes upon him, and looked at him, wondering that he should have had power to read her heart so accurately. "I never believed that you would marry your cousin. When I was told of it, I knew that trouble had blinded you for awhile. You had driven yourself to revolt against me, and upon that your heart misgave you, and you said to yourself that it did not matter then how you might throw away all your sweetness. You see that I speak of your old love for me with the frank conceit of a happy lover."
"No;--no, no!" she ejaculated.

"But I do. I think you have been foolish, misguided - led away by a vain ambition, and that in your difficulty, you tried to force yourself to do something which you then found to be contrary to your nature." As he spoke, she turned her eyes upon him, wondering that he should have read her heart so accurately. "I never believed that you would marry your cousin. When I was told of it, I knew that trouble had blinded you for a while. You had driven yourself to revolt against me, and your heart misgave you, and you said to yourself that it did not matter then how you might throw away all your sweetness.


"But the storm passes over the tree and does not tear it up by the roots or spoil it of all its symmetry. When we hear the winds blowing, and see how the poor thing is shaken, we think that its days are numbered and its destruction at hand. Alice, when the winds were shaking you, and you were torn and buffeted, I never thought so. There may be some who will forgive you slowly. Your own self-forgiveness will be slow. But I, who have known you better than any one,--yes, better than any one,--I have forgiven you everything, have forgiven you instantly. Come to me, Alice, and comfort me. Come to me, for I want you sorely." She sat quite still, looking at the lake and the mountain beyond, but she said nothing. What could she say to him?

"But the storm passes over the tree and does not tear it up by the roots. Alice, when the winds were shaking you, and you were torn and buffeted, I never thought your destruction was at hand. There may be some who will forgive you slowly. Your own self-forgiveness will be slow. But I, who have known you better than any one, I have forgiven you everything, have forgiven you instantly. Come to me, Alice, and comfort me. Come to me, for I want you sorely."
She sat quite still, looking at the lake and the mountain beyond, but she said nothing. What could she say to him?


"My need of you is much greater now," he went on to say, "than when I first asked you to share the world with me. Then I could have borne to lose you, as I had never boasted to myself that you were my own,--had never pictured to myself the life that might be mine if you were always to be with me. But since that day I have had no other hope,--no other hope but this for which I plead now. Am I to plead in vain?"
"You do not know me," she said; "how vile I have been! You do not think what it is,--for a woman to have promised herself to one man while she loved another."

"My need of you is much greater now," he went on to say, "than when I first asked you. Then I could have borne to lose you, as I had never pictured to myself the life that might be mine if you were with me. But since that day I have had no other hope but this. Am I to plead in vain?"
"You do not know me," she said; "how vile I have been! You do not think what it is, for a woman to have promised herself to one man while she loved another."


"But it was me you loved. Ah! Alice, I can forgive that. Do I not tell you that I did forgive it the moment that I heard it? Do you not hear me say that I never for a moment thought that you would marry him? Alice, you should scold me for my vanity, for I have believed all through that you loved me, and me only. Come to me, dear, and tell me that it is so, and the past shall be only as a dream."
"I am dreaming it always," said Alice.
"They will cease to be bitter dreams if your head be upon my shoulder. You will cease to reproach yourself when you know that you have made me happy."

"But it was me you loved. I can forgive that. Alice, you should scold me for my vanity, for I have believed all through that you loved me. Come to me, dear, and tell me that it is so, and the past shall be only as a dream."
"I am dreaming it always," said Alice.
"They will cease to be bitter dreams if your head be upon my shoulder. You will cease to reproach yourself when you know that you have made me happy."


"I shall never cease to reproach myself. I have done that which no woman can do and honour herself afterwards. I have been--a jilt."
"The noblest jilt that ever yet halted between two minds! There has been no touch of selfishness in your fickleness. I think I could be hard enough upon a woman who had left me for greater wealth, for a higher rank,--who had left me even that she might be gay and merry. It has not been so with you."
"Yes, it has. I thought you were too firm in your own will, and--"

"I shall never cease to reproach myself. I have done that which no woman can do and honour herself afterwards. I have been - a jilt."
"The noblest jilt that ever yet halted between two minds! There has been no touch of selfishness in your fickleness. I think I could be hard enough upon a woman who had left me for greater wealth, or higher rank. It has not been so with you."
"Yes, it has. I thought you were too firm in your own will, and-"


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

"And you think so still. Is that it?"
"It does not matter what I think now. I no longer have a right to such thoughts. It will be better for us both that you should leave me - and forget me. There are things which, if a woman does them, she should never permit herself to forget."


