As he walked along Great Marlborough Street, and through those unalluring streets which surround the Soho district, and so on to the Strand and his own lodgings, he still continued to think of some wide scheme of revenge,--of some scheme in which Mr. Scruby might be included. There had appeared something latterly in Mr. Scruby's manner to him, something of mingled impatience and familiarity, which made him feel that he had fallen in the attorney's estimation. It was not that the lawyer thought him to be less honourable, or less clever, than he had before thought him; but that the man was like a rat, and knew a falling house by the instinct that was in him. So George Vavasor cursed Mr. Scruby, and calculated some method of murdering him without detection.
The reader is not to suppose that the Member for the Chelsea Districts had, in truth, resolved to gratify his revenge by murder,--by murdering any of those persons whom he hated so vigorously. He did not, himself, think it probable that he would become a murderer. But he received some secret satisfaction in allowing his mind to dwell upon the subject, and in making those calculations. He reflected that it would not do to take off Scruby and John Grey at the same time, as it would be known that he was connected with both of them; unless, indeed, he was to take off a third person at the same time,--a third person, as to the expediency of ending whose career he made his calculations quite as often as he did in regard to any of those persons whom he cursed so often. It need hardly be explained to the reader that this third person was the sitting Member for the Chelsea Districts.

As he walked along the unalluring streets which surround Soho, to the Strand and his own lodgings, he continued to think of some wide scheme of revenge - in which Mr. Scruby might be included. Some impatience and familiarity in Mr. Scruby's manner made him feel that he had fallen in the attorney's esteem. The man was like a rat, and knew a falling house by instinct. So George Vavasor cursed Mr. Scruby, and calculated some method of murdering him without detection.
The reader is not to suppose that the Member for the Chelsea Districts had, in truth, any intention to become a murderer. But he received a secret satisfaction in allowing his mind to dwell upon the subject. He reflected that it would not do to knock off Scruby and John Grey at the same time, as it would be known that he was connected with both of them; unless, indeed, he was to kill himself too.


As he was himself in want of instant ready money Mr. Scruby's proposition that he should leave the four bills at his own bankers', to be collected when they came to maturity, did not suit him. He doubted much, also, whether at the end of the fourteen days the money would be forthcoming. Alice would be driven to tell her father, in order that the money might be procured, and John Vavasor would probably succeed in putting impediments in the way of the payment. He must take the bills into the City, and do the best there that he could with them. He was too late for this to-day, and therefore he went to his lodgings, and then down to the House. In the House he sat all the night with his hat over his eyes, making those little calculations of which I have spoken.
"You have heard the news; haven't you?" said Mr. Bott to him, whispering in his ear.
"News; no. I haven't heard any news."

As he needed instant money, Mr. Scruby's proposition that he should leave the four bills at his own bankers', to be collected when they came to maturity, did not suit him. He doubted much whether at the end of the fourteen days the money would be forthcoming. Alice would have to tell her father, and John Vavasor would probably prevent the payment. He must take the bills into the City, and do the best there that he could with them. He was too late for this today, so he went down to the House. There he sat all night with his hat over his eyes, plotting his murders.
"You have heard the news; haven't you?" said Mr. Bott, whispering in his ear.
"I haven't heard any news."

Chapter 60: Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market


"Finespun has resigned, and Palliser is at this moment with the Duke of St. Bungay in the Lords' library."
"They may both be at the bottom of the Lords' fishpond, for what I care," said Vavasor.
"That's nonsense, you know," said Bott. "Still, you know Palliser is Chancellor of the Exchequer at this moment. What a lucky fellow you are to have such a chance come to you directly you get in. As soon as he takes his seat down there, of course we shall go up behind him."
"We shall have another election in a month's time," said George. "I'm safe enough," said Bott. "It never hurts a man at elections to be closely connected with the Government."

"Finespun has resigned, and Palliser is at this moment with the Duke of St. Bungay in the Lords' library."
"They may both be at the bottom of the Lords' fishpond, for all I care," said Vavasor.
"That's nonsense, you know," said Bott. "What a lucky fellow you are to have such a chance come to you directly you get in. As soon as he takes his seat down there, of course we shall go up behind him."
"We shall have another election in a month's time," said George.
"I'm safe enough," said Bott. "It never hurts a man at elections to be closely connected with the Government."


George Vavasor was in the City by times the next morning, but he found that the City did not look with favourable eyes on his four bills. The City took them up, first horizontally, and then, with a twist of its hand, perpendicularly, and looked at them with distrustful eyes. The City repeated the name, Alice Vavasor, as though it were not esteemed a good name on Change. The City suggested that as the time was so short, the holder of the bills would be wise to hold them till he could collect the amount. It was very clear that the City suspected something wrong in the transaction. The City, by one of its mouths, asserted plainly that ladies' bills never meant business. George Vavasor cursed the City, and made his calculation about murdering it. Might not a river of strychnine be turned on round the Exchange about luncheon time? Three of the bills he left at last with his own bankers for collection, and retained the fourth in his breast-pocket, intending on the morrow to descend with it into those lower depths of the money market which he had not as yet visited. Again, on the next day, he went to work and succeeded to some extent.

George Vavasor was in the City early the next morning, but he found that the City did not look with favourable eyes on his four bills. The City took them up distrustfully, and repeated the name Alice Vavasor, and suggested that as the time was so short, the holder of the bills would be wise to hold them till he could collect the amount. It was very clear that the City suspected something wrong in the transaction.
George Vavasor cursed the City, and made his calculation about murdering it. Might not a river of strychnine be turned on the Exchange at luncheon time? At last he left three of the bills with his own bankers for collection, and kept the fourth in his pocket. The next day he


Among those lower depths he found a capitalist who was willing to advance him two hundred pounds, keeping that fourth bill in his possession as security. The capitalist was to have forty pounds for the transaction, and George cursed him as he took his cheque. George Vavasor knew quite enough of the commercial world to enable him to understand that a man must be in a very bad condition when he consents to pay forty pounds for the use of two hundred for fourteen days. He cursed the City. He cursed the House of Commons. He cursed his cousin Alice and his sister Kate. He cursed the memory of his grandfather. And he cursed himself.

descended with it into the lower depths of the money market, and found a capitalist who was willing to advance him two hundred pounds, keeping that fourth bill as security. The capitalist was to have forty pounds for the transaction, and George cursed him as he took his cheque. He knew that a man must be in a very bad condition when he consents to pay forty pounds for the use of two hundred for fourteen days. He cursed the City. He cursed the House of Commons. He cursed his cousin Alice and his sister Kate. He cursed the memory of his grandfather. And he cursed himself.


Mr. Levy had hardly left the house in Queen Anne Street, before Alice had told her father what she had done. "The money must be forthcoming," said Alice. To this her father made no immediate reply, but turning himself in his chair away from her with a sudden start, sat looking at the fire and shaking his head. "The money must be made to be forthcoming," said Alice. "Papa, will you see that it is done?" This was very hard upon poor John Vavasor, and so he felt it to be. "Papa, if you will not promise, I must go to Mr. Round about it myself, and must find out a broker to sell out for me. You would not wish that my name should be dishonoured."
"You will be ruined," said he, "and for such a rascal as that!"

Mr. Levy had hardly left the house in Queen Anne Street, before Alice had told her father what she had done.
"The money must be forthcoming," said Alice. "Papa, will you see that it is done?" To this her father made no reply, but sat looking at the fire and shaking his head, feeling it to be very hard upon him. "Papa, if you will not promise, I must go to Mr. Round myself, and find a broker to sell out for me."
"You will be ruined," said he, "and for such a rascal as that!"


"Never mind whether he is a rascal or not, papa. You must acknowledge that he has been treated harshly by his grandfather."
"I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever did. Had he left the estate to George, there wouldn't have been an acre of it left in the family in six months' time."
"But the life interest, papa!"
"He would have raised all he could upon that, and it would have done him no good."
"At any rate, papa, he must have this two thousand pounds. You must promise me that."
"And then he will want more."

"Never mind whether he is a rascal or not, papa. You must admit that he has been treated harshly by his grandfather."
"I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever did. If he had left the estate to George, there wouldn't have been an acre of it left in the family in six months' time."
"At any rate, papa, he must have this two thousand pounds."
"And then he will want more."


"No; I do not think he will ask for more. At any rate, I do not think that I am bound to give him all that I have."
"I should think not. I should like to know how you can be bound to give him anything?"
"Because I promised it. I have signed the bills now, and it must be done." Still Mr. Vavasor made no promise. "Papa, if you will not say that you will do it, I must go down to Mr. Round at once."

"No; I do not think he will ask for more. At any rate, I do not think that I am bound to give him all that I have."
"I should think not. Why are you bound to give him anything?"
"Because I promised it. I have signed the bills now, and it must be done."


"I don't know that I can do it. I don't know that Mr. Round can do it. Your money is chiefly on mortgage." Then there was a pause for a moment in the conversation. "Upon my word, I never heard of such a thing in my life," said Mr. Vavasor; "I never did. Four thousand pounds given away to such a man as that, in three months! Four thousand pounds! And you say you do not intend to marry him."
"Certainly not; all that is over."
"And does he know that it is over?"

"I don't know that Mr. Round can do it. Your money is chiefly on mortgage." He paused for a moment. "I never heard of such a thing. Four thousand pounds given away to such a man as that, in three months! And you say you do not intend to marry him."
"Certainly not; all that is over."
"And does he know that it is over?"


"I suppose he does."
"You suppose so! Things of that sort are so often over with you!" This was very cruel. Perhaps she had deserved the reproach, but still it was very cruel. The blow struck her with such force that she staggered under it. Tears came into her eyes, and she could hardly speak lest she should betray herself by sobbing.
"I know that I have behaved badly," she said at last; "but I am punished, and you might spare me now!"

"I suppose he does."
"You suppose so! Things of that sort are so often over with you!" This was very cruel. The blow struck her with such force that she staggered under it. Tears came into her eyes, and she could hardly speak lest she should betray herself by sobbing.
"I know that I have behaved badly," she said at last; "but I am punished, and you might spare me now!"


