"I have a right to look upon you as my wife," he said, "and, as such, I will not allow you to keep that man's things about you." I think I told him then that I should never become his wife, but though I remember many of his words, I remember none of my own. He swore, I know, with a great oath, that if I went back a second time from my word to him he would leave me no peace,--that he would punish me for my perfidy with some fearful punishment. Oh, Kate, I cannot tell you what he looked like. He had then come quite close to me, and I know that I trembled before him as though he were going to strike me. Of course I said nothing. What could I say to a man who behaved to me in such a manner? Then, as far as I can remember it, he sat down and began to talk about money. I forget what he said at first, but I know that I assured him that he might take what he wanted so long as enough was left to prevent my being absolutely a burden on papa. "That, madam, is a matter of course," he said.

"I have a right to regard you as my wife," he said, "and I will not allow you to keep that man's things."
I think I told him then that I should never become his wife, but though I remember many of his words, I remember none of my own. He swore, I know, with a great oath, that if I went back a second time from my word he would leave me no peace - he would punish me fearfully. Oh, Kate, I cannot tell you what he looked like. He had come quite close to me, and I trembled as though he were going to strike me. I said nothing. What could I say to him?
Then, as far as I can remember it, he sat down and began to talk about money. I forget what he said at first, but I know that I assured him that he might take what he wanted so long as enough was left to prevent my being absolutely a burden on papa.
"That, madam, is a matter of course," he said.


I remember those words so well. Then he explained that after what had passed between us, I had no right to ruin him by keeping back from him money which had been promised to him, and which was essential to his success. In this, dear Kate, I think he was mainly right. But he could not have been right in putting it to me in that hard, cruel manner, especially as I had never refused anything that he had asked of me in respect of money. The money he may have while it lasts; but then there must be an end of it all between us, even though he should have the power of punishing me, as he says he will do. Punishing me, indeed! What punishment can be so hard as that which he has already inflicted?

I remember those words so well. Then he explained that after what had passed between us, I had no right to ruin him by keeping back money which had been promised to him, and which was essential to his success. In this, dear Kate, I think he was mainly right. But he could not have been right in saying it in that hard, cruel manner, especially as I had never refused any money that he had asked of me. The money he may have while it lasts; but then there must be an end of it all between us, even though he should have the power of punishing me, as he says he will do. What punishment can be so hard as that which he has already inflicted?

Chapter 54: Showing How Alice Was Punished


He then desired me to write a letter to him which he might show to the lawyer,--to our own lawyer, I think he meant,--in order that money might be raised to pay back what Mr. Grey had advanced, and give him what he now required. I think he said it was to be five thousand pounds. When he asked this I did not move. Indeed, I was unable to move. Then he spoke very loud, and swore at me again, and brought me pen and ink, demanding that I should write the letter. I was so frightened that I thought of running to the door to escape, and I would have done so had I not distrusted my own power. Had it been to save my life I could not have written the letter. I believe I was now crying,--at any rate I threw myself back and covered my face with my hands. Then he came and sat by me, and took hold of my arms. Oh, Kate; I cannot tell it you all.

He then desired me to write a letter which he might show to the lawyer in order that money might be raised to pay back what Mr. Grey had advanced, and give him what he now required. I think he said it was to be five thousand pounds. When he asked this I was unable to move. Then he spoke very loud, and swore at me again, and brought me pen and ink, demanding that I should write the letter. I was so frightened that I thought of running to the door to escape, and I would have done so if I had felt able. Had it been to save my life I could not have written the letter. I believe I was now crying - at any rate I covered my face with my hands.
Then he came and sat by me, and took hold of my arms. Oh, Kate; I cannot tell it you all.


He put his mouth close to my ear, and said words which were terrible, though I did not understand them. I do not know what it was he said, but he was threatening me with his anger if I did not obey him. Before he left me, I believe I found my voice to tell him that he should certainly have the money which he required. And so he shall. I will go to Mr. Round myself, and insist on its being done. My money is my own, and I may do with it as I please. But I hope,--I am obliged to hope, that I may never be made to see my cousin again.

He put his mouth close to my ear, and said words which were terrible. He was threatening me with his anger if I did not obey him. Before he left me, I believe I found my voice to tell him that he should certainly have the money. And so he shall. I will go to Mr. Round myself, and insist on its being done. But I hope that I may never be made to see my cousin again.


I will not pretend to express any opinion as to the cause of all this. It is very possible that you will not believe all I say,--that you will think that I am mad and have deluded myself. Of course your heart will prompt you to accuse me rather than him. If it is so, and if there must therefore be a division between us, my grief will be greatly increased; but I do not know that I can help it. I cannot keep all this back from you. He has cruelly ill-used me and insulted me. He has treated me as I should have thought no man could have treated a woman. As regards money, I did all that I could do to show that I trusted him thoroughly, and my confidence has only led to suspicion. I do not know whether he understands that everything must be over between us; but, if not, I must ask you to tell him so. And I must ask you to explain to him that he must not come again to Queen Anne Street.

I will not pretend to express any opinion as to the cause of all this. It is very possible that you will not believe all I say - that you will think that I am mad and deluded. Of course your heart will prompt you to accuse me rather than him. If it is so, my grief will be greatly increased; but I cannot help it. I cannot keep all this back from you. He has cruelly ill-used me and insulted me. He has treated me as I should have thought no man could have treated a woman. As regards money, I did all that I could do to show that I trusted him thoroughly, and my confidence has only led to suspicion.
I do not know whether he understands that everything must be over between us; but, if not, I must ask you to tell him so. And I must ask you to explain to him that he must not come again to Queen Anne Street.


If he does, nothing shall induce me to see him. Tell him also that the money that he wants shall assuredly be sent to him as soon as I can make Mr. Round get it.
Dearest Kate, good-bye. I hope you will feel for me. If you do not answer me I shall presume that you think yourself bound to support his side, and to believe me to have been wrong. It will make me very unhappy; but I shall remember that you are his sister, and I shall not be angry with you.
Yours always affectionately,
ALICE VAVASOR.
Kate, as she read her letter through, at first quickly, and then very slowly, came by degrees almost to forget that death was in the house. Her mind, and heart, and brain, were filled with thoughts and feelings that had exclusive reference to Alice and her brother, and at last she found herself walking the room with quick, impetuous steps, while her blood was hot with indignation.

If he does, nothing shall induce me to see him. Tell him that the money that he wants shall be sent to him as soon as I can manage it.
Dearest Kate, good-bye. I hope you will feel for me. If you do not answer me I shall presume that you think yourself bound to support his side, and to believe me to have been wrong. It will make me very unhappy; but I shall remember that you are his sister, and I shall not be angry with you.
Yours always affectionately,
Alice Vavasor.
Kate, as she read her letter through, at first quickly, and then very slowly, almost forgot that death was in the house. Her mind and heart were filled with thoughts of Alice and her brother, and at last she found herself walking the room with quick, impetuous steps, while her blood was hot with indignation.


All her sympathies in the matter were with Alice. It never occurred to her to disbelieve a word of the statement made to her, or to suggest to herself that it had been coloured by any fears or exaggerations on the part of her correspondent. She knew that Alice was true. And, moreover, much as she loved her brother,--willing as she had been and would still be to risk all that she possessed, and herself also, on his behalf,--she knew that it would be risking and not trusting. She loved her brother, such love having come to her by nature, and having remained with her from of old; and in his intellect she still believed. But she had ceased to have belief in his conduct. She feared everything that he might do, and lived with a consciousness that though she was willing to connect all her own fortunes with his, she had much reason to expect that she might encounter ruin in doing so. Her sin had been in this,--that she had been anxious to subject Alice to the same danger,--that she had intrigued, sometimes very meanly, to bring about the object which she had at heart,--that she had used all her craft to separate Alice from Mr. Grey. Perhaps it may be alleged in her excuse that she had thought,--had hoped rather than thought,--that the marriage which she contemplated would change much in her brother that was wrong, and bring him into a mode of life that would not be dangerous. Might not she and Alice together so work upon him, that he should cease to stand ever on the brink of some half-seen precipice?

All her sympathies were with Alice. It never occurred to her to disbelieve a word, or to suggest that it had been exaggerated. She knew that Alice was true. And, moreover, much as she loved her brother, she did not trust him. She believed in his intellect; but she had ceased to have belief in his conduct. She feared everything that he might do, and was conscious that though she was willing to connect all her own fortunes with his, it might ruin her.
Her sin had been in seeking to subject Alice to the same danger; she had plotted to bring about the thing she wished for, and to separate Alice from Mr. Grey. In her excuse, she had hoped a marriage between Alice and her brother would change much in George that was wrong. Might not she and Alice together so work upon him, that he should cease to stand always on the brink of some half-seen precipice?


To risk herself for her brother was noble. But when she used her cunning in inducing her cousin to share that risk she was ignoble. Of this she had herself some consciousness, as she walked up and down the old dining-room at midnight, holding her cousin's letter in her hand.

To risk herself for her brother was noble. But inducing her cousin to share that risk was ignoble. She knew this as she walked up and down the old dining-room at midnight, holding her cousin's letter in her hand.


Her cheeks became tinged with shame as she thought of the scene which Alice had described,--the toy thrown beneath the grate, the loud curses, the whispered threats, which had been more terrible than curses, the demand for money, made with something worse than a cut-throat's violence, the strong man's hand placed upon the woman's arm in anger and in rage, those eyes glaring, and the gaping horror of that still raw cicatrice, as he pressed his face close to that of his victim! Not for a moment did she think of defending him. She accused him to herself vehemently of a sin over and above those sins which had filled Alice with dismay. He had demanded money from the girl whom he intended to marry! According to Kate's idea, nothing could excuse or palliate this sin. Alice had accounted it as nothing,--had expressed her opinion that the demand was reasonable;--even now, after the ill-usage to which she had been subjected, she had declared that the money should be forthcoming, and given to the man who had treated her so shamefully. It might be well that Alice should so feel and so act, but it behoved Kate to feel and act very differently. She would tell her brother, even in the house of death, should he come there, that his conduct was mean and unmanly. Kate was no coward. She declared to herself that she would do this even though he should threaten her with all his fury,--though he should glare upon her with all the horrors of his countenance.

Her cheeks became tinged with shame as she thought of the scene which Alice had described - the knife thrown beneath the grate, the loud curses, the whispered threats, more terrible than curses, the demand for money, made with a cut-throat's violence, the strong man's hand placed upon the woman's arm in rage, those eyes glaring, and the gaping horror of that scar as he pressed his face close to his victim's! Not for a moment did she think of defending him. He had demanded money from the girl whom he intended to marry!
To Kate, nothing could excuse this sin. Alice had written that the demand was reasonable; even now, after his ill-usage, she had declared that the money should be given to the man who had treated her so shamefully. Kate felt very differently. She would tell her brother that his conduct was mean and unmanly. Kate was no coward. She declared to herself that she would do this even though he should threaten her with all his fury.


One o'clock, and two o'clock, still found her in the dark sombre parlour, every now and then pacing the floor of the room. The fire had gone out, and, though it was now the middle of April, she began to feel the cold. But she would not go to bed before she had written a line to Alice. To her brother a message by telegraph would of course be sent the next morning; as also would she send a message to her aunt. But to Alice she would write, though it might be but a line. Cold as she was, she found her pens and paper, and wrote her letter that night. It was very short. "Dear Alice, to-day I received your letter, and to-day our poor old grandfather died. Tell my uncle John, with my love, of his father's death. You will understand that I cannot write much now about that other matter; but I must tell you, even at such a moment as this, that there shall be no quarrel between you and me.

One o'clock, and two o'clock, still found her in the sombre parlour. The fire had gone out, and she began to feel the cold. But she would not go to bed before she had written a line to Alice. To her brother, and her aunt, a message by telegraph would be sent the next morning. But to Alice she must write a line. Cold as she was, she found her pens and paper, and wrote:
"Dear Alice, today I received your letter, and today our poor old grandfather died. Tell my uncle John, with my love, of his father's death. You will understand that I cannot write much now about that other matter; but I must tell you, even at such a moment as this, that there shall be no quarrel between you and me.


There shall be none at least on my side. I cannot say more till a few days shall have passed by. He is lying up-stairs, a corpse. I have telegraphed to George, and I suppose he will come down. I think my aunt Greenow will come also, as I had written to her before, seeing that I wanted the comfort of having her here. Uncle John will of course come or not as he thinks fitting. I don't know whether I am in a position to say that I shall be glad to see him; but I should be very glad. He and you will know that I can, as yet, tell you nothing further. The lawyer is to see the men about the funeral. Nothing, I suppose, will be done till George comes.

There shall be none at least on my side. I cannot say more till a few days shall have passed by. He is lying upstairs, a corpse. I have telegraphed to George, and I suppose he will come here. I think my aunt Greenow will come also, as I asked her earlier. Uncle John will of course come or not as he thinks fitting. I should be very glad to see him. The lawyer is to see about the funeral. Nothing, I suppose, will be done till George comes.


Your own cousin and friend, KATE VAVASOR." And then she added a line below, "My own Alice,--If you will let me, you shall be my sister, and be the nearest to me and the dearest."

"Your own cousin and friend, Kate Vavasor."
And then she added a line below, "My own Alice, if you will let me, you shall be my sister, and be the nearest to me and the dearest."


Alice, when she received this, was at the first moment so much struck, and indeed surprised, by the tidings of her grandfather's death, that she was forced, in spite of the still existing violence of her own feelings, to think and act chiefly with reference to that event. Her father had not then left his room. She therefore went to him, and handed him Kate's letter. "Papa," she said, "there is news from Westmoreland; bad news, which you hardly expected yet." "My father is dead," said John Vavasor. Whereupon Alice gave him Kate's letter, that he might read it. "Of course I shall go down," he said, as he came to that part in which Kate had spoken of him. "Does she think I shall not follow my father to the grave, because I dislike her brother? What does she mean by saying that there shall be no quarrel between you and her?" "I will explain that at another time," said Alice.

Alice, when she received this, was at first so surprised by the news of her grandfather's death, that she was forced to think chiefly about that event. She went to her father and handed him Kate's letter.
"Papa," she said, "there is bad news from Westmorland."
"My father is dead," said John Vavasor; and he read the letter. "Of course I shall go," he said, as he came to that part in which Kate had spoken of him. "Does she think I shall not go to my father's funeral? What does she mean by saying that there shall be no quarrel between you and her?"
"I will explain another time," said Alice.


John Vavasor asked no further questions then, but declared at first that he should go to Westmoreland on the following day. Then he altered his purpose. "I'll go by the mail train to-night," he said. "It will be very disagreeable, but I ought to be there when the will is opened." There was very little more said in Queen Anne Street on the subject till the evening,--till a few moments before Mr. Vavasor left his house. He indeed had thought nothing more about that quarrelling, or rather that promise that there should be no quarrelling, between the girls. He still regarded his nephew George as the man who, unfortunately, was to be his son-in-law, and now, during this tedious sad day, in which he felt himself compelled to remain at home, he busied his mind in thinking of George and Alice, as living together at the old Hall. At six, the father and daughter dined, and soon after dinner Mr. Vavasor went up to his own room to prepare himself for his journey. After a while Alice followed him,--but she did not do so till she knew that if anything was to be told before the journey no further time could be lost. "Papa," she said, as soon as she had shut the door behind her, "I think I ought to tell you before you go that everything is over between me and George."

John Vavasor asked no further questions, but declared that he would go to Westmorland by the mail train that evening.
"It will be very disagreeable," he said, "but I ought to be there when the will is opened." Little more was said on the subject till the evening. But after dinner, as he went up to pack, Alice followed him.
"Papa," she said, "I think I ought to tell you before you go that everything is over between me and George."


"Have you quarrelled with him too?" said her father, with uncontrolled surprise.
"I should perhaps say that he has quarrelled with me. But, dear papa, pray do not question me at present. I will tell you all when you come back, but I thought it right that you should know this before you went."
"It has been his doing then?"
"I cannot explain it to you in a hurry like this. Papa, you may understand something of the shame which I feel, and you should not question me now."
"And John Grey?"
"There is nothing different in regard to him."

"Have you quarrelled with him too?" said her father, with surprise.
"I should perhaps say that he has quarrelled with me. But, dear papa, pray do not question me at present. I will tell you all when you come back, but I thought it right that you should know this before you went."
"And John Grey?"
"There is nothing different in regard to him."


"I'll be shot if I can understand you. George, you know, has had two thousand pounds of your money,--of yours or somebody else's. Well, we can't talk about it now, as I must be off. Thinking as I do of George, I'm glad of it,--that's all." Then he went, and Alice was left alone, to comfort herself as best she might by her own reflections.

"I'll be shot if I can understand you. George, you know, has had two thousand pounds of your money - of yours or somebody else's. Well, we can't talk about it now, as I must be off. I'm glad of it, that's all." Then he went, and Alice was left alone.


George Vavasor had received the message on the day previous to that on which Alice's letter had reached her, but it had not come to him till late in the day. He might have gone down by the mail train of that night, but there were one or two persons, his own attorney especially, whom he wished to see before the reading of his grandfather's will. He remained in town, therefore, on the following day, and went down by the same train as that which took his uncle. Walking along the platform, looking for a seat, he peered into a carriage and met his uncle's eye. The two saw each other, but did not speak, and George passed on to another carriage. On the following morning, before the break of day, they met again in the refreshment room, at the station at Lancaster. "So my father has gone, George," said the uncle, speaking to the nephew. They must go to the same house, and Mr. Vavasor felt that it would be better that they should be on speaking terms when they reached it. "Yes," said George; "he has gone at last. I wonder what we shall find to have been his latest act of injustice."

George Vavasor had also received the message, and he took the same train as his uncle. Walking along the platform, looking for a seat, he peered into a carriage and met his uncle's eye. The two saw each other, but did not speak, and George passed on to another carriage.
On the following morning, before daybreak, they met again in the refreshment room at Lancaster Station.
"So my father has gone, George," said the uncle, feeling that it would be better that they should be on speaking terms.
"Yes," said George; "he has gone at last. I wonder what we shall find to have been his latest act of injustice."


The reader will remember that he had received Kate's first letter, in which she had told him of the Squire's altered will. John Vavasor turned away disgusted. His finer feelings were perhaps not very strong, but he had no thoughts or hopes in reference to the matter which were mean. He expected nothing himself, and did not begrudge his nephew the inheritance. At this moment he was thinking of the old Squire as a father who had ever been kind to him. It might be natural that George should have no such old affection at his heart, but it was unnatural that he should express himself as he had done at such a moment.

The reader will remember that Kate had written to him about the Squire's altered will.
John Vavasor turned away disgusted. He expected nothing from the will himself, and did not begrudge his nephew the inheritance. At this moment he was thinking of the old Squire as a father who had always been kind to him.


The uncle turned away, but said nothing. George followed him with a little proposition of his own. "We shan't get any conveyance at Shap," he said. "Hadn't we better go over in a chaise from Kendal?" To this the uncle assented, and so they finished their journey together. George smoked all the time that they were in the carriage, and very few words were spoken. As they drove up to the old house, they found that another arrival had taken place before them,--Mrs. Greenow having reached the house in some vehicle from the Shap station. She had come across from Norwich to Manchester, where she had joined the train which had brought the uncle and nephew from London.

So he turned away, but said nothing.
George followed him saying, "We shan't get any transport at Shap. Hadn't we better go over in a chaise from Kendal?"
To this the uncle assented, and so they finished their journey together. George smoked all the time in the carriage, and very few words were spoken. As they drove up to the old house, they found that Mrs. Greenow had arrived in some vehicle from the Shap station, having travelled from Norwich to Manchester, where she had joined the same train.


Mr. Vavasor was at his wits' end about his daughter. She had put her name to four bills for five hundred pounds each, and had demanded from him, almost without an apology, his aid in obtaining money to meet them. And she might put her name to any other number of bills, and for any amount! There was no knowing how a man ought to behave to such a daughter. "I don't want her money," the father said to himself; "and if she had got none of her own, I would make her as comfortable as I could with my own income. But to see her throw her money away in such a fashion as this is enough to break a man's heart."

Mr. Vavasor was at his wits' end about his daughter. She had put her name to four bills for five hundred pounds each, and had demanded his aid in obtaining money to meet them. And she might put her name to any other number of bills!
"I don't want her money," the father said to himself; "and if she had none, I would make her as comfortable as I could with my own income. But to see her throw her money away like this is enough to break a man's heart."

Chapter 61: The Bills Are Made All Right


Mr. Vavasor went to his office in Chancery Lane, but he did not go to the chambers of Mr. Round, the lawyer. Instead of calling on Mr. Round he sent a note by a messenger to Suffolk Street, and the answer to the note came in the person of Mr. Grey. John Grey was living in town in these days, and was in the habit of seeing Mr. Vavasor frequently. Indeed, he had not left London since the memorable occasion on which he had pitched his rival down the tailor's stairs at his lodgings. He had made himself pretty well conversant with George Vavasor's career, and had often shuddered as he thought what might be the fate of any girl who might trust herself to marry such a man as that.