"And am I to be punished, then, because of your fault? Is that your sense of justice?" He got up, and standing before her, looked down upon her. "Alice, if you will tell me that you do not love me, I will believe you, and will trouble you no more. I know that you will say nothing to me that is false. Through it all you have spoken no word of falsehood. If you love me, after what has passed, I have a right to demand your hand. My happiness requires it, and I have a right to expect your compliance. I do demand it. If you love me, Alice, I tell you that you dare not refuse me.

"And am I to be punished, then, because of your fault? Is that your sense of justice?" He stood and looked down upon her. "Alice, if you tell me that you do not love me, I will believe you, and will trouble you no more. I know that you will say nothing that is false. But if you love me, I have a right to demand your hand. My happiness requires it, and I have a right to expect your compliance. I do demand it. If you love me, Alice, I tell you that you dare not refuse me.


If you do so, you will fail hereafter to reconcile it to your conscience before God."


Then he stopped his speech, and waited for a reply; but Alice sat silent beneath his gaze, with her eyes turned upon the tombstones beneath her feet. Of course she had no choice but to yield. He, possessed of power and force infinitely greater than hers, had left her no alternative but to be happy. But there still clung to her what I fear we must call a perverseness of obstinacy, a desire to maintain the resolution she had made,--a wish that she might be allowed to undergo the punishment she had deserved. She was as a prisoner who would fain cling to his prison after pardon has reached him, because he is conscious that the pardon is undeserved. And it may be that there was still left within her bosom some remnant of that feeling of rebellion which his masterful spirit had ever produced in her. He was so imperious in his tranquillity, he argued his question of love with such a manifest preponderance of right on his side, that she had always felt that to yield to him would be to confess the omnipotence of his power. She knew now that she must yield to him,--that his power over her was omnipotent. She was pressed by him as in some countries the prisoner is pressed by the judge,--so pressed that she acknowledged to herself silently that any further antagonism to him was impossible. Nevertheless, the word which she had to speak still remained unspoken, and he stood over her, waiting for her answer.

Then he waited; but Alice sat silent, with her eyes turned upon the tombstones. Of course she had no choice but to yield. He had left her no alternative but to be happy. But there still clung to her what I fear we must call a perverseness of obstinacy, a desire to keep the resolution she had made - to undergo the punishment she had deserved. She was as a prisoner who would fain cling to his prison after pardon has reached him, because he is conscious that the pardon is undeserved.
And it may be that she still felt some remnant of the rebellion which his masterful spirit had always produced in her. He was so imperious in his tranquillity - he argued with such a manifest weight of right on his side, that she had always felt that to yield to him would be to confess the omnipotence of his power. She knew now that she must yield to him.
Nevertheless, the word which she had to speak still remained unspoken, and he stood waiting for her answer.


Then slowly he sat down beside her, and gradually he put his arm round her waist. She shrank from him, back against the stonework of the embrasure, but she could not shrink away from his grasp. She put up her hand to impede his, but his hand, like his character and his words, was full of power. It would not be impeded. "Alice," he said, as he pressed her close with his arm, "the battle is over now, and I have won it."
"You win everything,--always," she said, whispering to him, as she still shrank from his embrace.
"In winning you I have won everything." Then he put his face over her and pressed his lips to hers. I wonder whether he was made happier when he knew that no other touch had profaned those lips since last he had pressed them?

Then slowly he sat down beside her, and gradually he put his arm round her waist. She shrank from him, against the stonework, but she could not shrink away from his grasp. She put up her hand to impede his, but his hand, like his character and his words, would not be impeded.
"Alice," he said, as he pressed her close with his arm, "the battle is over now, and I have won it."
"You win everything - always," she said, whispering to him, as she still shrank from his embrace.
"In winning you I have won everything." Then he pressed his lips to hers.


The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead.
"He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow.

The next day was Sunday. Mrs. Greenow had warned Mr. Cheesacre that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might give them too much of his society. In the morning the aunt and niece went to the Cathedral, and at three o'clock they dined.
But today they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs had been asked to join them; and so that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he joked prettily about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead.
"He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow.


"So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife."
"I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow.
"No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful."
"Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend.

"So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a pity he shouldn't get himself a wife."
"I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow.
"No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful."
"Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend.


It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality.
Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings."

The ladies were to go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would accompany them; but when it was time to set out, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not. She stayed behind - as she afterwards explained to Kate - so as not to turn Captain Bellfield out of the house.
However, when the young ladies returned from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, with Mr. Cheesacre's cream.
Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip. After the younger ladies had gone, he said little, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter.
"I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings."


"I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them.
"I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain.
"I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do."
"It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow."

"I'm not thinking about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings?"
"A woman in my circumstances can't find her life very gay, Captain Bellfield. It's not yet a full year yet since I lost all that made life happy."
"It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow."