He cursed John Grey, as he thought of those two thousand pounds, with double curses.


He cursed this world, and all worlds beyond; and thus, cursing everything, he made his way at last up to the inn at Shap.

Thus, cursing everything, he made his way at last up to the inn at Shap.

Chapter 57: Showing How the Wild Beast Got Himself Back from the Mountains


He had wasted over an hour at Bampton in his endeavour to get John Applethwaite's cart to carry him on, and he had been two hours on his walk from Bampton to Shap,--two hours amidst his cursing.


He ordered supper and brandy-and-water, and, as we know, sent off a Mercury for his clothes.

He ordered supper and brandy-and-water, and, as we know, sent off a messenger for his clothes.


But the Mercuries of Westmoreland do not move on quick wings, and it was past midnight before he got his possessions.

But it was past midnight before he got his possessions.


During all this time he had, by no means, ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiled ham and while he swallowed his brandy-and-water.

During all this time he had not ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiled ham and brandy-and-water.


He swore aloud, so that the red-armed servant at the inn could not but hear him, that those thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes;--that they would not send him his property.

He swore aloud, so that the servant could not help hearing, that those thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes.


He could not restrain himself, though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause, as regarded the property in Westmoreland, if ever he could make a cause.

He could not restrain himself, though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause.


He knew that he had been mad to strike his sister, and cursed himself for his madness.


He told himself that the battle for him was over, and he thought of poison for himself. He thought of poison, and a pistol,--of the pistols he had ever loaded at home, each with six shots, good for a life apiece.

He thought of poison for himself, and of his pistols.


He thought of an express train, rushing along at its full career, and of the instant annihilation which it would produce.

He thought of an express train, and of the instant annihilation which it would produce.


But if that was to be the end of him, he would not go alone.


why should he go alone, leaving those pistols ready loaded in his desk?


Among them they had brought him to ruin and to death.


Was he a man to pardon his enemies when it was within his power to take them with him, down, down, down--?

Was he a man to pardon his enemies when he could take them with him, down, down, down?


What were the last words upon his impious lips, as with bloodshot eyes, half drunk, and driven by the Fury, he took himself off to the bed prepared for him, cursing aloud the poor red-haired girl as he went, I may not utter here.

With bloodshot eyes, half drunk, and driven by the Fury, he took himself off to bed, cursing the poor servant as he went.


On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in vain.

On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone, his aunt inquired for him in vain.


The old butler and factotum of the house, who was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife's triumphs, was interrogated by his mistress, and said that he thought Mr. Burgo had left the house.

The old butler said that he thought Mr. Burgo had left the house.


Lady Monk herself knocked at her nephew's door, when she went up-stairs, ascending an additional flight of stairs with her weary old limbs in order that she might do so; she even opened the door and saw the careless debris of his toilet about the room.

Lady Monk went to her nephew's door, and saw the careless debris of his dressing about the room.


"Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it," she said to herself, as she went down to her own room.

"Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it," she said to herself.


But Burgo, as we know, had not "arranged it."


It may be remembered that when Mr. Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room at Lady Monk's, bringing with him the scarf which Lady Glencora had left up-stairs, Burgo was no longer with her.

It may be remembered that when Mr. Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room, bringing her scarf, Burgo was no longer with her.


He had become well aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night.

He had become aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night.


The poor fool, acting upon his aunt's implied advice rather than his own hopes, had secured a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street, some five minutes' walk from his aunt's house.

The poor fool, acting on his aunt's implied advice, had hired a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street, five minutes' walk away.


And he had purchased feminine wrappings, cloaks, &c.--things that he thought might be necessary for his companion.

And he had bought feminine cloaks and things that he thought might be necessary for his companion.


He had, too, ordered rooms at the new hotel near the Dover Station,--the London Bridge Station,--from whence was to start on the following morning a train to catch the tidal boat for Boulogne.

He had booked rooms at the hotel near the Dover Station, from where a train was to start on the following morning to catch the boat for Boulogne.


There was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-five guineas out of his aunt's money, not having been able to induce the tradesman to grant it to him on credit; and there were other things,--slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, and what else might, as he thought, under such circumstances be most necessary.

There was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-five guineas of his aunt's money, and there were other things - slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, and what else he thought might be most necessary.


He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage from some back hiding-place in the hall, and then slipped out, unmindful of his shining boots, and dress coat and jewelled studs. He took a Gibus hat,--his own, or that of some other unfortunate,--and slowly made his way down to the place in Bruton Street.

He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage, and then slipped out, and slowly made his way down to Bruton Street.


There was the carriage and pair of horses, all in readiness; and the driver, when he had placed himself by the door of the vehicle, was not long in emerging from the neighbouring public-house.

There was the carriage ready; and the driver emerged from the nearby public-house.


"I shan't want you to-night," said Burgo, hoarsely;--"go away."

"I shan't want you tonight," said Burgo, hoarsely.


"And what about the things, your honour?"


Take them back with you, and ask somebody to keep them till I send for them.


I shall want them and another carriage in a day or two."


Then he gave the man half a sovereign, and went away, not looking at the little treasures which he had spent so much of his money in selecting for his love.

Then he gave the man half a sovereign, and went away.


When he was gone, the waterman and the driver turned them over with careful hands and gloating eyes.


"It's a 'eiress, I'll go bail," said the waterman.


I suppose her parints was too many for her," said the driver.


But neither of them imagined the enormity which the hirer of the chaise had in truth contemplated.


Burgo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor Square, and from thence down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews which there are in those parts, into Park Lane.

From there Burgo went back into Grosvenor Square, and down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews into Park Lane.


He had now passed the position of Mr. Palliser's house, having come out on Park Lane at a spot nearer to Piccadilly; but he retraced his steps, walking along by the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite to the house.

He walked along the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite the Palliser house.


Then he stood there, leaning back upon the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora's windows.

Then he stood there, leaning on the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora's windows.


Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow that is made by the one loved object,--that may be made by her, or, by some violent conjecture of the mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such love as that is, I think, always innocent. Burgo Fitzgerald did not love like that. I almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all.


There was in his breast a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse.

He felt a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse.


He wanted the thing of which this Palliser had robbed him.


He wanted revenge,--though his desire for that was not a burning desire.


And among other things, he wanted the woman's beauty of the woman whom he coveted.


He wanted to kiss her again as he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft, and lovely, and loving for him.

He wanted to kiss her again as he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft and loving.


But as for seeing her shadow, unless its movement indicated some purpose in his favour,--I do not think that he cared much about that.


Because in his unreasoning folly he did not know what step to take, or what step not to take.

But in his unreasoning folly he did not know what step to take.


There are men whose energies hardly ever carry them beyond looking for the thing they want.


She might see him from the window, and come to him. I do not say that he thought that it would be so. I fancy that he never thought at all about that or about anything. If you lie under a tree, and open your mouth, a plum may fall into it.

He stood there with an undefined feeling that she might see him from the window, and come to him; in the way that if you lie under a tree long enough, a plum may drop into your mouth.


It was probably an undefined idea of some such chance as this which brought him against the railings in the front of Mr. Palliser's house; that, and a feeling made up partly of despair and partly of lingering romance that he was better there, out in the night air, under the gas-lamps, than he could be elsewhere.


There he stood and looked, and cursed his ill-luck. But his curses had none of the bitterness of those which George Vavasor was always uttering.

He stood and looked, and cursed his ill-luck, though with none of the bitterness of George Vavasor's oaths.


Through it all there remained about Burgo one honest feeling,--one conviction that was true,--a feeling that it all served him right, and that he had better, perhaps, go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble.

Burgo had one honest feeling - a feeling that it served him right, and that he had perhaps better go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble.


If he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate any one; and whenever he made any self-inquiry into his own circumstances, he always told himself that it was all his own fault.

If he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate anyone.


When he cursed his fate, he only did so because cursing is so easy.


George Vavasor would have ground his victims up to powder if he knew how; but Burgo Fitzgerald desired to hurt no one.


There he stood till he was cold, and then, as the plum did not drop into his mouth, he moved on.


He went up into Oxford Street, and walked along it the whole distance to the corner of Bond Street, passing by Grosvenor Square, to which he intended to return.

He went up into Oxford Street, and walked along to the corner of Bond Street.


At the corner of Bond Street, a girl took hold of him, and looked up into his face.

There a girl took hold of him, and looked up into his face.


--"Then you saw the most miserable devil alive," said Burgo.


"You can't be miserable," said the girl.


"And plenty to eat and drink," exclaimed the girl; "and you are so handsome!


"You gave me supper one night when I was starving.


--"I'll give you a shilling, and that's better," said Burgo.


"But give me a kiss too," said the girl.


He gave her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and after that he left her and passed on.

He gave her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and then he left her and passed on.


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


"I wonder whether anything really ails him?"


Shouldn't I like to be good to such a one as him!"


Burgo went on, and made his way into the house in Grosvenor Square, by some means probably unknown to his aunt, and certainly unknown to his uncle.

He made his way into the house in Grosvenor Square, by some means unknown to his aunt.


He emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted a roll of notes which he had kept in one of them.

He emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted a roll of notes in one of them.


There were still a hundred and thirty pounds left.


Lady Glencora had promised that she would see him again.


She had said as much as that quite distinctly.


But what use would there be in that if all his money should then be gone?

But what use would that be if all his money should then be gone?


He knew that the keeping of money in his pocket was to him quite an impossibility.

He knew that keeping money was impossible for him.


What should he say to his aunt if he saw her in the course of the coming day?


Might it not be as well for him to avoid his aunt altogether?

Might it not be as well to avoid her altogether?


He breakfasted up-stairs in his bedroom,--in the bed, indeed, eating a small pat de foie gras from the supper-table, as he read a French novel.

He breakfasted in his bedroom, reading a French novel.


There he was still reading his French novel in bed when his aunt's maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see him before she went out.

He was still there when his aunt's maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see him.


"Tell me, Lucy," said he, "how is the old girl?"


From which it may be seen that Lucy shared the general feminine feeling in favour of poor Burgo.


Thus summoned Burgo applied himself to his toilet; but as he did so, he recruited his energies from time to time by a few pages of the French novel, and also by small doses from a bottle of curaoa which he had in his bedroom.

Burgo applied himself to his toilet, from time to time reading a few pages of the French novel, and also taking small doses from a bottle of curaao liqueur.


There was no pauper poorer than he in London that day.


But, nevertheless, he breakfasted on pat de foie gras and curaoa, and regarded those dainties very much as other men regard bread and cheese and beer.


But though he was dressing at the summons of his aunt, he had by no means made up his mind that he would go to her.

He had by no means made up his mind to go to his aunt.


She would only scold him for his misconduct.


She might, perhaps, turn him out of the house if he did not obey her,--or attempt to do so; but she would be much more likely to do this when he had made her angry by contradicting her.

She might, perhaps, turn him out of the house if he did not obey her, or if he contradicted her.


In neither case would he leave the house, even though its further use were positively forbidden him, because his remaining there was convenient; but as he could gain nothing by seeing "the old girl," as he had called her, he resolved to escape to his club without attending to her summons.

So he resolved to escape to his club without attending to her summons.


But his aunt, who was a better general than he, out-manoeuvred him.


He crept down the back stairs; but as he could not quite condescend to escape through the area, he was forced to emerge upon the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him, coming out of the breakfast-parlour.

He crept down the back stairs; but he was forced to emerge into the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him.


"Did not Lucy tell you that I wanted to see you?"


Lady Monk asked, with severity in her voice.


Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to have his hair washed and brushed.

Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to have his hair washed.


He would have been back in twenty minutes.


There was no energy about the poor fellow, unless, perhaps, when he was hunting; but he possessed a readiness which enabled him to lie at a moment's notice with the most perfect ease.


Lady Monk did not believe him; but she could not confute him, and therefore she let the lie pass.

Lady Monk did not believe him; but she let it pass.


As there was no way of escape left to him, he followed his aunt into the breakfast-parlour.

As there was no way of escape, he followed his aunt into the breakfast-parlour.


"Burgo," she said, when she had seated herself, and had made him sit in a chair opposite to her, "I don't think you will ever do any good."

"Burgo," she said, "I don't think you will ever do any good."


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


Sir Cosmo was speaking to me about you only yesterday morning."


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

"I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes it better."


You know that you are turning what I say into joke."


You are the most ungrateful, heartless creature I ever met.


You must make up your mind to leave this house at once."


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


"I don't suppose he does;--the least in the world," said Burgo, opening his eyes, and stretching his nostrils, and looking into his aunt's face as though he had great ground for indignation.


But the turning of Burgo out of the house was not Lady Monk's immediate purpose.

But Lady Monk did not intend to turn Burgo out of the house.


She knew that he would hang on there till the season was over.


After that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he should have succeeded in a certain enterprise.

After that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he succeeded in his enterprise.


She had now caught him in order that she might learn whether there was any possible remaining chance of success as to that enterprise.

She wished to learn whether there was any possible remaining chance of success.


So she received his indignation in silence, and began upon another subject.


"What a fool you made of yourself last night, Burgo!" she said.


"I believe that you will never be serious about anything.


"Why did you go on waltzing in that way when every pair of eyes in the room was watching you?"


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


"Look here, aunt, I'm not going to sit here and be abused.


I couldn't take her in my arms, and fly away with her out of a crowd."

I couldn't take her in my arms, and fly away with her."


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


you haven't spirit to do that, or anything else.


You are like a child that is just able to amuse itself for the moment, and never can think of anything further.


You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too,--and her; but, of course, you care nothing about that."

You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too."


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

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


"Of course he came back, when they sent him word how you and she were going on.


And now he will have forgiven her, and after that, of course, the thing will be all over."

And now he will have forgiven her, and the thing will be all over."


"I tell you what, aunt; she would go if she knew how.


When I was forced to leave her last night, she promised to see me again.


And as for being idle, and not doing anything;--why, I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed."

And as for being idle, and not doing anything; why, I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed."


I believe, after all, it would be easier down in the country,--especially now that he has taken it into his head to look after her."


Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low voice, "What did she say to you when you were parting?

Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low voice, "What exactly did she say to you when you were parting?"


She, at any rate, was not deficient in energy.


She was anxious enough to see her purpose accomplished.


She would have conducted the matter with discretion, if the running away with Mr. Palliser's wife could, in very fact, have been done by herself.


"What could she say more, when she was forced to go away?"


"Had she said that she would go with you?"


"I had asked her,--half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse.

"I had asked her half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse.


I know she means it, if she knew how to get away.


A woman, you know, wouldn't absolutely say that she would go, till she was gone."


"If she really meant it, she would tell you."


"I don't think she could have told me plainer."


She had a plan in her head,--a plan that might, as she thought, give to her nephew one more chance.

She had a plan in her head, that might, she thought, give her nephew one more chance.


But she hesitated before she could bring herself to explain it in detail.


At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr. Palliser's wife, but in lending it had said no word upon the subject.

At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr. Palliser's wife.


During the last season she had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house in London, and had taken care that Burgo should meet her there.

She had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house in London, and had taken care that Burgo should meet her there.


Then a hint or two had been spoken, and Lady Glencora had been asked to Monkshade.

Then Lady Glencora had been asked to Monkshade.


Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to Monkshade, and Lady Monk had then been baffled.

Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to Monkshade, and Lady Monk had been baffled.


But she did not therefore give up the game.


Having now thought of it so much, she began to speak of it more boldly, and had procured money for her nephew that he might thereby be enabled to carry off the woman.


But though this had been well understood between them, though words had been spoken which were sufficiently explicit, the plan had not been openly discussed.


Lady Monk had known nothing of the mode in which Lady Glencora was to have been carried off after her party, nor whither she was to have been taken.


But now,--now she must arrange it herself, and have a scheme of her own, or else the thing must fail absolutely.

Now she must arrange it herself, and have a scheme of her own, or else the thing must fail.


Even she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to her nephew on such a subject.

Yet she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to her nephew.


What if he should be false to her, and tell of her?


But when a woman has made such schemes, nothing distresses her so sadly as their failure.


She would risk all rather than that Mr. Palliser should keep his wife.


"I will try and help you," she said at last, speaking hoarsely, almost in a whisper, "if you have courage to make an attempt yourself."


said he "What is it you think I am afraid of?

said he. "What do you think I am afraid of?


I'd fight him,--or all the Pallisers, one after another, if it would do any good."

I'd fight him, if it would do any good."


There's no fighting wanted, as you know well enough.

"There's no fighting wanted, as you know well enough!


If you can get her to call here some day,--say on Thursday, at three o'clock,--I will be here to receive her; and instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab for her somewhere near.

If you can get her to call here, say on Thursday, at three o'clock, I will be here to receive her; and instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab for her somewhere near.


She can come, as it were, to make a morning call."


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


"There is a train to Southampton at four, and the boat sails for Jersey at half-past six; you will be in Jersey the next morning, and there is a boat goes on to St. Malo, almost at once."


You can go direct from one boat to the other,--that is, if she has strength and courage."


After that, who will say that Lady Monk was not a devoted aunt?

Who will say that Lady Monk was not a devoted aunt?


"That would do excellently well," said the enraptured Burgo.


"She will have difficulty in getting away from me, out of the house.


Of course I shall say nothing about it, and shall know nothing about it.


She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere to pick some one up, and to return;--out somewhere to Tyburnia, or down to Pimlico.

"She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere else to pick someone up.


Then she can leave me, and go out on foot, to where you have the cab.


She can tell the hall-porter that she will walk to her carriage.


"You must call on her, and make your way in, and see her, and arrange all this.


It must be a Thursday, because of the boats."


Then she made inquiry about his money, and took from him the notes which he had, promising to return them, with something added, on the Thursday morning; but he asked, with a little whine, for a five-pound note, and got it.

Then she asked about his money, and took the banknotes from him, promising to return them with something added, on the Thursday morning; but he asked, with a little whine, for a five-pound note, and got it.


Burgo then told her about the travelling-bags and the stockings, and they were quite pleasant and confidential.


"Bid her come in a stout travelling-dress," said Lady Monk.

"Bid her come in a travelling-dress," said Lady Monk.


"She can wear some lace or something over it, so that the servants won't observe it.


After this, Burgo left his aunt, and went away to his club, in a state of most happy excitement.

After this, Burgo left her, and went away to his club, in a state of most happy excitement.


Early in that conversation which Mr. Vavasor had with his daughter, and which was recorded a few pages back, he implored her to pause a while before she informed Mr. Grey of her engagement with her cousin.

Mr. Vavasor had implored Alice to wait before she informed Mr. Grey of her engagement with her cousin.

Chapter 36: John Grey Goes a Second Time to London


Nothing, however, on that point had been settled between them.


Mr. Vavasor had wished her to say that she would not write till he should have assented to her doing so.


She had declined to bind herself in this way, and then they had gone off to other things;--to George Vavasor's character and the disposition of her money. Alice, however, had felt herself bound not to write to Mr. Grey quite at once.

Although she had declined, she did not feel bound to write to Mr. Grey at once.


Indeed, when her cousin left her she had no appetite for writing such a letter as hers was to be.

Indeed, when her cousin left her she had no appetite for writing such a letter.


A day or two passed by her in this way, and nothing more was said by her or her father.


It was now the middle of January, and the reader may remember that Mr. Grey had promised that he would come to her in London in that month, as soon as he should know that she had returned from Westmoreland.

It was now the middle of January, and the reader may remember that Mr. Grey had promised that he would visit her in London that month.


She must at any rate do something to prevent that visit.

She must do something to prevent that visit.


Mr. Grey would not come without giving her notice.


She knew enough of the habits of the man to be sure of that.


But she desired that her letter to him should be in time to prevent his to her; so when those few days were gone, she sat down to write without speaking to her father again upon the subject.


It was a terrible job;--perhaps the most difficult of all the difficult tasks which her adverse fate had imposed upon her.

It was a terrible job; perhaps the most difficult of all the difficult tasks which she had faced.


She found when she did attempt it, that she could have done it better if she had done it at the moment when she was writing the other letter to her cousin George.

She felt that it would have been easier if Kate had been nearby, as she was when Alice wrote the other letter to her cousin George.


Then Kate had been near her, and she had been comforted by Kate's affectionate happiness. She had been strengthened at that moment by a feeling that she was doing the best in her power, if not for herself, at any rate for others.

Then she had been comforted by Kate's affectionate happiness, and strengthened by a feeling that she was doing the best, if not for herself, then for others.


All that comfort and all that strength had left her now.

All that comfort and strength had left her now.


The atmosphere of the fells had buoyed her up, and now the thick air of London depressed her.


She sat for hours with the pen in her hand, and could not write the letter.

She sat for hours with the pen in her hand, and could not write.


She let a day go by and a night, and still it was not written.


She hardly knew herself in her unnatural weakness.


As the mental photographs of the two men forced themselves upon her, she could not force herself to forget those words--"Look here, upon this picture--and on this." How was it that she now knew how great was the difference between the two men, how immense the pre-eminence of him whom she had rejected;--and that she had not before been able to see this on any of those many previous occasions on which she had compared the two together?

As the mental photographs of the two men forced themselves upon her, she could not help comparing them. How was it that she now knew how great was the difference between the two men, how immense the pre-eminence of him whom she had rejected? Why had she not been able to see this before?


As she thought of her cousin George's face when he left her room a few days since, and remembered Mr. Grey's countenance when last he held her hand at Cheltenham, the quiet dignity of his beauty which would submit to show no consciousness of injury, she could not but tell herself that when Paradise had been opened to her, she had declared herself to be fit only for Pandemonium.


In that was her chief misery; that now,--now when it was too late,--she could look at it aright.

In that was her chief misery; that now - when it was too late - she could look at it aright.


But the letter must be written, and on the second day she declared to herself that she would not rise from her chair till it was done.


The letter was written on that day and was posted.

But the letter was at last written and posted.


I will now ask the reader to go down with me to Nethercoats that we may be present with John Grey when he received it. He was sitting at breakfast in his study there, and opposite to him, lounging in an arm-chair, with a _Quarterly_ in his hand, was the most intimate of his friends, Frank Seward, a fellow of the college to which they had both belonged.

John Grey received it at Nethercoats, at breakfast in his study. Lounging in an arm-chair opposite was his closest friend, Frank Seward, a fellow of the Cambridge college to which they had both belonged.


Mr. Seward was a clergyman, and the tutor of his college, and a man who worked very hard at Cambridge.

Mr. Seward was a clergyman, and the tutor of his college.


In the days of his leisure he spent much of his time at Nethercoats, and he was the only man to whom Grey had told anything of his love for Alice and of his disappointment.

He spent much of his leisure time at Nethercoats, and he was the only man to whom Grey had told anything of his love for Alice and of his disappointment.


Even to Seward he had not told the whole story.


He had at first informed his friend that he was engaged to be married, and as he had told this as no secret,--having even said that he hated secrets on such matters,--the engagement had been mentioned in the common room of their college, and men at Cambridge knew that Mr. Grey was going to take to himself a wife.


Then Mr. Seward had been told that trouble had come, and that it was not improbable that there would be no such marriage.


Even when saying this Mr. Grey told none of the particulars, though he owned to his friend that a heavy blow had struck him.


His intimacy with Seward was of that thorough kind which is engendered only out of such young and lasting friendship as had existed between them; but even to such a friend as this Mr. Grey could not open his whole heart.


It was only to a friend who should also be his wife that he could do that,--as he himself thoroughly understood.


He had felt that such a friend was wanting to him, and he had made the attempt.


"Don't speak of this as yet," he had said to Mr. Seward.

"Don't speak of this yet," he had said to Mr. Seward.


"Of course when the matter is settled, those few people who know me must know it.

"Of course when the matter is settled, people must know it.


But perhaps there may be a doubt as yet, and as long as there is a doubt, it is better that it should not be discussed."

But as long as there is any doubt, it is better not discussed."


He had said no more than this,--had imputed no blame to Alice,--had told none of the circumstances; but Seward had known that the girl had jilted his friend, and had made up his mind that she must be heartless and false.

He had said no more than this; but Seward had known that the girl had jilted his friend, and had made up his mind that she must be heartless and false.


He had known also that his friend would never look for any other such companion for his home.

He also knew that his friend would never look for any other wife.


Letters were brought to each of them on this morning, and Seward's attention was of course occupied by those which he received.

Letters were brought to both of them this morning, and Seward's attention was occupied by his own.


Grey, as soon as the envelopes had touched his hand, became aware that one of them was from Alice, and this he at once opened. He did it very calmly, but without any of that bravado of indifference with which George Vavasor had received Alice's letter from Westmoreland.

Grey opened his letter from Alice at once, very calmly, but without any of that pretended indifference with which George Vavasor had received Alice's letter.


"It is right that I should tell you at once," said Alice, rushing into the middle of her subject without even the formality of the customary address--"It is right that I should tell you at once that--."

"It is right that I should tell you at once," said Alice - oh, the difficulty of writing this!


Oh, the difficulty which she had encountered when her words had carried her as far as this!--"that my cousin, George Vavasor, has repeated to me his offer of marriage, and that I have accepted it.

- "that my cousin, George Vavasor, has repeated to me his offer of marriage, and that I have accepted it.


I tell you, chiefly in order that I may save you from the trouble which you purposed to take when I last saw you at Cheltenham.

I tell you chiefly in order to save you from the trouble of visiting.


I will not tell you any of the circumstances of this engagement, because I have no right to presume that you will care to hear them.

I will not tell you the circumstances of this engagement, because I do not think that you will care to hear them.


I hardly dare to ask you to believe of me that in all that I have done, I have endeavoured to act with truth and honesty.

I hardly dare to ask you to believe that I have endeavoured to act with truth and honesty.


That I have been very ignorant, foolish,--what you will that is bad, I know well; otherwise there could not have been so much in the last few years of my life on which I am utterly ashamed to look back.

That I have been very ignorant, foolish and bad, I know well; there is much in the last few years of my life of which I am utterly ashamed.


For the injury that I have done you, I can only express deep contrition.


I do not dare to ask you to forgive me.--ALICE VAVASOR."

I do not dare to ask you to forgive me.
"Alice Vavasor."


She had tormented herself in writing this,--had so nearly driven herself distracted with attempts which she had destroyed, that she would not even read once to herself these last words.

She had tormented herself in writing this.


"He'll know it, and that is all that is necessary," she said to herself as she sent the letter away from her.

"He'll know, and that is all that is necessary," she said to herself.


Mr. Grey read it twice over, leaving the other letters unnoticed on the table by his tea-cup.


He read it twice over, and the work of reading it was one to him of intense agony.

The work of reading it was one of intense agony.


That Alice should have been brought to think of her engagement with him in a spirit of doubt and with a mind so troubled, that she had been inclined to attempt an escape from it, had been very grievous to him; but it had been in his mind a fantasy, a morbid fear of himself, which might be cured by time.

That Alice should have thought of her engagement with doubt had been very grievous to him; but he had considered it a fantasy which might be cured by time.


He, at any rate, would give all his energies towards achieving such a cure.

He would give all his energies towards achieving such a cure.


There had been one thing, however, which he most feared;--which he had chiefly feared, though he had forbidden himself to think that it could be probable, and this thing had now happened.

There had been one thing, however, which he feared; and this thing had now happened.


He had ever disliked and feared George Vavasor;--not from any effect which the man had upon himself, for as we know his acquaintance with Vavasor was of the slightest;--but he had feared and disliked his influence upon Alice.

He had always disliked and feared George Vavasor and his influence upon Alice, although he barely knew him.


He had also feared the influence of her cousin Kate.


To have cautioned Alice against her cousins would have been to him impossible.

But to have cautioned Alice against her cousins would have been impossible.


It was not his nature to express suspicion to one he loved.


Is the tone of that letter remembered in which he had answered Alice when she informed him that her cousin George was to go with Kate and her to Switzerland?


He had written, with a pleasant joke, words which Alice had been able to read with some little feeling of triumph to her two friends.


He had not so written because he liked what he knew of the man.


But it had not been possible for him to show that he distrusted the prudence of her, whom, as his future wife, he was prepared to trust in all things.


I have said that he read Alice's letter with an agony of sorrow; as he sat with it in his hand he suffered as, probably, he had never suffered before.

As he sat with the letter in his hand he suffered as, probably, he had never suffered before.


But there was nothing in his countenance to show that he was in pain.

But there was nothing in his face to show that he was in pain.


Seward had received some long epistle, crossed from end to end,--indicative, I should say, of a not far distant termination to that college tutorship,--and was reading it with placid contentment.

Seward was reading a long letter with placid contentment.


It did not occur to him to look across at Grey, but had he done so, I doubt whether he would have seen anything to attract his attention.

It did not occur to him to look across at Grey, but had he done so, I doubt whether he would have seen anything unusual.


But Grey, though he was wounded, would not allow himself to be dismayed.

But Grey, though wounded, would not allow himself to be dismayed.


There was less hope now than before, but there might still be hope;--hope for her, even though there might be none for him.

There was less hope now than before, but there might still be hope - hope for her, if not for him.


Tidings had reached his ears also as to George Vavasor, which had taught him to believe that the man was needy, reckless, and on the brink of ruin.

He had heard that George Vavasor was needy, reckless, and on the brink of ruin.


Such a marriage to Alice Vavasor would be altogether ruinous.

Such a marriage would be altogether ruinous to Alice.


Whatever might be his own ultimate fate he would still seek to save her from that.

Whatever might be his own ultimate fate, he would still seek to save her from that.


Her cousin, doubtless, wanted her money.


Might it not be possible that he would be satisfied with her money, and that thus the woman might be saved?


"Seward," he said at last, addressing his friend, who had not yet come to the end of the last crossed page.


"Well;--yes; there is something a little wrong.


I fear I must leave you, and go up to town to-day."

I fear I must leave you, and go up to town today."


Mrs. Bole will take care of you, and you must not be angry with me for leaving you."


Seward assured him that he would not be in the least angry, and that he was thoroughly conversant with the capabilities and good intentions of Mrs. Bole the housekeeper; but added, that as he was so near his own college, he would of course go back to Cambridge.

Seward assured him that Mrs. Bole was an excellent housekeeper; but that as he was so near his own college, he would return to Cambridge.


He longed to say some word as to the purpose of Grey's threatened journey; to make some inquiry as to this new trouble; but he knew that Grey was a man who did not well bear close inquiries, and he was silent.

He longed to ask about Grey's trouble; but he knew that Grey was a man who did not well bear close inquiries.


"I wish you would, old fellow; I do, indeed."


There was a tone of special affection in his voice which struck Seward at once.

The affection in his voice struck Seward at once.


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


Grey again sat silent for a little while.


"I have got a letter here from--Miss Vavasor," said Grey.

"I have got a letter here from - Miss Vavasor," said Grey.


"No;--it does not bring good news to me.


I do not know that I can tell it you all.


I would if I could, but the whole story is one not to be told in a hurry.

I would tell you if I could, but the whole story is one not to be told in a hurry.


There are things which a man cannot tell."


"I wish with all my heart that you knew it all as I know it; but that is impossible.

"I wish with all my heart that you knew it as I know it; but that is impossible."


There are things which happen in a day which it would take a lifetime to explain."


"I have heard bad news this morning, and I must go up to London at once.

"I have heard bad news, and I must go up to London at once.


I shall go into Ely so as to be there by twelve; and if you will, you shall drive me over.

I shall go into Ely by noon, if you will drive me over.


I may be back in a day; certainly in less than a week; but it will be a comfort to me to know that I shall find you here."


The matter was so arranged, and at eleven they started.

The matter was arranged, and at eleven they started.


During the first two miles not a word was spoken between them.


"Seward," Grey said at last, "if I fail in what I am going to attempt, it is probable that you will never hear Alice Vavasor's name mentioned by me again; but I want you always to bear this in mind;--that at no moment has my opinion of her ever been changed, nor must you in such case imagine from my silence that it has changed.

"Seward," said Grey on the journey, "if I fail in what I am going to attempt, you will probably never hear Alice Vavasor's name mentioned by me again; but I want you always to remember that at no moment has my opinion of her ever been changed.


"To my thinking she is the finest of God's creatures that I have known.


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

It may be that in future she will be severed from me altogether; but I shall not, therefore, think the less well of her; and I wish that you should know that, even if her name should never be mentioned between us."


Seward, in some few words, assured him that it should be so, and then they finished their journey in silence.

Seward assured him that it should be so, and they finished their journey in silence.


From the station at Ely, Grey sent a message by the wires up to John Vavasor, saying that he would call on him that afternoon at his office in Chancery Lane.

From the station at Ely, Grey wired a message to John Vavasor, saying that he would call on him that afternoon at his office in Chancery Lane.


The chances were always much against finding Mr. Vavasor at his office; but on this occasion the telegram did reach him there, and he remained till the unaccustomed hour of half past four to meet the man who was to have been his son-in-law.

The telegram reached Vavasor there, and he remained till half past four to meet Grey.


he asked as soon as Grey entered the dingy little room, not in Chancery Lane, but in its neighbourhood, which was allocated to him for his signing purposes.


"Yes,"--said Grey; "she has written to me."

"Yes," said Grey; "she has written to me."


I tried to hinder her from writing, but she is very wilful."

I tried to prevent her from writing, but she is very wilful."


If the thing was to be told, it is better that it should be done at once."

If the thing was to be told, better that it should be done at once."


"But I hoped that there might be an escape.


I don't know what you think of all this, Grey, but to me it is the bitterest misfortune that I have known."


And I've had some bitter things, too," he added,--thinking of that period of his life, when the work of which he was ashamed was first ordained as his future task.


The whole thing seems to me to be so mad, that I partly trusted that she would see the madness of it.

The whole thing seems to me to be so mad, that I trusted that she would see the madness of it.


I am not sure whether you know anything of my nephew George?"


"I believe him to be utterly an adventurer,--a man without means and without principle,--upon the whole about as bad a man as you may meet.

"I believe him to be a man without means and without principle, on the whole about as bad a man as you may meet.


I give you my word, Grey, that I don't think I know a worse man.


He's going to marry her for her money; then he will beggar her, after that he'll ill-treat her, and yet what can I do?"


It's all very well to say that, and it's the very thing I want to do.


She's as much her own master as you are yours.


She can give him every shilling of her fortune to-morrow.

She can give him every shilling of her fortune tomorrow.


How am I to prevent her from marrying him?"


"Let her give him every shilling of her fortune to-morrow," said Grey.

"Let her give him every shilling of her fortune tomorrow," said Grey.


"Then--then,--then,--then let her come to me," said John Grey; and as he spoke there was the fragment of a tear in his eye, and the hint of quiver in his voice.

"Then - then - then let her come to me," said John Grey; and as he spoke there was the fragment of a tear in his eye, and the hint of a quiver in his voice.


[Illustration: "Then--then,--then let her come to me."]


Even the worldly, worn-out, unsympathetic nature of John Vavasor was struck, and, as it were, warmed by this.

Even the worldly, unsympathetic John Vavasor was struck.


"God bless you; God bless you, my dear fellow.


I heartily wish for her sake that I could look forward to any such an end to this affair."

I heartily wish for her sake that I could look forward to such an end to this affair."


"But Grey, you do not know Alice; you do not understand my girl.

"But Grey, you do not understand my girl.


When she had lost her fortune nothing would induce her to become your wife."

Once she had lost her fortune, nothing would induce her to become your wife."


"Leave that to follow as it may," said John Grey.


"Our first object must be to sever her from a man, who is, as you say, himself on the verge of ruin; and who would certainly make her wretched.

"Our first object must be to sever her from a man who is on the verge of ruin; and who would certainly make her wretched.


I am here now, not because I wish her to be my own wife, but because I wish that she should not become the wife of such a one as your nephew.

I am here not because I wish her to be my own wife, but because I wish that she should not marry such a one as your nephew.


If I were you I would let him have her money."


"If you were I, you would have nothing more to do with it than the man that is as yet unborn.

"If you were me, you would have no say in the matter.


I know that she will give him her money because she has said so; but I have no power as to her giving it or as to her withholding it.

I know that she will give him her money; but I have no power over her."


That's the hardship of my position;--but it is of no use to think of that now."


John Grey certainly did not think about it. He knew well that Alice was independent, and that she was not inclined to give up that independence to anyone. He had not expected that her father would be able to do much towards hindering his daughter from becoming the wife of George Vavasor, but he had wished that he himself and her father should be in accord in their views, and he found that this was so.

John Grey knew well that Alice was independent, and he had not expected that her father would be able to do much, but he had wished that the two men should agree in their views.


When he left Mr. Vavasor's room nothing had been said about the period of the marriage.


Grey thought it improbable that Alice would find herself able to give herself in marriage to her cousin immediately,--so soon after her breach with him; but as to this he had no assurance, and he determined to have the facts from her own lips, if she would see him.

Grey thought it improbable that Alice would marry her cousin immediately, so soon after her breach with him; but there was no certainty of this, and he determined to ask her, if she would see him.


So he wrote to her, naming a day on which he would call upon her early in the morning; and having received from her no prohibition, he was in Queen Anne Street at the hour appointed.

So he wrote to her, naming a day on which he would call upon her; and when she did not refuse, he arrived at the hour appointed.


He had conceived a scheme which he had not made known to Mr. Vavasor, and as to the practicability of which he had much doubt; but which, nevertheless, he was resolved to try if he should find the attempt possible.

He had thought of a scheme which he had not told to Mr. Vavasor. He was not sure if it was practicable, but, nevertheless, he was resolved to try it.


He himself would buy off George Vavasor.


He had ever been a prudent man, and he had money at command.


If Vavasor was such a man as they, who knew him best, represented him, such a purchase might be possible.

If Vavasor was such a man as people said, this might be possible.


But then, before this was attempted, he must be quite sure that he knew his man, and he must satisfy himself also that in doing so he would not, in truth, add to Alice's misery.

But before trying this, he must be quite sure that he knew his man, and he must satisfy himself also that in doing so he would not, in truth, add to Alice's misery.


He could hardly bring himself to think it possible that she did, in truth, love her cousin with passionate love.

He could hardly bring himself to think it possible that she actually loved her cousin with passionate love.


It seemed to him, as he remembered what Alice had been to himself, that this must be impossible.


But if it were so, that of course must put an end to his interference.


He thought that if he saw her he might learn all this, and therefore he went to Queen Anne Street.

It was to learn all this that he went to Queen Anne Street.


"Of course he must come if he will," she said to herself when she received his note.

"Of course he must come if he wishes," she said to herself when she received his note.


He will say nothing half so hard to me as what I say to myself all day long."


But when the morning came, and the hour came, and the knock at the door for which her ears were on the alert, her heart misgave her, and she felt that the present moment of her punishment, though not the heaviest, would still be hard to bear.

But when the morning came, and she heard the knock, her heart misgave her, and she felt that this moment of her punishment would be hard to bear.


He came slowly up-stairs,--his step was ever slow,--and gently opened the door for himself.

He came slowly upstairs - his step was always slow - and gently opened the door for himself.


Then, before he even looked at her, he closed it again.


I do not know how to explain that it was so; but it was this perfect command of himself at all seasons which had in part made Alice afraid of him, and drove her to believe that they were not fitted for each other.

It was this perfect command of himself at all times which had in part made Alice afraid of him, and drove her to believe that they were not fitted for each other.


She, when he thus turned for a moment from her, and then walked slowly towards her, stood with both her hands leaning on the centre table of the room, and with her eyes fixed upon its surface.

She stood with both her hands leaning on the centre table of the room, and with her eyes fixed upon its surface.


"Alice," he said, walking up to her very slowly.


Her whole frame shuddered as she heard the sweetness of his voice.


Had I not better tell the truth of her at once?


Oh, if she could only have been his again!


What madness during these last six months had driven her to such a plight as this!


But that trust in his love returned to her,--that trust which told her that such love and such worth would have sufficed to make her happy. But this confidence in him was worthless now!

That trust in his love returned to her - but this confidence in him was worthless now!


Even though he should desire it, she could not change again.

Even if he desired it, she could not change her mind again.


And then, as slowly she looked up at him, he asked her for her hand. "You may give it me," he said, "as to an old friend."

"May I take your hand - as an old friend?"


She put her hand in his hand, and then, withdrawing it, felt that she must never trust herself to do so again.

She put her hand in his, and then, withdrawing it, felt that she must never trust herself to do so again.


"Alice," he continued, "I do not expect you to say much to me; but there is a question or two which I think you will answer.


Has a day been fixed for this marriage?"


"Oh, no;--not for a year," she replied hurriedly;--and he knew at once by her voice that she already dreaded this new wedlock.

"Oh, no - not for a year," she replied hurriedly; and he knew at once by her voice that she already dreaded this new wedlock.


Whatever of anger he might before have felt for her was banished.

Whatever anger he might have felt for her was banished.


She had brought herself by her ill-judgement,--by her ignorance, as she had confessed,--to a sad pass; but he believed that she was still worthy of his love.

She had brought herself by her ill-judgement - by her ignorance - to a sad pass; but he believed that she was still worthy of his love.


"And now one other question, Alice;--but if you are silent, I will not ask it again.

"And now one other question, Alice; but if you are silent, I will not ask it again.


Can you tell me why you have again accepted your cousin's offer?"


"Because--," she said very quickly, looking up as though she were about to speak with all her old courage.

"Because-," she said very quickly, looking up as though she were about to speak with all her old courage.


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

"But you would never understand me," she said, "and there can be no reason why you should ever think well of me again."


He knew that there was no love,--no love for that man to whom she had pledged her hand.

He knew that there was no love for that other man.


He did not know, on the other hand, how strong, how unchanged, how true was her love for himself.

However, he did not know how unchanged and true was her love for himself.


Indeed, of himself he was thinking not at all.

Indeed, he was not thinking of himself at all.


He desired to learn whether she would suffer, if by any scheme he might succeed in breaking off this marriage.

He wished to learn whether she would suffer, if the marriage were prevented.


When he had asked her whether she were to be married at once, she had shuddered at the thought.

But it seemed that she shuddered at the thought of the marriage.


When he asked her why she had accepted her cousin, she had faltered, and hinted at some excuse which he might fail to understand.


Had she loved George Vavasor, he could have understood that well enough.


"Alice," he said, speaking still very slowly, "nothing has ever yet been done which need to a certainty separate you and me.

"Alice," he said, "nothing has yet been done which need totally separate you and me.


I am a persistent man, and I do not even yet give up all hope.


As you say yourself, I do not as yet quite understand you.

As you say yourself, I do not quite understand you.


But, Alice,--and I think that the position in which we stood a few months since justifies me in saying so without offence,--I love you now as well as ever, and should things change with you, I cannot tell you with how much joy and eagerness I should take you back to my bosom.

But, Alice , I love you now as well as ever, and should things change with you, I cannot tell you with how much joy and eagerness I should take you back to my bosom.


My heart is yours now as it has been since I knew you."


Then he again just touched her hand, and left her before she had been able to answer a word.

Then he again just touched her hand, and left her before she could answer a word.


Lady Midlothian went away on her road to London on the Wednesday morning, and Alice was to follow her on the next day.

Lady Midlothian went away on Wednesday morning, and Alice was to leave the next day.


It was now December, and the weather was very clear and frosty, but at night there was bright moonlight.

It was now December, and the weather was clear and frosty, but at night there was bright moonlight.


On this special night the moon would be full, and Lady Glencora had declared that she and Alice would go out amidst the ruins.

On this night the moon would be full, and Lady Glencora had declared that she and Alice would go out amidst the ruins.


It was no secret engagement, having been canvassed in public, and having been met with considerable discouragement by some of the party.


Mr. Palliser had remarked that the night air would be very cold, and Mr. Bott had suggested all manner of evil consequences.


Had Mr. Palliser alone objected, Lady Glencora might have given way, but Mr. Bott's word riveted her purpose.

Had Mr. Palliser alone objected, Lady Glencora might have given way, but Mr. Bott's word strengthened her purpose.


"We are not going to be frightened," Lady Glencora said.


"People do not generally walk out at night in December," Mr. Palliser observed.


"That's just the reason why we want to do it," said Lady Glencora.


"But we shall wrap ourselves up, and nobody need be afraid.

"We shall wrap ourselves up warm," she said, "and nobody need be afraid.


Jeffrey, we shall expect you to stand sentinel at the old gate, and guard us from the ghosts."


Jeffrey Palliser, bargaining that he might be allowed a cigar, promised that he would do as he was bidden.


The party at Matching Priory had by this time become very small.


There were indeed no guests left, not counting those of the Palliser family, excepting Miss Vavasor, Mr. Bott, and an old lady who had been a great friend of Mr. Palliser's mother.

There were indeed no guests left, except Miss Vavasor, Mr. Bott, and an old lady who had been a great friend of Mr. Palliser's mother.


It was past ten in the evening when Lady Glencora declared that the time had arrived for them to carry out their purpose.

It was past ten in the evening when Lady Glencora declared that the time had come to go out.


She invited the two Miss Pallisers to join her, but they declined, urging their fear of the night air, and showing by their manner that they thought the proposition a very imprudent one.

She invited the two Miss Pallisers to join her, but they declined.


Mr. Bott offered to accompany them, but Lady Glencora declined his attendance very stoutly.


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

"No, indeed, Mr. Bott," said Lady Glencora. "You were one of those who preached a sermon against my dissipation, and I'm not going to allow you to join it."


"My dear Lady Glencora, if I were you, indeed I wouldn't," said the old lady, looking round towards Mr. Palliser.


"My dear Mrs. Marsham, if you were me, indeed you would," and Lady Glencora also looked at her husband.


"I think it a foolish thing to do," said Mr. Palliser, sternly.

"I think it a foolish thing to do," said Mr. Palliser sternly.


"If you forbid it, of course we won't go," said Lady Glencora.


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

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


She and Alice were already muffled in cloaks and thick shawls, and Alice now followed her out of the room. There was a door which opened from the billiard-room out on to the grand terrace, which ran in front of the house, and here they found Jeffrey Palliser already armed with his cigar.

She and Alice were already muffled in cloaks and thick shawls. Alice followed her out onto the grand terrace which ran in front of the house. Here they found Jeffrey Palliser armed with a cigar.


Alice, to tell the truth, would much have preferred to abandon the expedition, but she had felt that it would be cowardly in her to desert Lady Glencora.

Alice, to tell the truth, would have preferred to abandon the expedition, but could not desert Lady Glencora.


There had not arisen any very close intimacy between her and Mr. Palliser, but she entertained a certain feeling that Mr. Palliser trusted her, and liked her to be with his wife.

She had a feeling that Mr. Palliser trusted her, and liked her to be with his wife.


She would have wished to justify this supposed confidence, and was almost sure that Mr. Palliser expected her to do so in this instance. She did say a word or two to her cousin up-stairs, urging that perhaps her husband would not like it.

She wished to justify this supposed trust, and had said a word or two to her cousin upstairs, urging that perhaps her husband would not like it.


"Let him say so plainly," said Lady Glencora, "and I'll give it up instantly.


But I'm not going to be lectured out of my purposes secondhand by Mr. Bott or old Mother Marsham.

But I'm not going to be lectured out of my purposes by Mr. Bott or old Mother Marsham.


And if you throw me over, Alice, I'll never forgive you," Lady Glencora added.

And if you throw me over, Alice, I'll never forgive you."


After this Alice resolved that she would not throw her friend over.


But she was also becoming a little afraid of her friend,--afraid that she would be driven some day either to throw her over, or to say words to her that would be very unpalatable.

But she was becoming a little afraid of her friend - afraid that she would be driven some day either to throw her over, or to say words to her that she would not like.


"Now, Jeffrey," said Lady Glencora as they walked abreast along the broad terrace towards the ruins, "when we get under the old gateway you must let me and Alice go round the dormitory and the chapel alone.

"Now, Jeffrey," said Lady Glencora as they walked towards the ruins, "when we get under the old gateway you must let me and Alice go round the dormitory and the chapel alone.


Then we'll come back by the cloisters, and we'll take another turn outside with you.


The outside is the finest by this light,--only I want to show Alice something by ourselves."


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

"You're not afraid, I know. If Miss Vavasor is not-"


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

"Miss Vavasor - who, I think, would allow you to call her Alice tonight - is never afraid."


She felt herself to be very angry with her cousin.

She felt very angry with her cousin for inviting Mr. Palliser to be familiar with her.


She almost began to fear that she had mistaken her, and had thought better of her than she had deserved.


What she had now said struck Alice as being vulgar,--as being premeditated vulgarity, and her annoyance was excessive.


Of course Mr. Palliser would think that she was a consenting party to the proposition made to him.

Of course he would assume it was with Alice's consent.


Don't be angry with me," she said, as soon as they were out of hearing.


"The truth is this;--if you choose to have him for your husband, you may."

"The truth is, if you choose to have him for your husband, you may."


"Then there can be no harm done, and I will tell him so.


But, Alice,--think of this. Whom will you meet that would suit you better?

But, Alice, who will you meet that would suit you better?


You need not say a word, but leave me to tell him, that if it is to be thought of at all, it cannot be thought of till he meets you in London.

Let me to tell him to wait until he meets you in London."


"You shall tell him nothing of the kind," said Alice.


"I believe you to be joking throughout, and I think the joke is a bad one."

"I believe you are joking, and the joke is a bad one."


"No; there you wrong me. Indeed I am not joking.


I know that in what I am saying I am telling you the simple truth.


He has said enough to me to justify me in saying so.


It would reconcile me to much, and it would be something to be the mother of the future Duke of Omnium."


"To me it would be nothing," said Alice; "less than nothing.

"To me it would be nothing," said Alice.


I mean to say that the temptation is one so easily resisted that it acts in the other way.


"Don't say anything more about it, Glencora."


I don't think I ever saw moonlight so bright as this.


Look at the lines of that window against the light.


They are clearer than you ever see them in the day."


They were now standing just within the gateway of the old cruciform chapel, having entered the transept from a ruined passage which was supposed to have connected the church with the dormitory.

They were now standing just within the gateway of the old chapel.


The church was altogether roofless, but the entire walls were standing.

The church was roofless, but the walls were standing.


The small clerestory windows of the nave were perfect, and the large windows of the two transepts and of the west end were nearly so.

The small windows of the nave were perfect, and the large windows of the two transepts and of the west end were nearly so.


Of the opposite window, which had formed the back of the choir, very little remained.


The top of it, with all its tracery, was gone, and three broken upright mullions of uneven heights alone remained.

The top of it, with all its tracery, was gone, and three broken upright mullions alone remained.


This was all that remained of the old window, but a transom or cross-bar of stone had been added to protect the carved stone-work of the sides, and save the form of the aperture from further ruin.


That this transom was modern was to be seen from the magnificent height and light grace of the workmanship in the other windows, in which the long slender mullions rose from the lower stage or foundation of the whole up into the middle tracery of the arch without protection or support, and then lost themselves among the curves, not running up into the roof or soffit, and there holding on as though unable to stand alone.


Such weakness as that had not as yet shown itself in English church architecture when Matching Priory was built.


And there is a peculiar feeling of cold about the chill of the moon, different from any other cold.


It makes you wrap yourself up tight, but it does not make your teeth chatter; and it seems to go into your senses rather than into your bones.

It seems to go into your senses rather than into your bones.


But I suppose that's nonsense," she added, after a pause.


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

"No more than what people are supposed to talk by moonlight."


I'd like what I say on such an occasion to be more poetical or else more nonsensical than what other people say under the same circumstances.


And now I'll tell you why I always think of you when I come here by moonlight."


"Yes, I do; that is to say, I did come very often when we had the full moon in August.

"I did come very often when we had the full moon in August.


The weather wasn't like this, and I used to run out through the open windows and nobody knew where I was gone.


I made him come once, but he didn't seem to care about it.


I told him that part of the refectory wall was falling; so he looked at that, and had a mason sent the next day.

I told him that part of the refectory wall was falling; so he had a mason sent the next day.


If anything is out of order he has it put to rights at once.


There would have been no ruins if all the Pallisers had been like him."


But now I'm going to tell you. Do you remember that night I brought you home from the play to Queen Anne Street?"

But now I'm going to tell you: do you remember that night I brought you home from the play to Queen Anne Street?"


Alice had occasion to remember it, for it had been in the carriage on that evening that she had positively refused to give any aid to her cousin in that matter relating to Burgo Fitzgerald.

It had been on that evening that she had positively refused to give any aid to her cousin about Burgo Fitzgerald.


"And do you remember how the moon shone then?"

"And do you remember how the moon shone?


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

As we came round the corner from Cavendish Square he was standing there - and a friend of yours was standing with him."


"Never mind that; it does not matter now."


"Yes, I do mean your cousin; and oh, Alice!


I don't know why I should love you, for if you had not been hardhearted that night,--stony cruel in your hard propriety, I should have gone with him then, and all this icy coldness would have been prevented."

I don't know why I should love you, for if you had not been stony cruel that night, I should have gone with him then, and all this icy coldness would have been prevented."


She was standing quite close to Alice, and as she spake she shook with shivering and wrapped her furs closer and still closer about her.

She was standing quite close to Alice, and as she spoke she shivered and wrapped her furs closer about her.


"No, I am not cold,--not in that way. I won't go in yet.


Yes;--we should have escaped that night if you would have allowed him to come into your house.

We should have escaped that night if you had allowed him to come into your house.


I would give everything I have in the world to have been true to him.


They told me that he would spend my money.


Though he should have spent every farthing of it, I regret it; though he should have made me a beggar, I regret it.

Though he should have made me a beggar, I regret it.


They told me that he would ill-use me, and desert me,--perhaps beat me.

They told me that he would ill-use me, and desert me.


I do not believe it; but even though that should have been so, I regret it.

I do not believe it; but even if that should have been so, I regret it."


It is better to have a false husband than to be a false wife."


Do not try to make me think that anything could tempt you to be false to your vows."


Why, child, it has been all false throughout.


How can you talk in that way, when you know that I never loved him?


They browbeat me and frightened me till I did as I was told;--and now;--what am I now?"

They browbeat me and frightened me till I did as I was told;- and now - what am I now?"


By law I am his wife; but the laws are liars!


When I went to him at the altar, I knew that I did not love the man that was to be my husband.

When I went to him at the altar, I knew that I did not love him.


But him,--Burgo,--I love him with all my heart and soul.

But Burgo I love with all my heart and soul.


I could stoop at his feet and clean his shoes for him, and think it no disgrace!"


"Oh, Cora, my friend, do not say such words as those!

"Oh, Cora, my friend, do not say such words!


Remember what you owe your husband and yourself, and come away."


"I do know what I owe him, and I will pay it him.


Alice, if I had a child I think I would be true to him.

Alice, if I had a child I would be true to him.


I know I would;--though I had no hour of happiness left to me in my life.


But what now is the only honest thing that I can do?


Why, leave him;--so leave him that he may have another wife and be the father of a child.

Why, leave him; so that he may have another wife and be the father of a child.


What injury shall I do him by leaving him?


He does not love me; you know yourself that he does not love me."


He does not; and you have seen clearly that it is so.


But another woman would give him a son, and he would be happy.


I tell you that every day and every night,--every hour of every day and of every night,--I am thinking of the man I love.

Every hour of every day and every night, I am thinking of the man I love.


I have no occupation,--no friends,--no one to whom I care to say a word.

I have no occupation, no friends to talk to.


But I am always talking to Burgo in my thoughts; and he listens to me.


"Well!--Do you begrudge me that I should tell you the truth?

"Do you begrudge me telling you the truth?


You have said that you would be my friend, and you must bear the burden of my friendship.


And now,--this is what I want to tell you.--Immediately after Christmas, we are to go to Monkshade, and he will be there.

And this is what I want to tell you. Immediately after Christmas, we are to go to Monkshade, and he will be there.


"That is easily said, child; but all the same I must go.


I told Mr. Palliser that he would be there, and he said it did not signify. He actually said that it did not signify.

I told Mr. Palliser that he would be there, and he actually said that it did not signify.


I wonder whether he understands what it is for people to love each other;--whether he has ever thought about it."

I wonder whether he understands what it is for people to love each other."


"You must tell him plainly that you will not go."


I told him plainly as words could tell him.

I told him as plainly as words could tell him.


'Glencora,' he said,--and you know the way he looks when he means to be lord and master, and put on the very husband indeed,--'This is an annoyance which you must bear and overcome.

'Glencora,' he said - and you know the way he looks when he means to be lord and master - 'This is an annoyance which you must bear and overcome.


It suits me that we should go to Monkshade, and it does not suit me that there should be any one whom you are afraid to meet.'

It suits me that we should go to Monkshade, and it does not suit me that there should be anyone whom you are afraid to meet.'


Could I tell him that he would lose his wife if I did go?

Could I tell him that he would lose his wife if I went?


Could I threaten him that I would throw myself into Burgo's arms if that opportunity were given to me?

Could I threaten that I would throw myself into Burgo's arms?


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


I know what I am, and what I am like to become.


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


I could have clung to the outside of a man's body, to his very trappings, and loved him ten times better than myself!--ay, even though he had ill-treated me,--if I had been allowed to choose a husband for myself.

I could have loved a man ten times better than myself - even though he had ill-treated me - if I had been allowed to choose a husband for myself.


Burgo would have spent my money,--all that it would have been possible for me to give him.


But there would have been something left, and I think that by that time I could have won even him to care for me.


Alice had no doubt as to what her cousin should do.


She should be true to her marriage-vow, whether that vow when made were true or false.


She should be true to it as far as truth would now carry her.


And in order that she might be true, she should tell her husband as much as might be necessary to induce him to spare her the threatened visit to Monkshade.

And therefore she should tell her husband as much as might be necessary to induce him to spare her the visit to Monkshade.


All that she said to Lady Glencora, as they walked slowly across the chapel.

All this she said to Lady Glencora, as they walked slowly across the chapel.


But Lady Glencora was more occupied with her own thoughts than with her friend's advice.


"What an unconscionable time we have kept him!"


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


"We are not such cold-blooded creatures as that,--are we, Alice?"


"And now we'll go round the outside; only we must not stay long, or we shall frighten those two delicious old duennas, Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott."


These last words were said as it were in a whisper to Alice; but they were so whispered that there was no real attempt to keep them from the ears of Mr. Jeffrey Palliser.


Glencora, Alice thought, should not have allowed the word duenna to have passed her lips in speaking to any one; but, above all, she should not have done so in the hearing of Mr. Palliser's cousin.


They walked all round the ruin, on a raised gravel-path which had been made there; and Alice, who could hardly bring herself to speak,--so full was her mind of that which had just been said to her,--was surprised to find that Glencora could go on, in her usual light humour, chatting as though there were no weight within her to depress her spirits.

They walked all round the ruin, on a gravel-path; and Alice, who could hardly bring herself to speak, was surprised to find that Glencora could go on in her usual light humour, chatting as though there were nothing to depress her spirits.


It had not occurred to Alice that her accepted lover would come to her so soon.

It had not occurred to Alice that he would come to her so soon.


She had not told him expressly of the day on which she would return, and had not reflected that Kate would certainly inform him. She had been thinking so much of the distant perils of this engagement, that this peril, so sure to come upon her before many days or hours could pass by, had been forgotten.

She had not reflected that Kate would inform him of the date of her return.


When the name struck her ear, and George's step was heard outside on the landing-place, she felt the blood rush violently to her heart, and she jumped up from her seat panic-stricken and in utter dismay.

When George's step was heard outside, she felt the blood rush violently to her heart, and she jumped up from her seat panic-stricken and in utter dismay.


And then again, with what form of affection would she be accosted by him?


But he was there in the room with her before she had had a moment allowed to her for thought.

But he was there in the room with her before she could think.


She hardly ventured to look up at him; but, nevertheless, she became aware that there was something in his appearance and dress brighter, more lover-like, perhaps newer, than was usual with him.

She hardly ventured to look up at him; but, nevertheless, she became aware that his appearance and dress were brighter, more lover-like, perhaps newer, than usual.


This in itself was an affliction to her.


He ought to have understood that such an engagement as theirs not only did not require, but absolutely forbade, any such symptom of young love as this.

He ought to have understood that such an engagement as theirs not only did not require, but absolutely forbade, any such symptom of young love.


Even when their marriage came, if it must come, it should come without any customary sign of smartness, without any outward mark of exaltation.

Even when their marriage came, if it must come, it should be without any sign of exaltation.


It would have been very good in him to have remained away from her for weeks and months; but to come upon her thus, on the first morning of her return, was a cruelty not to be forgiven.

To come upon her thus, on the first morning of her return, was a cruelty not to be forgiven.


These were the feelings with which Alice regarded her betrothed when he came to see her.

These were the feelings with which Alice regarded her betrothed.


"Alice," said he, coming up to her with his extended hand,--"Dearest Alice!"

"Alice," said he, coming up to her with his hand out, "Dearest Alice!"


She gave him her hand, and muttered some word which was inaudible even to him; she gave him her hand, and immediately endeavoured to resume it, but he held it clenched within his own, and she felt that she was his prisoner.

She muttered some inaudible word, gave him her hand, and immediately tried to draw it back; but he held it clenched within his own, and she felt that she was his prisoner.


He was standing close to her now, and she could not escape from him. She was trembling with fear lest worse might betide her even than this.

She could not escape from him, and was trembling with fear.


She had promised to marry him, and now she was covered with dismay as she felt rather than thought how very far she was from loving the man to whom she had given this promise.

She had promised to marry him, and now she was dismayed as she felt rather than thought how very far she was from loving him.


"Alice," he said, "I am a man once again.


It is only now that I can tell you what I have suffered during these last few years."


He still held her hand, but he had not as yet attempted any closer embrace. She knew that she was standing away from him awkwardly, almost showing her repugnance to him; but it was altogether beyond her power to assume an attitude of ordinary ease.

He still held her hand, and she knew that she was standing away from him awkwardly; but she was unable to act with ordinary ease.


"Alice," he continued, "I feel that I am a strong man again, armed to meet the world at all points.


Will you not let me thank you for what you have done for me?"

"Alice, will you not let me thank you for what you have done for me?"


Though the doing so should be ever so painful to her, she must say some word to him which should have in it a sound of kindness.

She must say some word which sounded kind.


After all, it was his undoubted right to come to her, and the footing on which he assumed to stand was simply that which she herself had given to him.

After all, it was his undoubted right to come to her.


It was not his fault if at this moment he inspired her with disgust rather than with love.


"I have done nothing for you, George," she said, "nothing at all."


Then she got her hand away from him, and retreated back to a sofa where she seated herself, leaving him still standing in the space before the fire.

Then she got her hand away from him, and retreated to a sofa where she sat, leaving him still standing.


"That you may do much for yourself is my greatest hope.


If I can help you, I will do so most heartily."


Then she became thoroughly ashamed of her words, feeling that she was at once offering to him the use of her purse.

Then she became thoroughly ashamed of her words, feeling that she was at once offering him the use of her purse.


"I am full of plans, all of which you must share with me.

"I am full of plans which you must share with me.


But now, at this moment, my one great plan is that in which you have already consented to be my partner.

But at the moment, my one great plan is that in which you have already consented to be my partner.


Tell me that it will make you happy to call me your husband."


Not for worlds could she have said so at this moment.


It was ill-judged in him to press her thus.


He should already have seen, with half an eye, that no such triumph as that which he now demanded could be his on this occasion.


He had had his triumph when, in the solitude of his own room, with quiet sarcasm he had thrown on one side of him the letter in which she had accepted him, as though the matter had been one almost indifferent to him.

He had had his triumph when, in the solitude of his own room, he had thrown aside her letter of acceptance as though the matter was indifferent to him.


He had no right to expect the double triumph.


Then he had frankly told himself that her money would be useful to him.


He should have been contented with that conviction, and not have required her also to speak to him soft winning words of love.