"I didn't want to punish you," he said, getting up from his chair and walking about the room. "I don't want to punish you. But, I don't want to see you ruined!"
"I must go to Mr. Round then, myself."
Mr. Vavasor went on walking about the room, jingling the money in his trousers-pockets, and pushing the chairs about as he chanced to meet them. At last, he made a compromise with her. He would take a day to think whether he would assist her in getting the money, and communicate his decision to her on the following morning.

"I didn't want to punish you," he said, getting up and walking about the room. "But I don't want to see you ruined!"
At last he made a compromise with her. He would take a day to think whether he would help her get the money, and would tell her his decision on the following morning.


Alice sat alone for an hour without moving when John Grey had left her, and the last words which he had uttered were sounding in her ears all the time, "My heart is still yours, as it has been since I knew you." There had been something in his words which had soothed her spirits, and had, for the moment, almost comforted her. At any rate, he did not despise her. He could not have spoken such words as these to her had he not still held her high in his esteem. Nay;--had he not even declared that he would yet take her as his own if she would come to him? "I cannot tell you with how much joy I would take you back to my bosom!" Ah! that might never be. But yet the assurance had been sweet to her;--dangerously sweet, as she soon told herself. She knew that she had lost her Eden, but it was something to her that the master of the garden had not himself driven her forth.

Alice sat alone for an hour without moving when John Grey had left her, with his last words sounding in her ears. "My heart is yours now as it has been since I knew you." It almost comforted her. At any rate, he did not despise her. Nay; had he not even declared that he would take her back with joy?
Ah! that could never be. Yet the assurance was sweet to her - dangerously sweet, as she soon told herself.


She sat there, thinking of her fate, as though it belonged to some other one,--not to herself; as though it were a tale that she had read. Herself she had shipwrecked altogether; but though she might sink, she had not been thrust from the ship by hands which she loved.

She sat there, thinking of her fate, as though it belonged to someone else. She had been shipwrecked altogether; but though she might sink, she had not been thrust from the ship by hands which she loved.


But would it not have been better that he should have scorned her and reviled her? Had he been able to do so, he at least would have escaped the grief of disappointed love. Had he learned to despise her, he would have ceased to regret her. She had no right to feel consolation in the fact that his sufferings were equal to her own. But when she thought of this, she told herself that it could not be that it was so. He was a man, she said, not passionate by nature. Alas! it was the mistake she had ever made when summing up the items of his character! He might be persistent, she thought, in still striving to do that upon which he had once resolved. He had said so, and that which he said was always true to the letter.

But would it not have been better if he had reviled her? In that case, at least he would have escaped the grief of disappointed love. She had no right to feel consoled by the fact that his sufferings were equal to her own.
But when she thought of this, she told herself that it could not be so. He was not a passionate man, she said. Alas! it was the mistake she had always made about his character! He might be persistent, she thought, and true


But, nevertheless, when this thing which he still chose to pursue should have been put absolutely beyond his reach, he would not allow his calm bosom to be harassed by a vain regret. He was a man too whole at every point,--so Alice told herself,--to allow his happiness to be marred by such an accident.
But must the accident occur? Was there no chance that he might be saved, even from such trouble as might follow upon such a loss? Could it not be possible that he might be gratified,--since it would gratify him,--and that she might be saved! Over and over again she considered this,--but always as though it were another woman whom she would fain save, and not herself.

; but when she was put beyond his reach, he would not allow his calmness to be harassed by vain regret. He was a man too whole at every point - so Alice told herself - to allow his happiness to be marred by such an accident.
But must the accident occur? Was there no chance that he might be gratified, and that she might be saved? Over and over again she considered this, but always as though it were another woman whom she would save, and not herself.


But she knew that her own fate was fixed. She had been mad when she had done the thing, but the thing was not on that account the less done. She had been mad when she had trusted herself abroad with two persons, both of whom, as she had well known, were intent on wrenching her happiness from out of her grasp. She had been mad when she had told herself, whilst walking over the Westmoreland fells, that after all she might as well marry her cousin, since that other marriage was then beyond her reach! Her two cousins had succeeded in blighting all the hopes of her life;--but what could she now think of herself in that she had been so weak as to submit to such usage from their hands? Alas!--she told herself, admitting in her misery all her weakness,--alas, she had no mother. She had gloried in her independence, and this had come of it! She had scorned the prudence of Lady Macleod, and her scorn had brought her to this pass!

She knew that her own fate was fixed. She had been mad when she had done the thing, but the thing was done. She had been mad when she had trusted herself abroad with two people, both intent on wrenching her happiness out of her grasp. She had been mad when she had told herself, whilst walking over the Westmorland fells, that after all she might as well marry her cousin, since that other marriage was beyond her reach! Her two cousins had succeeded in blighting all the hopes of her life; but why had she had been so weak as to submit?
Alas! she told herself, admitting in her misery all her weakness - alas, she had no mother. She had gloried in her independence, and this had come of it! She had scorned the prudence of Lady Macleod, and her scorn had brought her to this pass!


Was she to give herself bodily,--body and soul, as she said aloud in her solitary agony,--to a man whom she did not love? Must she submit to his caresses,--lie on his bosom,--turn herself warmly to his kisses? "No," she said, "no,"--speaking audibly, as she walked about the room; "no;--it was not in my bargain; I never meant it." But if so what had she meant;--what had been her dream? Of what marriage had she thought, when she was writing that letter back to George Vavasor? How am I to analyse her mind, and make her thoughts and feelings intelligible to those who may care to trouble themselves with the study? Any sacrifice she would make for her cousin which one friend could make for another. She would fight his battles with her money, with her words, with her sympathy. She would sit with him if he needed it, and speak comfort to him by the hour. His disgrace should be her disgrace;--his glory her glory;--his pursuits her pursuits.

Was she to give herself body and soul to a man whom she did not love? Must she submit to his caresses, lie on his bosom, turn warmly to his kisses?
"No," she said aloud, "no; it was not in my bargain; I never meant it." But if so, what had she meant? What marriage had she thought of, when she was writing that letter to George Vavasor?
She would make any sacrifice for her cousin which one friend could make for another. She would fight his battles with her money, with her words, with her sympathy. She would sit and speak comfort to him by the hour. His disgrace should be her disgrace; his glory her glory.


Was not that the marriage to which she had consented? But he had come to her and asked her for a kiss, and she had shuddered before him, when he made the demand. Then that other one had come and had touched her hand, and the fibres of her body had seemed to melt within her at the touch, so that she could have fallen at his feet.
She had done very wrong. She knew that she had done wrong. She knew that she had sinned with that sin which specially disgraces a woman. She had said that she would become the wife of a man to whom she could not cleave with a wife's love; and, mad with a vile ambition, she had given up the man for whose modest love her heart was longing. She had thrown off from her that wondrous aroma of precious delicacy, which is the greatest treasure of womanhood. She had sinned against her sex; and, in an agony of despair, as she crouched down upon the floor with her head against her chair, she told herself that there was no pardon for her. She understood it now, and knew that she could not forgive herself.

Was not that the marriage to which she had consented? But he had come and asked her for a kiss, and she had shuddered. Then that other one had come and had touched her hand, and the fibres of her body had seemed to melt at the touch, so that she could have fallen at his feet.
She had done very wrong, and she knew it. Mad with a vile ambition, she had given up the man for whom her heart was longing. She had sinned against her sex; and, in an agony of despair, as she crouched down upon the floor with her head against her chair, she told herself that there was no pardon for her. She understood it now, and knew that she could not forgive herself.


But can you forgive her, delicate reader? Or am I asking the question too early in my story? For myself, I have forgiven her. The story of the struggle has been present to my mind for many years,--and I have learned to think that even this offence against womanhood may, with deep repentance, be forgiven. And you also must forgive her before we close the book, or else my story will have been told amiss.


But let us own that she had sinned,--almost damnably, almost past forgiveness. What;--think that she knew what love meant, and not know which of two she loved! What;--doubt, of two men for whose arms she longed, of which the kisses would be sweet to bear; on which side lay the modesty of her maiden love! Faugh! She had submitted to pollution of heart and feeling before she had brought herself to such a pass as this. Come;--let us see if it be possible that she may be cleansed by the fire of her sorrow.

Let us own that she had sinned. What; to think that she knew what love meant, and did not know which of two she loved!


"What am I to do?" She passed that whole day in asking herself that question. She was herself astounded at the rapidity with which the conviction had forced itself upon her that a marriage with her cousin would be to her almost impossible; and could she permit it to be said of her that she had thrice in her career jilted a promised suitor,--that three times she would go back from her word because her fancy had changed? Where could she find the courage to tell her father, to tell Kate, to tell even George himself, that her purpose was again altered? But she had a year at her disposal. If only during that year he would take her money and squander it, and then require nothing further of her hands, might she not thus escape the doom before her? Might it not be possible that the refusal should this time come from him? But she succeeded in making one resolve. She thought at least that she succeeded. Come what might, she would never stand with him at the altar.

"What am I to do?" She passed the whole day in asking herself that question. She was herself astounded at the rapidity with which she had become convinced that she could not marry her cousin; yet could she let it be said of her that she had thrice jilted a suitor - that three times she would go back from her word? Where could she find the courage to tell her father, to tell Kate, to tell George himself, that she had changed her mind?
But she had a year at her disposal. If only during that year he would take her money and squander it, and then need nothing further, might she not thus escape the doom before her? Might the refusal this time come from him?
She resolved on one thing. Come what might, she would never stand with George at the altar.


While there was a cliff from which she might fall, water that would cover her, a death-dealing grain that might be mixed in her cup, she could not submit herself to be George Vavasor's wife. To no ear could she tell of this resolve. To no friend could she hint her purpose. She owed her money to the man after what had passed between them. It was his right to count upon such assistance as that would give him, and he should have it. Only as his betrothed she could give it him, for she understood well that if there were any breach between them, his accepting of such aid would be impossible. He should have her money, and then, when the day came, some escape should be found.

While there was a cliff from which she might fall, water that would cover her, poison to be mixed in her cup, she could not submit herself to be George Vavasor's wife.
To no ear could she tell this resolve. She owed her money to the man, and he should have it. Only as his betrothed could she give it him. He should have her money, and then, when the day came, some escape should be found.


In the afternoon her father came to her, and it may be as well to explain that Mr. Grey had seen him again that day. Mr. Grey, when he left Queen Anne Street, had gone to his lawyer, and from thence had made his way to Mr. Vavasor. It was between five and six when Mr. Vavasor came back to his house, and he then found his daughter sitting over the drawing-room fire, without lights, in the gloom of the evening. Mr. Vavasor had returned with Grey to the lawyer's chambers, and had from thence come direct to his own house. He had been startled at the precision with which all the circumstances of his daughter's position had been explained to a mild-eyed old gentleman, with a bald head, who carried on his business in a narrow, dark, clean street, behind Doctors' Commons. Mr. Tombe was his name. "No;" Mr. Grey had said, when Mr. Vavasor had asked as to the peculiar nature of Mr. Tombe's business; "he is not specially an ecclesiastical lawyer. He had a partner at Ely, and was always employed by my father, and by most of the clergy there." Mr. Tombe had evinced no surprise, no dismay, and certainly no mock delicacy, when the whole affair was under discussion. George Vavasor was to get present moneys, but,--if it could be so arranged--from John Grey's stores rather than from those belonging to Alice.

In the afternoon her father came to her, having seen Mr. Grey again that day. Mr. Grey, when he left Queen Anne Street, had gone to his lawyer, and then to Mr. Vavasor. They had both returned to the lawyer's chambers, where Mr. Vavasor had been startled at the precision with which all his daughter's circumstances had been explained to a mild-eyed old lawyer called Mr. Tombe.
Mr. Tombe had shown no surprise or dismay at the affair under discussion. George Vavasor was to get money, but from John Grey's funds rather than from Alice's.


Mr. Tombe could probably arrange that with Mr. Vavasor's lawyer, who would no doubt be able to make difficulty as to raising ready money. Mr. Tombe would be able to raise ready money without difficulty. And then, at last, George Vavasor was to be made to surrender his bride, taking or having taken the price of his bargain. John Vavasor sat by in silence as the arrangement was being made, not knowing how to speak. He had no money with which to give assistance. "I wish you to understand from the lady's father," Grey said to the lawyer, "that the marriage would be regarded by him with as much dismay as by myself."
"Certainly;--it would be ruinous," Mr. Vavasor had answered.
"And you see, Mr. Tombe," Mr. Grey went on, "we only wish to try the man. If he be not such as we believe him to be, he can prove it by his conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her."

Mr. Tombe could probably arrange that with Mr. Vavasor's lawyer. And then, at last, having taken the price of his bargain, George Vavasor was to be made to surrender his bride. John Vavasor sat by in silence as the arrangement was made. He had no money with which to assist.
"I wish you to understand from the lady's father," Grey said to the lawyer, "that he would regard the marriage with as much dismay as by myself."
"Certainly; it would be ruinous," Mr. Vavasor said.
"And you see, Mr. Tombe," Mr. Grey went on, "we only wish to try the man. If he is not as bad as we believe, he can prove it by his conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her."


"You merely wish to open her eyes, Mr. Grey," said the mild-eyed lawyer.
"I wish that he should have what money he wants, and then we shall find what it is he really wishes."
"Yes; we shall know our man," said the lawyer. "He shall have the money, Mr. Grey," and so the interview had been ended.
Mr. Vavasor, when he entered the drawing-room, addressed his daughter in a cheery voice. "What; all in the dark?"
"Yes, papa. Why should I have candles when I am doing nothing? I did not expect you."

"You merely wish to open her eyes, Mr. Grey," said the mild-eyed lawyer. "Yes; we shall know our man. He shall have the money, Mr. Grey," and so the interview had ended.
Mr. Vavasor, when he came home after this and entered the drawing-room, found his daughter sitting in the dusk. He addressed her in a cheery voice. "What; all in the dark?"
"Yes, papa. I did not expect you."


"No; I suppose not. I came here because I want to say a few words to you about business."
"What business, papa?" Alice well understood the tone of her father's voice. He was desirous of propitiating her; but was at the same time desirous of carrying some point in which he thought it probable that she would oppose him.
"Well; my love, if I understood you rightly, your cousin George wants some money."
"I did not say that he wants it now; but I think he will want it before the time for the election comes."
"If so, he will want it at once. He has not asked you for it yet?"
"No; he has merely said that should he be in need he would take me at my word."

"No; I suppose not. I want to say a few words to you about business."
"What business, papa?" Alice understood the tone of her father's voice. He wanted to propitiate; but he also wanted his own way on some point.
"Well; my love, if I understood you rightly, your cousin George wants some money."
"I think he will want it before the election."
"He has not asked you for it yet?"
"No; he has merely said that if he is in need he will take me at my word.


"I think there is no doubt that he wants it. Indeed, I believe that he is almost entirely without present means of his own."
"I can hardly think so; but I have no knowledge about it. I can only say that he has not asked me yet, and that I should wish to oblige him whenever he may do so."
"To what extent, Alice?"
"I don't know what I have. I get about four hundred a year, but I do not know what it is worth, or how far it can all be turned into money. I should wish to keep a hundred a year and let him have the rest."
"What; eight thousand pounds!" said the father who in spite of his wish not to oppose her, could not but express his dismay.

I should wish to oblige him whenever he may do so."
"To what extent, Alice?"
"I don't know what I have. I get about four hundred a year, but I do not know what my capital is worth, or how far it can all be turned into money. I should wish to keep a hundred a year and let him have the rest."
"What; eight thousand pounds!" said the father in dismay.


"I do not imagine that he will want so much; but if he should, I wish that he should have it."
"Heaven and earth!" said John Vavasor. "Of course we should have to give up the house." He could not suppress his trouble, or refrain from bursting out in agony at the prospect of such a loss.
"But he has asked me for nothing yet, papa."
"No, exactly; and perhaps he may not; but I wish to know what to do when the demand is made. I am not going to oppose you now; your money is your own, and you have a right to do with it as you please;--but would you gratify me in one thing?"
"What is it, papa?"
"When he does apply, let the amount be raised through me?"

"I do not imagine that he will want so much; but if he should, I wish that he should have it."
"Heaven and earth!" said John Vavasor, unable to restrain himself. "Of course we should have to give up the house."
"But he has asked me for nothing yet, papa."
"No, and perhaps he may not; but I wish to know when the demand is made. I am not going to oppose you now; your money is your own - but would you gratify me in one thing?"
"What is it, papa?"
"When he does apply,


"How through you?"
"Come to me; I mean, so that I may see the lawyer, and have the arrangements made." Then he explained to her that in dealing with large sums of money, it could not be right that she should do so without his knowledge, even though the property was her own. "I will promise you that I will not oppose your wishes," he said. Then Alice undertook that when such case should arise the money should be raised through his means.

 will you come to me, so that I may see the lawyer, and have the arrangements made?" Then he explained to her that in dealing with large sums of money, it could not be right that she should do so without his knowledge, even though the property was her own.
"I promise you that I will not oppose your wishes," he said. Then Alice agreed that the money should be raised through his means.


The day but one following this she received a letter from Lady Glencora, who was still at Matching Priory. It was a light-spirited, chatty, amusing letter, intended to be happy in its tone,--intended to have a flavour of happiness, but just failing through the too apparent meaning of a word here and there. "You will see that I am at Matching," the letter said, "whereas you will remember that I was to have been at Monkshade. I escaped at last by a violent effort, and am now passing my time innocently,--I fear not so profitably as she would induce me to do,--with Iphy Palliser. You remember Iphy. She is a good creature, and would fain turn even me to profit, if it were possible. I own that I am thinking of them all at Monkshade, and am in truth delighted that I am not there. My absence is entirely laid upon your shoulders. That wicked evening amidst the ruins! Poor ruins.

Two days after this she received a letter from Lady Glencora, who was still at Matching Priory. It was a light-spirited, chatty, amusing letter, intended to be happy in its tone, but just failing.
"You will see that I am at Matching," the letter said, "instead of Monkshade. I escaped at last by a violent effort, and am now passing my time innocently with Iphy Palliser. She is a good creature. I admit that I am thinking of them all at Monkshade, and am truly delighted that I am not there. My absence is entirely laid upon your shoulders. That wicked evening amidst the ruins! Poor ruins.


I go there alone sometimes and fancy that I hear such voices from the walls, and see such faces through the broken windows! All the old Pallisers come and frown at me, and tell me that I am not good enough to belong to them. There is a particular window to which Sir Guy comes and makes faces at me. I told Iphy the other day, and she answered me very gravely, that I might, if I chose, make myself good enough for the Pallisers. Even for the Pallisers! Isn't that beautiful?"
Then Lady Glencora went on to say, that her husband intended to come up to London early in the session, and that she would accompany him. "That is," added Lady Glencora, "if I am still good enough for the Pallisers at that time."

I go there alone sometimes and fancy that I hear such voices from the walls, and see all the old Pallisers frown at me through the broken windows, telling me that I am not good enough to belong to them. I told Iphy that the other day, and she answered very gravely, that I might, if I chose, make myself good enough for the Pallisers. Even for the Pallisers! Isn't that beautiful?"
Then Lady Glencora went on to say that her husband intended to come to London early in the parliamentary session, and that she would accompany him. "That is," she added, "if I am still good enough for the Pallisers at that time."


The coming of Mrs. Greenow at this very moment was a great comfort to Kate. Without her she would hardly have known how to bear herself with her uncle and her brother. As it was, they were all restrained by something of the courtesy which strangers are bound to show to each other. George had never seen his aunt since he was a child, and some sort of introduction was necessary between them.
"So you are George," said Mrs. Greenow, putting out her hand and smiling.
"Yes; I'm George," said he.

The coming of Mrs. Greenow was a great comfort to Kate. Without her she would hardly have known how to talk to her uncle and brother. As it was, they were all restrained by the courtesy which strangers are bound to show each other, for George had not seen his aunt since he was a child.
"So you are George," said Mrs. Greenow, putting out her hand and smiling.
"Yes; I'm George," said he.


"And a Member of Parliament!" said Mrs. Greenow. "It's quite an honour to the family. I felt so proud when I heard it!" She said this pleasantly, meaning it to be taken for truth, and then turned away to her brother. "Papa's time was fully come," she said, "though, to tell the truth, I had no idea that he was so weak as Kate describes him to have been."
"Nor I, either," said John Vavasor. "He went to church with us here on Christmas-day."

"And a Member of Parliament!" said Mrs. Greenow. "It's quite an honour to the family. I felt so proud when I heard it!" She said this pleasantly, and then turned to her brother. "Papa's time was fully come," she said, "though, to tell the truth, I had no idea that he was so weak."
"Nor I," said John Vavasor. "He went to church with us here on Christmas Day."


"Did he, indeed? Dear, dear! He seems at last to have gone off just like poor Greenow." Here she put her handkerchief up to her face. "I think you didn't know Greenow, John?"
"I met him once," said her brother.
"Ah! he wasn't to be known and understood in that way. I'm aware there was a little prejudice, because of his being in trade, but we won't talk of that now. Where should I have been without him, tradesman or no tradesman?"

"Dear, dear! He seems at last to have gone off just like poor Greenow." She put her handkerchief up to her face.


"I've no doubt he was an excellent man."
"You may say that, John. Ah, well! we can't keep everything in this life for ever." It may, perhaps, be as well to explain now that Mrs. Greenow had told Captain Bellfield at their last meeting before she left Norwich, that, under certain circumstances, if he behaved himself well, there might possibly be ground of hope. Whereupon Captain Bellfield had immediately gone to the best tailor in that city, had told the man of his coming marriage, and had given an extensive order. But the tailor had not as yet supplied the goods, waiting for more credible evidence of the Captain's good fortune. "We're all grass of the field," said Mrs. Greenow, lightly brushing a tear from her eye, "and must be cut down and put into the oven in our turns." Her brother uttered a slight sympathetic groan, shaking his head in testimony of the uncertainty of human affairs, and then said that he would go out and look about the place. George, in the meantime, had asked his sister to show him his room, and the two were already together up-stairs.

"Ah, well! we can't keep everything in this life for ever."
It may, perhaps, be as well to explain that before she left Norwich, Mrs. Greenow had told Captain Bellfield that if he behaved himself well, there might possibly be hope. Whereupon Captain Bellfield had immediately gone to the best tailor in that city, had told the man of his coming marriage, and had given an extensive order. But the tailor had not yet supplied the goods, waiting for more credible evidence of the Captain's good fortune.
"We're all grass of the field," said Mrs. Greenow, lightly brushing a tear from her eye, "and must be cut down in our turn." Her brother uttered a slight sympathetic groan, and then said that he would go out and look around the place.
George, in the meantime, had asked his sister to show him his room, and the two were already upstairs.


Kate had made up her mind that she would say nothing about Alice at the present moment,--nothing, if it could be avoided, till after the funeral. She led the way up-stairs, almost trembling with fear, for she knew that that other subject of the will would also give rise to trouble and sorrow,--perhaps, also, to determined quarrelling.
"What has brought that woman here?" was the first question that George asked.
"I asked her to come," said Kate.

Kate had made up her mind to say nothing about Alice, if it could be avoided, till after the funeral. She led the way upstairs, almost trembling with fear, for she knew that the will would also cause trouble.
"What has brought that woman here?" was the first question that George asked.
"I asked her to come," said Kate.


"And why did you ask her to come here?" said George, angrily. Kate immediately felt that he was speaking as though he were master of the house, and also as though he intended to be master of her. As regarded the former idea, she had no objection to it. She thoroughly and honestly wished that he might be the master; and though she feared that he might find himself mistaken in his assumption, she herself was not disposed to deny any appearance of right that he might take upon himself in that respect. But she had already begun to tell herself that she must not submit herself to his masterdom. She had gradually so taught herself since he had compelled her to write the first letter in which Alice had been asked to give her money.
"I asked her, George, before my poor grandfather's death, when I thought that he would linger perhaps for weeks. My life here alone with him, without any other woman in the house beside the servants, was very melancholy."
"Why did you not ask Alice to come to you?"

"And why did you ask her to come here?" said George, angrily. Kate immediately felt that he was speaking as though he were master of the house, and also as though he intended to be master of her. She had no objection to the first idea. She wished that he might be the master. But she had already decided that she must not submit herself to his masterdom. She had gradually so taught herself since he had compelled her to write the first letter in which Alice had been asked for money.
"I asked her, George, before my poor grandfather's death, when I thought that he might linger for weeks. My life here alone with him, without any other woman in the house beside the servants, was very melancholy."
"Why did you not ask Alice to come to you?"


"Alice could not have come," said Kate, after a short pause.
"I don't know why she shouldn't have come. I won't have that woman about the place. She disgraced herself by marrying a blacksmith--."
"Why, George, it was you yourself who advised me to go and stay with her."
"That's a very different thing. Now that he's dead, and she's got his money, it's all very well that you should go to her occasionally; but I won't have her here."
"It's natural that she should come to her father's house at her father's death-bed."

"Alice could not have come," said Kate, after a short pause.
"I don't know why not. I won't have that woman about the place. She disgraced herself by marrying a blacksmith-."
"Why, George, you advised me to go and stay with her."
"That's a very different thing. Now that he's dead, and she's got his money, it's all very well that you should go to her occasionally; but I won't have her here."
"It's natural that she should come to her father's death-bed."


"I hate to be told that things are natural. It always means humbug. I don't suppose she cared for the old man any more than I did,--or than she cared for the other old man who married her. People are such intense hypocrites. There's my uncle John, pulling a long face because he has come into this house, and he will pull it as long as the body lies up there; and yet for the last twenty years there's nothing on earth he has so much hated as going to see his father. When are they going to bury him?"
"On Saturday, the day after to-morrow."
"Why couldn't they do it to-morrow, so that we could get away before Sunday?"
"He only died on Monday, George," said Kate, solemnly.

"I hate to be told that things are natural. It always means humbug. I don't suppose she cared for the old man any more than I did - or than she cared for the old man who married her. People are such intense hypocrites. There's my uncle John, pulling a long face; and yet for the last twenty years he has hated going to see his father. When are they going to bury him?"
"On Saturday, the day after tomorrow."
"Why couldn't they do it tomorrow, so that we could get away before Sunday?"
"He only died on Monday, George," said Kate solemnly.


"Psha! Who has got the will?"
"Mr. Gogram. He was here yesterday, and told me to tell you and uncle John that he would have it with him when he came back from the funeral."
"What has my uncle John to do with it?" said George, sharply. "I shall go over to Penrith this afternoon and make Gogram give it up to me."
"I don't think he'll do that, George."


"What right has he to keep it? What right has he to it at all? How do I know that he has really got the old man's last will? Where did my grandfather keep his papers?"
"In that old secretary, as he used to call it; the one that stands in the dining-room. It is sealed up."
"Who sealed it?"
"Mr. Gogram did,--Mr. Gogram and I together."
"What the deuce made you meddle with it?"

"What right has he to keep it? How do I know that he has really got the old man's last will? Where did my grandfather keep his papers?"
"In that old secretary, as he used to call it, in the dining-room. It is sealed up."
"Who sealed it?"
"Mr. Gogram did, and I assisted him."
"What the deuce made you meddle with it?"


"I merely assisted him. But I believe he was quite right. I think it is usual in such cases."
"Balderdash! You are thinking of some old trumpery of former days. Till I know to the contrary, everything here belongs to me as heir-at-law, and I do not mean to allow of any interference till I know for certain that my rights have been taken from me. And I won't accept a death-bed will. What a man chooses to write when his fingers will hardly hold the pen, goes for nothing."
"You can't suppose that I wish to interfere with your rights?"
"I hope not."

"I believe it is usual in such cases."
"Balderdash! You are thinking of some old trumpery of former days. Till I know to the contrary, everything here belongs to me as heir, and I do not mean to allow any interference till I know for certain that my rights have been taken from me. And I won't accept a death-bed will. What a man chooses to write when his fingers will hardly hold the pen goes for nothing."
"You can't suppose that I wish to interfere with your rights?"
"I hope not."


"Oh, George!"
"Well; I say, I hope not. But I know there are those who would. Do you think my uncle John would not interfere with me if he could? By ----! if he does, he shall find that he does it to his cost. I'll lead him such a life through the courts, for the next two or three years, that he'll wish that he had remained in Chancery Lane, and had never left it."
A message was now brought up by the nurse, saying that Mrs. Greenow and Mr. Vavasor were going into the room where the old Squire was lying, "Would Miss Kate and Mr. George go with them?"

"Oh, George!"
"I know there are those who would. Do you think my uncle John would not interfere with me if he could? By ---! if he does, I'll drag him through the courts."
A message was now brought up by the nurse, saying that Mrs. Greenow and Mr. Vavasor were going into the room where the old Squire was lying. "Would Miss Kate and Mr. George go with them?"


"Mr. Vavasor!" shouted out George, making the old woman jump. She did not understand his meaning in the least. "Yes, sir; the old Squire," she said.
"Will you come, George?" Kate asked.
"No; what should I go there for? Why should I pretend an interest in the dead body of a man whom I hated and who hated me;--whose very last act, as far as I know as yet, was an attempt to rob me? I won't go and see him."

"Mr. Vavasor!" shouted George, making the old woman jump. She did not understand his meaning.
"Yes, sir; the old Squire," she said.
"Will you come, George?" Kate asked.
"No. Why should I pretend an interest in the dead body of a man whom I hated and whose very last act may have been an attempt to rob me?"


Kate went, and was glad of an opportunity of getting away from her brother. Every hour the idea was becoming stronger in her mind that she must in some way separate herself from him. There had come upon him of late a hard ferocity which made him unendurable. And then he carried to such a pitch that hatred, as he called it, of conventional rules, that he allowed himself to be controlled by none of the ordinary bonds of society. She had felt this heretofore, with a nervous consciousness that she was doing wrong in endeavouring to bring about a marriage between him and Alice; but this demeanour and mode of talking had now so grown upon him that Kate began to feel herself thankful that Alice had been saved.
Kate went up with her uncle and aunt, and saw the face of her grandfather for the last time. "Poor, dear old man!" said Mrs. Greenow, as the easy tears ran down her face. "Do you remember, John, how he used to scold me, and say that I should never come to good. He has said the same thing to you, Kate, I dare say?"

Kate went, and was glad to get away from her brother. Every hour the idea was becoming stronger in her mind that she must somehow separate herself from him. There had come upon him of late a hard ferocity which made him unendurable. He allowed himself to be controlled by none of the ordinary bonds of society. She had felt this before, with a nervous consciousness that she was doing wrong in trying to bring about a marriage between him and Alice; but this manner had now grown so much that Kate began to feel thankful that Alice had been saved.
With her uncle and aunt, Kate saw the face of her grandfather for the last time.
"Poor, dear old man!" said Mrs. Greenow, as the easy tears ran down her face. "Do you remember, John, how he used to scold me, and say that I should never come to good. He has said the same thing to you, Kate, I dare say?"


"He has been very kind to me," said Kate, standing at the foot of the bed. She was not one of those whose tears stand near their eyes.
"He was a fine old gentleman," said John Vavasor;--"belonging to days that are now gone by, but by no means the less of a gentleman on that account. I don't know that he ever did an unjust or ungenerous act to any one. Come, Kate, we may as well go down." Mrs. Greenow lingered to say a word or two to the nurse, of the manner in which Greenow's body was treated when Greenow was lying dead, and then she followed her brother and niece.

"He has been very kind to me," said Kate.
"He was a fine old gentleman," said John Vavasor. "I don't know that he ever did an unjust or ungenerous act to anyone. Come, Kate, we may as well go down."


George did not go into Penrith, nor did he see Mr. Gogram till that worthy attorney came out to Vavasor Hall on the morning of the funeral. He said nothing more on the subject, nor did he break the seals on the old upright desk that stood in the parlour. The two days before the funeral were very wretched for all the party, except, perhaps, for Mrs. Greenow, who affected not to understand that her nephew was in a bad humour. She called him "poor George," and treated all his incivility to herself as though it were the effect of his grief. She asked him questions about Parliament, which, of course, he didn't answer, and told him little stories about poor dear Greenow, not heeding his expressions of unmistakable disgust.
The two days at last went by, and the hour of the funeral came. There was the doctor and Gogram, and the uncle and the nephew, to follow the corpse,--the nephew taking upon himself ostentatiously the foremost place, as though he could thereby help to maintain his pretensions as heir. The clergyman met them at the little wicket-gate of the churchyard, having, by some reasoning, which we hope was satisfactory to himself, overcome a resolution which he at first formed, that he would not read the burial service over an unrepentant sinner. But he did read it, having mentioned his scruples to none but one confidential clerical friend in the same diocese.
"I'm told that you have got my grandfather's will," George said to the attorney as soon as he saw him.

George did not go into Penrith, nor did he see Mr. Gogram till the attorney came to Vavasor Hall on the morning of the funeral. The two days before the funeral were very wretched for all, except, perhaps, Mrs. Greenow, who pretended not to understand that her nephew was in a bad humour. She called him "poor George," and treated all his incivility as though it were the effect of grief.
At last the hour of the funeral came. There were the doctor and Gogram, and the uncle and the nephew, to follow the corpse - the nephew ostentatiously taking the foremost place.
"I'm told that you have got my grandfather's will," George said to the attorney as soon as he saw him.


"I have it in my pocket," said Mr. Gogram, "and purpose to read it as soon as we return from church."
"Is it usual to take a will away from a man's house in that way?" George asked.
"Quite usual," said the attorney; "and in this case it was done at the express desire of the testator."
"I think it is the common practice," said John Vavasor.
George upon this turned round at his uncle as though about to attack him, but he restrained himself and said nothing, though he showed his teeth.

"I have it in my pocket," said Mr. Gogram, "and intend to read it after we return from church."
"Is it usual to take a will away from a man's house in that way?" George asked.
"Quite usual," said the attorney; "and in this case it was done at the express desire of the testator."
"I think it is the common practice," said John Vavasor.
George upon this turned round at his uncle as though about to attack him, showing his teeth.


The funeral was very plain, and not a word was spoken by George Vavasor during the journey there and back. John Vavasor asked a few questions of the doctor as to the last weeks of his father's life; and it was incidentally mentioned, both by the doctor and by the attorney, that the old Squire's intellect had remained unimpaired up to the last moment that he had been seen by either of them. When they returned to the hall Mrs. Greenow met them with an invitation to lunch. They all went to the dining-room, and drank each a glass of sherry. George took two or three glasses. The doctor then withdrew, and drove himself back to Penrith, where he lived.
"Shall we go into the other room now?" said the attorney.

The funeral was very plain, and George spoke not a word during the journey there and back. John Vavasor asked a few questions of the doctor about the last weeks of his father's life; and it was mentioned by both the doctor and the attorney that the old Squire's intellect had remained unimpaired up to the last moment.
When they returned to the hall Mrs. Greenow met them; they all went to the dining-room, and drank a glass of sherry. George took two or three glasses. The doctor then left.
"Shall we go into the other room now?" said the attorney.


The three gentlemen then rose up, and went across to the drawing-room, George leading the way. The attorney followed him, and John Vavasor closed the door behind them. Had any observer been there to watch them he might have seen by the faces of the two latter that they expected an unpleasant meeting. Mr. Gogram, as he had walked across the hall, had pulled a document out of his pocket, and held it in his hand as he took a chair. John Vavasor stood behind one of the chairs which had been placed at the table, and leaned upon it, looking across the room, up at the ceiling. George stood on the rug before the fire, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and his coat tails over his arms.
"Gentlemen, will you sit down?" said Mr. Gogram.
John Vavasor immediately sat down.
"I prefer to stand here," said George.

The three gentlemen went across to the drawing-room, George leading the way. The attorney followed him, and John Vavasor closed the door behind them. If an observer had been watching, he might have seen by the faces of the two latter that they expected an unpleasant meeting.
Mr. Gogram held a document in his hand as he took a chair. John Vavasor stood behind one of the chairs which had been placed at the table, and leaned upon it, looking across the room. George stood on the rug before the fire, with his hands in his trouser pockets.
"Gentlemen, will you sit down?" said Mr. Gogram. John Vavasor immediately sat down.
"I prefer to stand here," said George.


Mr. Gogram then opened the document before him.
"Before that paper is read," said George, "I think it right to say a few words. I don't know what it contains, but I believe it to have been executed by my grandfather only an hour or two before his death."
"On the day before he died,--early in the day," said the attorney.
"Well,--the day before he died; it is the same thing,--while he was dying, in fact. He never got out of bed afterwards."
"He was not in bed at the time, Mr. Vavasor. Not that it would have mattered if he had been. And he came down to dinner on that day. I don't understand, however, why you make these observations."

Mr. Gogram then opened the document.
"Before that paper is read," said George, "I think it right to say a few words. I don't know what it contains, but I believe it to have been executed by my grandfather only an hour or two before his death."
"Early on the day before he died," said the attorney.
"Well, it is the same thing - while he was dying. He never got out of bed afterwards."
"He was not in bed at the time, Mr. Vavasor. Not that it would have mattered if he had been. And he came down to dinner on that day. I don't understand, however, why you make these observations."


"If you'll listen to me you will understand. I make them because I deny my grandfather's fitness to make a will in the last moments of his existence, and at such an age. I saw him a few weeks ago, and he was not fit to be trusted with the management of property then."
"I do not think this is the time, George, to put forward such objections," said the uncle.
"I think it is," said George. "I believe that that paper purports to be an instrument by which I should be villanously defrauded if it were allowed to be held as good. Therefore I protest against it now, and shall question it at law if action be taken on it. You can read it now, if you please."
"Oh, yes, I shall read," said Mr. Gogram; "and I say that it is as valid a will as ever a man signed."

"I make them because I deny my grandfather's fitness to make a will in the last moments of his existence, and at such an age. I saw him a few weeks ago, and he was not fit to be trusted with the management of property then."
"I do not think this is the time, George, to put forward such objections," said the uncle.
"I think it is," said George. "I believe that paper purports to villainously defraud me. Therefore I protest against it, and shall question it at law. You can read it now, if you please."
"Oh, yes, I shall read it," said Mr. Gogram; "and I say that it is as valid a will as ever a man signed."


"And I say it's not. That's the difference between us."


The will was read amidst sundry interjections and expressions of anger from George, which it is not necessary to repeat. Nor need I trouble my readers with the will at length. It began by expressing the testator's great desire that his property might descend in his own family, and that the house might be held and inhabited by some one bearing the name of Vavasor. He then declared that he felt himself obliged to pass over his natural heir, believing that the property would not be safe in his hands; he therefore left it in trust to his son John Vavasor, whom he appointed to be sole executor of his will. He devised it to George's eldest son,--should George ever marry and have a son,--as soon as he might reach the age of twenty-five. In the meantime the property should remain in the hands of John Vavasor for his use and benefit, with a lien on it of five hundred a year to be paid annually to his granddaughter Kate. In the event of George having no son, the property was to go to the eldest son of Kate, or failing that to the eldest son of his other granddaughter who might take the name of Vavasor. All his personal property he left to his son, John Vavasor. "And, Mr. Vavasor," said the attorney, as he finished his reading, "you will, I fear, get very little by that latter clause. The estate now owes nothing; but I doubt whether the Squire had fifty pounds in his banker's hands when he died, and the value of the property about the place is very small.