"That must be still distant, George," she said.


"And it has been my fault that you have suffered; I know that.


These years of misery have been my doing."


It was, however, the year of coming misery that was the most to be dreaded.

It was, however, the year of coming misery that she most dreaded.


"I do not say that," she replied, "nor have I ever thought it.


I have myself and myself only to blame."


Here he altogether misunderstood her, believing her to mean that the fault for which she blamed herself had been committed in separating herself from him on that former occasion.

Here he altogether misunderstood her, believing her to mean that she blamed herself for separating herself from him on that former occasion.


It may be well for people to say so, but it is never true.


One might as well say so to one's body as to one's heart.


But the hairs will grow grey, and the heart will grow cold."

Hair will grow grey, and the heart will grow cold."


"I do not see that one follows upon the other," said George.

"I do not see that one follows the other," said George.


"My hair is growing very grey;"--and to show that it was so, he lifted the dark lock from the side of his forehead, and displayed the incipient grizzling of the hair from behind.

"My hair is growing very grey;" and he lifted the dark lock from the side of his forehead to show the greying hair behind.


"If grey hairs make an old man, Alice, you will marry an old husband; but even you shall not be allowed to say that my heart is old."


That word "husband," which her cousin had twice used, was painful to Alice's ear.

That word "husband" was painful to Alice's ear.


She shrunk from it with palpable bodily suffering.


His age was nothing to the purpose, though he had been as old as Enoch.


But she was again obliged to answer him.


"I spoke of my own heart," said she: "I sometimes feel that it has grown very old."

"I spoke of my own heart," said she. "I sometimes feel that it has grown very old."


"You have come to me too quickly, George, and do not reflect how much there is that I must remember.

"You have come to me too quickly, George.


You have said that bygones should be bygones.


Let them be so, at any rate as far as words are concerned.


Give me a few months in which I may learn,--not to forget them, for that will be impossible,--but to abstain from speaking of them."

Give me a few months in which I may learn - not to forget them, for that will be impossible, but to abstain from speaking of them."


There was something in her look as she spoke, and in the tone of her voice that was very sad.

There was something in her look and voice that was very sad.


It struck him forcibly, but it struck him with anger rather than with sadness.


Doubtless her money had been his chief object when he offered to renew his engagement with her.


Doubtless he would have made no such offer had she been penniless, or even had his own need been less pressing.


But, nevertheless, he desired something more than money. The triumph of being preferred to John Grey,--of having John Grey sent altogether adrift, in order that his old love might be recovered, would have been too costly a luxury for him to seek, had he not in seeking it been able to combine prudence with the luxury.

But, nevertheless, he desired more; he wanted the triumph of being preferred to John Grey.


But though his prudence had been undoubted, he desired the luxury also.


It was on a calculation of the combined advantage that he had made his second offer to his cousin.


As he would by no means have consented to proceed with the arrangement without the benefit of his cousin's money, so also did he feel unwilling to dispense with some expression of her love for him, which would be to him triumphant.

He would not have offered for Alice without her money; but he also wished for some expression of her love for him, to make him triumphant.


Hitherto in their present interview there had certainly been no expression of her love.


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


"Indeed, George, I am sorry that you should be disappointed; but what can I say?


You would not have me affect a lightness of spirit which I do not feel?"

You would not have me pretend a lightness of spirit which I do not feel?"


"If you wish," said he, very slowly,--"if you wish to retract your letter to me, you now have my leave to do so."

"If you wish to retract your letter," said he, very slowly, "you now have my leave to do so."


But she had not the courage to accept it.


What girl, under such circumstances, would have had such courage?


How often are offers made to us which we would almost give our eyes to accept, but dare not accept because we fear the countenance of the offerer?


"I do not wish to retract my letter," said she, speaking as slowly as he had spoken; "but I wish to be left awhile, that I may recover my strength of mind.

"I do not wish to retract my letter," said she; "but I wish to be left awhile, to recover my strength of mind.


Have you not heard doctors say, that muscles which have been strained, should be allowed rest, or they will never entirely renew their tension?


It is so with me now; if I could be quiet for a few months, I think I could learn to face the future with a better courage."

If I could be quiet for a few months, I think I could learn to face the future with better courage."


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


"I would fain hear one word of love from you; is that unreasonable?

"I would wish to hear one word of love from you; is that unreasonable?


I would wish to know from your own lips that you have satisfaction in the renewed prospect of our union; is that too ambitious?


It might have been that I was over-bold in pressing my suit upon you again; but as you accepted it, have I not a right to expect that you should show me that you have been happy in accepting it?"

Maybe I was over-bold in pressing my suit upon you again; but as you accepted it, have I not a right to expect that you should show me you are happy in accepting it?"


But she had not been happy in accepting it.


She was not happy now that she had accepted it.


She could not show to him any sign of such joy as that which he desired to see.


And now, at this moment, she feared with an excessive fear that there would come some demand for an outward demonstration of love, such as he in his position might have a right to make. She seemed to be aware that this might be prevented only by such demeanour on her part as that which she had practised, and she could not, therefore, be stirred to the expression of any word of affection.

And now she feared he would demand some demonstration of love; and she could not think of anything to do other than to keep aloof.


She listened to his appeal, and when it was finished she made no reply.


If he chose to take her in dudgeon, he must do so.


She would make for him any sacrifice that was possible to her, but this sacrifice was not possible.


She looked up at him, and saw that the cicature on his face was becoming ominous; his eyes were bent upon her with all their forbidding brilliance, and he was assuming that look of angry audacity which was so peculiar to him, and which had so often cowed those with whom he was brought in contact.

She looked up at him, and saw that the scar on his face was becoming ominous; his eyes were bent upon her with all their forbidding, angry brilliance.


"No other word, at present, George; I have told you that I am not at ease.


He had her letter to him in the breast-pocket of his coat, and his hand was on it, that he might fling it back to her, and tell her that he would not hold her to be his promised wife under such circumstances as these.

He had her letter in the breast-pocket of his coat, and his hand was on it: he almost flung it back to her, telling her that he would not hold her to be his promised wife under these circumstances.


The anger which would have induced him to do so was the better part of his nature.


Three or four years since, this better part would have prevailed, and he would have given way to his rage.

Three or four years ago, this better part would have prevailed, and he would have given way to his rage.


But now, as his fingers played upon the paper, he remembered that her money was absolutely essential to him,--that some of it was needed by him almost instantly,--that on this very morning he was bound to go where money would be demanded from him, and that his hopes with regard to Chelsea could not be maintained unless he was able to make some substantial promise of providing funds.

But now he remembered that her money was absolutely essential to him - that some of it was needed almost instantly - and that his hopes of Chelsea could not be maintained unless he was able to promise funds.


His sister Kate's fortune was just two thousand pounds. That, and no more, was now the capital at his command, if he should abandon this other source of aid.

His sister Kate's fortune was just two thousand pounds: and that was all the money he had at his command, if he did not use Alice's.


Even that must go, if all other sources should fail him; but he would fain have that untouched, if it were possible.


Oh, that that old man in Westmoreland would die and be gathered to his fathers, now that he was full of years and ripe for the sickle!

Oh, if only that that old man in Westmorland would die!


But there was no sign of death about the old man.


So his fingers released their hold on the letter, and he stood looking at her in his anger.


I think you owed it me to give me some warmer welcome.

I think you owed me some warmer welcome.


Is it to be thus with us always for the next accursed year?"


Alice, I have loved you above all women.


I may say that I have never loved any woman but you; and yet I am sometimes driven to doubt whether you have a heart in you capable of love.

I may say that I have never loved any woman but you; yet I am sometimes driven to doubt whether you have a heart capable of love.


After all that has passed, all your old protestations, all my repentance, and your proffer of forgiveness, you should have received me with open arms.

After all that has passed, you should have received me with open arms.


I suppose I may go now, and feel that I have been kicked out of your house like a dog."


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

"If you speak to me like that, how can I answer you?"


I wanted you to put your hand in mine, to kiss me, and to tell me that you are once more my own.


Alice, think better of it; kiss me, and let me feel my arm once more round your waist."

Alice; kiss me, and let me feel my arm once more round your waist."


She shuddered as she sat, still silent, on her seat, and he saw that she shuddered.

She shuddered, and he saw that she shuddered.


With all his desire for her money,--his instant need of it,--this was too much for him; and he turned upon his heel, and left the room without another word.

This was too much for him; he turned and left the room without another word.


She heard his quick step as he hurried down the stairs, but she did not rise to arrest him.


She heard the door slam as he left the house, but still she did not move from her seat.

She heard his quick steps, and the door slam as he left the house, but still she did not move from her seat.


Her immediate desire had been that he should go,--and now he was gone.


There was in that a relief which almost comforted her.


And this was the man from whom, within the last few days, she had accepted an offer of marriage.


George, when he left the house, walked hurriedly into Cavendish Square, and down along the east side, till he made his way out along Princes Street, into the Circus in Oxford Street.

George, when he left the house, walked hurriedly into Cavendish Square, and down to Piccadilly.


Close to him there, in Great Marlborough Street, was the house of his parliamentary attorney, Mr. Scruby, on whom he was bound to call on that morning.

Close by was the house of his parliamentary attorney, Mr. Scruby, on whom he had to call on that morning.