The will was read amidst angry interruptions from George, which it is not necessary to repeat. Nor need I trouble my readers with the will at length. It began by expressing the testator's great desire that his property might descend in his own family, and that the house might be inhabited by someone bearing the name of Vavasor.
The testator then declared that he felt himself obliged to pass over his natural heir, believing that the property would not be safe in his hands; he therefore left it in trust to his son John Vavasor, whom he appointed sole executor of his will. It would go to George's eldest son - should George ever marry and have a son - as soon as he might reach the age of twenty-five. In the meantime the property should remain in the hands of John Vavasor for his use and benefit, with five hundred a year out of it to be paid annually to his granddaughter Kate.
In the event of George having no son, the property was to go to the eldest son of Kate, or failing that to the eldest son of his other granddaughter who might take the name of Vavasor. All his personal effects he left to his son, John Vavasor.
"And, Mr. Vavasor," said the attorney, addressing John Vavasor as he finished his reading, "you will, I fear, get very little by that last clause. The estate now owes nothing; but I doubt whether the Squire had fifty pounds in the bank when he died, and the value of the personal property about the place is very small.


He has been unwilling to spend anything during the last ten years, but has paid off every shilling that the property owed."
"It is as I supposed," said George. His voice was very unpleasant, and so was the fire of his eyes and the ghastly rage of his scarred face. "The old man has endeavoured in his anger to rob me of everything because I would not obey him in his wickedness when I was here with him a short while before he died. Such a will as that can stand nowhere."
"As to that I have nothing to say at present," said the attorney.
"Where is his other will,--the one he made before that?"
"If I remember rightly we executed two before this."
"And where are they?"

He was unwilling to spend anything during the last ten years, but paid off every shilling that the property owed."
"It is as I supposed," said George. His voice was very unpleasant, and so was the ghastly rage of his scarred face. "The old man has tried to rob me of everything because I would not obey him in his wickedness when I was here with him a short while before he died. Such a will as that can stand nowhere."
"As to that I have nothing to say at present," said the attorney.
"Where is his other will - the one he made before that?"
"If I remember rightly we executed two before this."
"And where are they?"


"It is not my business to know, Mr. Vavasor. I believe that I saw him destroy one, but I have no absolute knowledge. As to the other, I can say nothing."
"And what do you mean to do?" said George, turning to his uncle.
"Do! I shall carry out the will. I have no alternative. Your sister is the person chiefly interested under it. She gets five hundred a year for her life; and if she marries and you don't, or if she has a son and you don't, her son will have the whole property."

"It is not my business to know, Mr. Vavasor. I believe that I saw him destroy one, but I have no absolute knowledge. As to the other, I can say nothing."
"And what do you mean to do?" said George, turning to his uncle.
"Do! I shall carry out the will. I have no alternative. Your sister is the person chiefly interested under it. She gets five hundred a year for her life; and if she has a son and you don't, her son will have the whole property."


George stood for a few moments thinking. Might it not be possible that by means of Alice and Kate together,--by marrying the former,--perhaps, he might still obtain possession of the property? But that which he wanted was the command of the property at once,--the power of raising money upon it instantly. The will had been so framed as to make that impossible in any way. Kate's share in it had not been left to her unconditionally, but was to be received even by her through the hands of her uncle John. Such a will shut him out from all his hopes. "It is a piece of d---- roguery," he said.
"What do you mean by that, sir?" said Gogram, turning round towards him.

George stood for a few moments thinking. Might it not be possible that by means of Alice and Kate together - by marrying the former - he might still get hold of the property? But he wanted the property at once - he wanted the power of raising money upon it instantly. The will had been so framed as to make that impossible. Kate's share in it had not been left to her unconditionally, but was to be received through the hands of her uncle John. Such a will shut him out from all his hopes.
"It is a piece of d--- roguery," he said.
"What do you mean by that, sir?" said Gogram.


"I mean exactly what I say. It is a piece of d---- roguery. Who was in the room when that thing was written?"
"The signature was witnessed by--"
"I don't ask as to the signature. Who was in the room when the thing was written?"
"I was here with your grandfather."
"And no one else?"
"No one else. The presence of any one else at such a time would be very unusual."

"I mean exactly what I say. Who was in the room when that thing was written?"
"The signature was witnessed by-"
"I don't ask about the signature. Who was in the room when the thing was written?"
"I was here with your grandfather."
"And no one else?"
"No one else. The presence of anyone else at such a time would be very unusual."


"Then I regard the document simply as waste paper." After saying this, George Vavasor left the room, and slammed the door after him.
"I never was insulted in such a way before," said the attorney, almost with tears in his eyes.
"He is a disappointed and I fear a ruined man," said John Vavasor. "I do not think you need regard what he says."
"But he should not on that account insult me. I have only done my duty. I did not even advise his grandfather. It is mean on his part and unmanly. If he comes in my way again I shall tell him so."

"Then I regard the document simply as waste paper." With this, George Vavasor left the room, and slammed the door after him.
"I never was insulted in such a way before," said the attorney, almost with tears in his eyes.
"He is a disappointed and I fear a ruined man," said John Vavasor. "I do not think you need regard what he says."
"But he should not insult me. I have only done my duty. I did not even advise his grandfather. It is mean and unmanly. If he comes in my way again I shall tell him so."


"He probably will not put himself in your way again, Mr. Gogram."
Then the attorney went, having suggested to Mr. Vavasor that he should instruct his attorney in London to take steps in reference to the proving of the will. "It's as good a will as ever was made," said Mr. Gogram. "If he can set that aside, I'll give up making wills altogether."

"He probably will not put himself in your way again, Mr. Gogram."
Then the attorney left, having suggested to Mr. Vavasor that he should instruct his attorney in London to take steps towards proving the will. "It's as good a will as ever was made," said Mr. Gogram.


Who was to tell Kate? That was John Vavasor's first thought when he was left alone at the hall-door, after seeing the lawyer start away. And how was he to get himself back to London without further quarrelling with his nephew? And what was he to do at once with reference to the immediate duties of proprietorship which were entailed upon him as executor? It was by no means improbable, as he thought, that George might assume to himself the position of master of the house; that he might demand the keys, for instance, which no doubt were in Kate's hands at present, and that he would take possession with violence. What should he do under such circumstances? It was clear that he could not run away and get back to his club by the night mail train. He had duties there at the Hall, and these duties were of a nature to make him almost regret the position in which his father's will had placed him. Eventually he would gain some considerable increase to his means, but the immediate effect would be terribly troublesome. As he looked up at the melancholy pines which were slowly waving their heads in the wind before the door he declared to himself that he would sell his inheritance and his executorship very cheaply, if such a sale were possible.

Who was to tell Kate? That was John Vavasor's first thought when he was alone. And how was he to get back to London without further quarrelling with his nephew? And what was he to do at once about his duties as executor?
It was by no means improbable, as he thought, that George might assume the position of master of the house; that he might demand the keys, for instance, which no doubt were in Kate's hands at present, and that he would take possession with violence. What should he do in such circumstances? It was clear that he could not run away and get back to his club. He had duties at the Hall which made him almost regret the position in which his father's will had placed him. Eventually he would gain some increase to his means, but the immediate effect would be terribly troublesome.


In the dining-room he found his sister alone. "Well, John," said she; "well? How is it left?"
"Where is Kate?" he asked.
"She has gone out with her brother."
"Did he take his hat?"
"Oh, yes. He asked her to walk, and she went with him at once."

In the dining-room he found his sister alone.
"Well, John," said she. "How is it left?"
"Where is Kate?"
"She has gone out to walk with her brother."


"Then, I suppose, he will tell her," said John Vavasor. After that he explained the circumstances of the will to Mrs. Greenow. "Bravo," exclaimed the widow. "I'm delighted. I love Kate dearly: and now she can marry almost whom she pleases."

"Then I suppose he will tell her," said John Vavasor. He explained the circumstances of the will to Mrs. Greenow.
"Bravo," exclaimed the widow. "I'm delighted. I love Kate dearly: and now she can marry almost whom she pleases."


It has been said that George Vavasor had a little establishment at Roebury, down in Oxfordshire, and thither he betook himself about the middle of November. He had been long known in this county, and whether or no men spoke well of him as a man of business in London, men spoke well of him down there, as one who knew how to ride to hounds. Not that Vavasor was popular among fellow-sportsmen. It was quite otherwise. He was not a man that made himself really popular in any social meetings of men. He did not himself care for the loose little talkings, half flat and half sharp, of men when they meet together in idleness. He was not open enough in his nature for such popularity. Some men were afraid of him, and some suspected him. There were others who made up to him, seeking his intimacy, but these he usually snubbed, and always kept at a distance. Though he had indulged in all the ordinary pleasures of young men, he had never been a jovial man.

It has been said that George Vavasor had a little establishment at Roebury, in Oxfordshire; and he went there in the middle of November, to hunt. In this county, men spoke well of him, as one who knew how to ride.
Not that Vavasor was popular among his fellow-sportsmen. He did not care for the loose talk of men when they meet in idleness. He was not open enough in his nature for popularity, and kept others at a distance. He had never been a jovial man.


In his conversations with men he always seemed to think that he should use his time towards serving some purpose of business. With women he was quite the reverse. With women he could be happy. With women he could really associate. A woman he could really love;--but I doubt whether for all that he could treat a woman well.

He always seemed to think that his conversations with men should serve some purpose of business. With women he was quite the reverse. With women he could be happy. A woman he could really love; but I doubt whether he could treat a woman well.


But he was known in the Oxfordshire country as a man who knew what he was about, and such men are always welcome. It is the man who does not know how to ride that is made uncomfortable in the hunting field by cold looks or expressed censure. And yet it is very rarely that such men do any real harm. Such a one may now and then get among the hounds or override the hunt, but it is not often so. Many such complaints are made; but in truth the too forward man, who presses the dogs, is generally one who can ride, but is too eager or too selfish to keep in his proper place. The bad rider, like the bad whist player, pays highly for what he does not enjoy, and should be thanked. But at both games he gets cruelly snubbed. At both games George Vavasor was great and he never got snubbed.

However, he was welcome in Oxfordshire as a man who knew what he was about.


There were men who lived together at Roebury in a kind of club,--four or five of them, who came thither from London, running backwards and forwards as hunting arrangements enabled them to do so,--a brewer or two and a banker, with a would-be fast attorney, a sporting literary gentleman, and a young unmarried Member of Parliament who had no particular home of his own in the country. These men formed the Roebury Club, and a jolly life they had of it. They had their own wine closet at the King's Head,--or Roebury Inn as the house had come to be popularly called,--and supplied their own game. The landlord found everything else; and as they were not very particular about their bills, they were allowed to do pretty much as they liked in the house. They were rather imperious, very late in their hours, sometimes, though not often, noisy, and once there had been a hasty quarrel which had made the landlord in his anger say that the club should be turned out of his house. But they paid well, chaffed the servants much oftener than they bullied them, and on the whole were very popular.
To this club Vavasor did not belong, alleging that he could not afford to live at their pace, and alleging, also, that his stays at Roebury were not long enough to make him a desirable member. The invitation to him was not repeated and he lodged elsewhere in the little town. But he occasionally went in of an evening, and would make up with the members a table at whist.

There were several men who formed a kind of club at Roebury, travelling to the inn there from London for the hunting. They comprised a couple of brewers, a banker, a would-be attorney, a sporting literary gentleman, and a young unmarried Member of Parliament.
These men formed the Roebury Club at the King's Head, and a jolly life they had of it. They supplied their own game, while the landlord supplied everything else; and as they were not very particular about their bills, they were allowed to do pretty much as they liked. They were rather imperious, very late in their hours, and sometimes noisy; but they paid well, joked with the servants more than they bullied them, and on the whole were very popular.
Vavasor did not belong to this club, claiming that he could not afford it; when he visited the little town, he lodged elsewhere. But he occasionally went in, and would make up a table at whist.


He had come down to Roebury by mail train, ready for hunting the next morning, and walked into the club-room just at midnight. There he found Maxwell the banker, Grindley the would-be fast attorney, and Calder Jones the Member of Parliament, playing dummy. Neither of the brewers were there, nor was the sporting literary gentleman.
"Here's Vavasor," said Maxwell, "and now we won't play this blackguard game any longer. Somebody told me, Vavasor, that you were gone away."
"Gone away;--what, like a fox?"

He had come down to Roebury by mail train, ready for hunting the next morning, and walked into the club-room at midnight. There he found Maxwell the banker, Grindley the would-be attorney, and Calder Jones the Member of Parliament, playing dummy.
"Here's Vavasor," said Maxwell. "Somebody told me, Vavasor, that you were gone away.


"I don't know what it was; that something had happened to you since last season; that you were married, or dead, or gone abroad. By George, I've lost the trick after all! I hate dummy like the devil. I never hold a card in dummy's hand. Yes, I know; that's seven points on each side. Vavasor, come and cut. Upon my word if any one had asked me, I should have said you were dead."
"But you see, nobody ever does think of asking you anything."
"What you probably mean," said Grindley, "is that Vavasor was not returned for Chelsea last February; but you've seen him since that. Are you going to try it again, Vavasor?"

Or that you were married, or dead. By George, I've lost the trick! I hate dummy. Yes, I know; that's seven points on each side. Vavasor, come and cut. If anyone had asked me, I should have said you were dead."
"But nobody ever does think of asking you anything."
"What you probably mean," said Grindley, "is that Vavasor did not win the seat at Chelsea last February. Are you going to try it again, Vavasor?"


"If you'll lend me the money I will."
"I don't see what on earth a man gains by going into the house," said Calder Jones. "I couldn't help myself as it happened, but, upon my word it's a deuce of a bore. A fellow thinks he can do as he likes about going,--but he can't. It wouldn't do for me to give it up, because--"
"Oh no, of course not; where should we all be?" said Vavasor.
"It's you and me, Grindems," said Maxwell. "D---- parliament, and now let's have a rubber."

"If you'll lend me the money I will."
"I don't see what a man gains by going into the House," said Calder Jones. "I couldn't help myself, but it's a dead bore. It wouldn't do for me to give it up, because-"
"Oh no, of course not; where should we all be?" said Vavasor.
"It's you and me, Grindems," said Maxwell. "D-- parliament, and now let's have a rubber of whist."


They played till three and Mr. Calder Jones lost a good deal of money,--a good deal of money in a little way, for they never played above ten-shilling points, and no bet was made for more than a pound or two. But Vavasor was the winner, and when he left the room he became the subject of some ill-natured remarks.
"I wonder he likes coming in here," said Grindley, who had himself been the man to invite him to belong to the club, and who had at one time indulged the ambition of an intimacy with George Vavasor.
"I can't understand it," said Calder Jones, who was a little bitter about his money. "Last year he seemed to walk in just when he liked, as though he were one of us."
"He's a bad sort of fellow," said Grindley; "he's so uncommonly dark. I don't know where on earth he gets his money from, He was heir to some small property in the north, but he lost every shilling of that when he was in the wine trade."
"You're wrong there, Grindems," said Maxwell,--making use of a playful nickname which he had invented for his friend. "He made a pot of money at the wine business, and had he stuck to it he would have been a rich man."
"He's lost it all since then, and that place in the north into the bargain."

They played till three, and Mr. Calder Jones lost a good deal of money. Vavasor was the winner, and when he left the room he became the subject of some ill-natured remarks.
"I wonder he likes coming in here," said Grindley, the man who had first invited him to belong to the club, and who had hoped to become his friend.
"I can't understand it," said Calder Jones, a little bitter about his money. "Last year he seemed to walk in just when he liked, as though he were one of us."
"He's a bad sort of fellow," said Grindley; "I don't know where on earth he gets his money from. He was heir to some property in the north, but he lost every shilling in the wine trade."
"You're wrong there, Grindems," said Maxwell. "He made a pot of money at the wine business."
"He's lost it all since then, and that place in the north into the bargain."


"Wrong again, Grindems, my boy. If old Vavasor were to die to-morrow, Vavasor Hall would go just as he might choose to leave it. George may be a ruined man for aught I know--"
"There's no doubt about that, I believe," said Grindley.
"Perhaps not, Grindems; but he can't have lost Vavasor Hall because he has never as yet had an interest in it. He's the natural heir, and will probably get it some day."
"All the same," said Calder Jones, "isn't it rather odd he should come in here?"

"Wrong again, Grindems, my boy. If old Vavasor were to die tomorrow, Vavasor Hall would go to him. He's the natural heir."
"All the same," said Calder Jones, "isn't it rather odd he should come in here?"


"We've asked him often enough," said Maxwell; "not because we like him, but because we want him so often to make up a rubber. I don't like George Vavasor, and I don't know who does; but I like him better than dummy. And I'd sooner play whist with men I don't like, Grindems, than I'd not play at all." A bystander might have thought from the tone of Mr. Maxwell's voice that he was alluding to Mr. Grindley himself, but Mr. Grindley didn't seem to take it in that light.
"That's true, of course," said he. "We can't pick men just as we please. But I certainly didn't think that he'd make it out for another season."

"We've asked him often enough," said Maxwell, "to make up a rubber. I don't like George Vavasor; but I'd sooner play whist with men I don't like, than not play at all."


The club breakfasted the next morning at nine o'clock, in order that they might start at half-past for the meet at Edgehill. Edgehill is twelve miles from Roebury, and the hacks would do it in an hour and a half,--or perhaps a little less. "Does anybody know anything about that brown horse of Vavasor's?" said Maxwell. "I saw him coming into the yard yesterday with that old groom of his."
"He had a brown horse last season," said Grindley;--"a little thing that went very fast, but wasn't quite sound on the road."
"That was a mare," said Maxwell, "and he sold her to Cinquebars."*
[*Ah, my friend, from whom I have borrowed this scion of the nobility! Had he been left with us he would have forgiven me my little theft, and now that he has gone I will not change the name.]
"For a hundred and fifty," said Calder Jones, "and she wasn't worth the odd fifty."

The club breakfasted the next morning at nine o'clock, in order to leave at half-past for the hunting meet at Edgehill. Edgehill is twelve miles from Roebury, and the horses would do it in an hour and a half.
"Does anybody know anything about that brown horse of Vavasor's?" said Maxwell. "I saw him in the yard yesterday with that old groom of his."
"He had a brown horse last season," said Grindley; "a very fast little thing."
"That was a mare," said Maxwell, "and he sold her to Cinquebars."
"For a hundred and fifty," said Calder Jones, "and she wasn't worth it."


"He won seventy with her at Leamington," said Maxwell, "and I doubt whether he'd take his money now."
"Is Cinquebars coming down here this year?"
"I don't know," said Maxwell. "I hope not. He's the best fellow in the world, but he can't ride, and he don't care for hunting, and he makes more row than any fellow I ever met. I wish some fellow could tell me something about that fellow's brown horse."
"I'd never buy a horse of Vavasor's if I were you," said Grindley. "He never has anything that's all right all round."

"He won seventy with her at Leamington," said Maxwell.
"Is Cinquebars coming down here this year?"
"I don't know," said Maxwell. "I hope not. He's the best fellow in the world, but he can't ride. I wish someone could tell me something about that fellow's brown horse."
"I'd never buy a horse of Vavasor's," said Grindley. "He never has anything that's all right all round."


"And who has?" said Maxwell, as he took into his plate a second mutton chop, which had just been brought up hot into the room especially for him. "That's the mistake men make about horses, and that's why there's so much cheating. I never ask for a warranty with a horse, and don't very often have a horse examined. Yet I do as well as others. You can't have perfect horses any more than you can perfect men, or perfect women. You put up with red hair, or bad teeth, or big feet,--or sometimes with the devil of a voice. But a man when he wants a horse won't put up with anything! Therefore those who've got horses to sell must lie. When I go into the market with three hundred pounds I expect a perfect animal.

"And who has?" said Maxwell, helping himself to a second mutton chop. "You can't have perfect horses any more than perfect women.


As I never do that now I never expect a perfect animal. I like 'em to see; I like 'em to have four legs; and I like 'em to have a little wind. I don't much mind anything else."
"By Jove you're about right," said Calder Jones. The reader will therefore readily see that Mr. Maxwell the banker reigned as king in that club.
Vavasor had sent two horses on in charge of Bat Smithers, and followed on a pony about fourteen hands high, which he had ridden as a cover hack for the last four years. He did not start till near ten, but he was able to catch Bat with his two horses about a mile and a half on that side of Edgehill. "Have you managed to come along pretty clean?" the master asked as he came up with his servant.

I never expect a perfect animal. I like 'em to see; I like 'em to have four legs, and decent lungs. I don't much mind about anything else."
"By Jove, you're right," said Calder Jones. The reader will see that Mr. Maxwell the banker reigned as king in that club.
Vavasor had sent two horses ahead in the charge of his old groom Bat Smithers, and followed on a big pony which he kept as a hack. He did not start till near ten, but he was able to catch Bat with his two horses about a mile outside Edgehill.
"Have you managed to come along pretty clean?" the master asked as he joined his servant.


"They be the most beastly roads in all England," said Bat, who always found fault with any county in which he happened to be located. "But I'll warrant I'm cleaner than most on 'em. What for any county should make such roads as them I never could tell."
"The roads about there are bad, certainly;--very bad. But I suppose they would have been better had Providence sent better materials. And what do you think of the brown horse, Bat?"
"Well, sir." He said no more, and that he said with a drawl.
"He's as fine an animal to look at as ever I put my eye on," said George.
"He's all that," said Bat.

"They be the most beastly roads in all England," said Bat. "I'm cleaner than most on 'em. But why any county should make such roads I never could tell."
"The roads are very bad, certainly. And what do you think of the brown horse, Bat?"
"Well, sir." He said it with a drawl.
"He's as fine an animal to look at as ever I saw," said George.
"He's all that," said Bat.


"He's got lots of pace too."
"I'm sure he has, sir."
"And they tell me you can't beat him at jumping."
"They can mostly do that, sir, if they're well handled."
"You see he's a deal over my weight."
"Yes, he is, Mr. Vavasor. He is a fourteen stoner."
"Or fifteen," said Vavasor.
"Perhaps he may, sir. There's no knowing what a 'orse can carry till he's tried."

"He's got lots of pace too."
"I'm sure he has, sir."
"And they tell me you can't beat him at jumping."
"They can mostly do that, sir, if they're well handled."
"You see he's a deal over my weight."
"Yes, he is, Mr. Vavasor. He is a fourteen stoner, or more."


George asked his groom no more questions, but felt sure that he had better sell his brown horse if he could. Now I here protest that there was nothing specially amiss with the brown horse. Towards the end of the preceding season he had overreached himself and had been lame, and had been sold by some owner with more money than brains who had not cared to wait for a cure. Then there had gone with him a bad character, and a vague suspicion had attached itself to him, as there does to hundreds of horses which are very good animals in their way. He had come thus to Tattersall's, and Vavasor had bought him cheap, thinking that he might make money of him, from his form and action. He had found nothing amiss with him,--nor, indeed, had Bat Smithers. But his character went with him, and therefore Bat Smithers thought it well to be knowing. George Vavasor knew as much of horses as most men can,--as, perhaps, as any man can who is not a dealer, or a veterinary surgeon; but he, like all men, doubted his own knowledge, though on that subject he would never admit that he doubted it. Therefore he took Bat's word and felt sure that the horse was wrong.
"We shall have a run from the big wood," said George.

George asked his groom no more questions, but felt sure that he had better sell his brown horse if he could. There was nothing specially amiss with the brown horse. He had gone lame at the end of the preceding season, and had been sold by some owner who had not cared to wait for a cure. Then there had gone with him a bad character, and a vague suspicion had attached itself to him, as it does to hundreds of horses which are very good animals in their way. Vavasor had bought him cheap, and found nothing amiss with him; but his character went with him, and therefore Bat Smithers thought it well to be knowing. George Vavasor knew as much of horses as most men, but he doubted his own knowledge. Therefore he took Bat's word and felt sure that something was wrong with the horse.
"We shall have a run from the big wood," said George.


"If they make un break, you will, sir," said Bat.
"At any rate I'll ride the brown horse," said George. Then, as soon as that was settled between them, the Roebury Club overtook them.
There was now a rush of horses on the road altogether, and they were within a quarter of a mile of Edgehill church, close to which was the meet. Bat with his two hunters fell a little behind, and the others trotted on together. The other grooms with their animals were on in advance, and were by this time employed in combing out forelocks, and rubbing stirrup leathers and horses' legs free from the dirt of the roads;--but Bat Smithers was like his master, and did not congregate much with other men, and Vavasor was sure to give orders to his servant different from the orders given by others.
"Are you well mounted this year?" Maxwell asked of George Vavasor.

"I'll ride the brown horse." Then the Roebury Club overtook them.
There was now a rush of horses on the road to Edgehill church. Bat, with his two hunters, fell a little behind, and the others trotted on together.
"Are you well mounted this year?" Maxwell asked George Vavasor.


"No, indeed; I never was what I call well mounted yet. I generally have one horse and three or four cripples. That brown horse behind there is pretty good, I believe."
"I see your man has got the old chestnut mare with him."
"She's one of the cripples,--not but what she's as sound as a bell, and as good a hunter as ever I wish to ride; but she makes a little noise when she's going."
"So that you can hear her three fields off," said Grindley.
"Five if the fields are small enough and your ears are sharp enough," said Vavasor. "All the same I wouldn't change her for the best horse I ever saw under you."
"Had you there, Grindems," said Maxwell.

"No, indeed; I generally have one horse and three or four cripples. That brown horse behind there is pretty good, I believe."
"I see your man has got the old chestnut mare."
"She's one of the cripples - sound as a bell, and a good hunter; but she makes a noise when she's going."
"So that you can hear her three fields off," said Grindley.
"Five if the fields are small enough," said Vavasor. "All the same I wouldn't change her for the best horse I ever saw under you."
"Had you there, Grindems," said Maxwell.


"No, he didn't," said Grindley. "He didn't have me at all."
"Your horses, Grindley, are always up to all the work they have to do," said George; "and I don't know what any man wants more than that."
"Had you again, Grindems," said Maxwell.
"I can ride against him any day," said Grindley.
"Yes; or against a brick wall either, if your horse didn't know any better," said George.

"No, he didn't," said Grindley.
"Your horses, Grindley, are up to all the work they have to do," said George; "and I don't know what any man wants more than that."
"Had you again, Grindems," said Maxwell.
"I can ride against him any day," said Grindley.


"Had you again, Grindems," said Maxwell. Whereupon Mr. Grindley trotted on, round the corner by the church, and into the field in which the hounds were assembled. The fire had become too hot for him, and he thought it best to escape. Had it been Vavasor alone he would have turned upon him and snarled, but he could not afford to exhibit any ill temper to the king of the club. Mr. Grindley was not popular, and were Maxwell to turn openly against him his sporting life down at Roebury would decidedly be a failure.

And he trotted round the corner by the church, and into the field in which the hounds were assembled, to escape. Had it been Vavasor alone he would have turned upon him and snarled, but he could not afford to exhibit any ill temper to the king of the club. Mr. Grindley was not popular, and he did not wish Maxwell to turn openly against him.


The lives of such men as Mr. Grindley,--men who are tolerated in the daily society of others who are accounted their superiors, do not seem to have many attractions. And yet how many such men does one see in almost every set? Why Mr. Grindley should have been inferior to Mr. Maxwell the banker, or to Stone, or to Prettyman who were brewers, or even to Mr. Pollock the heavy-weight literary gentleman, I can hardly say. An attorney by his trade is at any rate as good as a brewer, and there are many attorneys who hold their heads high anywhere. Grindley was a rich man,--or at any rate rich enough for the life he led. I don't know much about his birth, but I believe it was as good as Maxwell's. He was not ignorant, or a fool;--whereas I rather think Maxwell was a fool. Grindley had made his own way in the world, but Maxwell would certainly not have made himself a banker if his father had not been a banker before him; nor could the bank have gone on and prospered had there not been partners there who were better men of business than our friend. Grindley knew that he had a better intellect than Maxwell; and yet he allowed Maxwell to snub him, and he toadied Maxwell in return. It was not on the score of riding that Maxwell claimed and held his superiority, for Grindley did not want pluck, and every one knew that Maxwell had lived freely and that his nerves were not what they had been.

Grindley was a rich enough man, and not ignorant, or a fool; whereas I rather think Maxwell was a fool. Grindley had made his own way in the world, but Maxwell would certainly not have made a banker if his father had not been a banker before him; there were many better men of business. Grindley knew this, yet he allowed Maxwell to snub him. Maxwell was not even a better rider; but one looked imposing and


I think it had come from the outward look of the men, from the form of each, from the gait and visage which in one was good and in the other insignificant. The nature of such dominion of man over man is very singular, but this is certain that when once obtained in manhood it may be easily held.
Among boys at school the same thing is even more conspicuous, because boys have less of conscience than men, are more addicted to tyranny, and when weak are less prone to feel the misery and disgrace of succumbing. Who has been through a large school and does not remember the Maxwells and Grindleys,--the tyrants and the slaves,--those who domineered and those who submitted? Nor was it, even then, personal strength, nor always superior courage, that gave the power of command. Nor was it intellect, or thoughtfulness, nor by any means such qualities as make men and boys lovable. It is said by many who have had to deal with boys, that certain among them claim and obtain ascendancy by the spirit within them; but I doubt whether the ascendancy is not rather thrust on them than claimed by them. Here again I think the outward gait of the boy goes far towards obtaining for him the submission of his fellows.
But the tyrant boy does not become the tyrant man, or the slave boy the slave man, because the outward visage, that has been noble or mean in the one, changes and becomes so often mean or noble in the other.

the other insignificant. So Maxwell held dominion over him.