He sent a note to Mr. Round, the lawyer, and the answer to the note came in the person of Mr. Grey.


He had been at home when Mr. Vavasor's note had reached his lodgings, and had instantly walked off towards Chancery Lane. He knew his way to Mr. Vavasor's signing-office very accurately, for he had acquired a habit of calling there, and of talking to the father about his daughter. He was a patient, persevering man, confident in himself, and apt to trust that he would accomplish those things which he attempted, though he was hardly himself aware of any such aptitude. He had never despaired as to Alice. And though he had openly acknowledged to himself that she had been very foolish,--or rather, that her judgement had failed her,--he had never in truth been angry with her. He had looked upon her rejection of himself, and her subsequent promise to her cousin, as the effects of a mental hallucination, very much to be lamented,--to be wept for, perhaps, through a whole life, as a source of terrible sorrow to himself and to her. But he regarded it all as a disease, of which the cure was yet possible,--as a disease which, though it might never leave the patient as strong as she was before, might still leave her altogether. And as he would still have clung to his love had she been attacked by any of those illnesses for which doctors have well-known names, so would he cling to her now that she was attacked by a malady for which no name was known. He had already heard from Mr. Vavasor that Alice had discovered how impossible it was that she should marry her cousin, and, in his quiet, patient, enduring way, was beginning to feel confident that he would, at last, carry his mistress off with him to Nethercoats.

John Grey had acquired a habit of calling at Mr. Vavasor's office to talk to the father about his daughter.
He had never despaired about Alice. And though he acknowledged that she had been very foolish - or rather, that her judgement had failed her - he had never been angry with her. He had looked upon her rejection of himself, and her promise to her cousin, as the effects of a mental hallucination, very much to be lamented, but curable - a disease which might leave her altogether. And just as he would still have clung to his love if she had been attacked by any ordinary illness, so would he cling to her now that she was attacked by a malady which had no name. He had heard from Mr. Vavasor that Alice had discovered it was impossible that she should marry her cousin, and, in his quiet, patient way was beginning to feel confident that he would, at last, carry her off with him to Nethercoats.


It was certainly a melancholy place, that signing-office, in which Mr. John Vavasor was doomed to spend twelve hours a week, during every term time, of his existence. Whether any man could really pass an existence of work in such a workshop, and not have gone mad,--could have endured to work there for seven hours a day, every week-day of his life, I am not prepared to say. I doubt much whether any victims are so doomed. I have so often wandered through those gloomy passages without finding a sign of humanity there,--without hearing any slightest tick of the hammer of labour, that I am disposed to think that Lord Chancellors have been anxious to save their subordinates from suicide, and have mercifully decreed that the whole staff of labourers, down to the very message boys of the office, should be sent away to green fields or palatial clubs during, at any rate, a moiety of their existence.


The dismal set of chambers, in which the most dismal room had been assigned to Mr. Vavasor, was not actually in Chancery Lane. Opening off from Chancery Lane are various other small lanes, quiet, dingy nooks, some of them in the guise of streets going no whither, some being thoroughfares to other dingy streets beyond, in which sponging-houses abound, and others existing as the entrances to so-called Inns of Court,--inns of which all knowledge has for years been lost to the outer world of the laity, and, as I believe, lost almost equally to the inner world of the legal profession. Who has ever heard of Symonds' Inn? But an ancestral Symonds, celebrated, no doubt, in his time, did found an inn, and there it is to this day. Of Staples' Inn, who knows the purposes or use? Who are its members, and what do they do as such? And Staples' Inn is an inn with pretensions, having a chapel of its own, or, at any rate, a building which, in its external dimensions, is ecclesiastical, having a garden and architectural proportions; and a faade towards Holborn, somewhat dingy, but respectable, with an old gateway, and with a decided character of its own.

Mr. Vavasor's office was in a dismal set of chambers, on one of the quiet, dingy side-streets off Chancery Lane.


The building in which Mr. John Vavasor had a room and a desk was located in one of these side streets, and had, in its infantine days, been regarded with complacency by its founder. It was stone-faced, and strong, and though very ugly, had about it that air of importance which justifies a building in assuming a special name of itself. This building was called the Accountant-General's Record Office, and very probably, in the gloom of its dark cellars, may lie to this day the records of the expenditure of many a fair property which has gotten itself into Chancery, and has never gotten itself out again. It was entered by a dark hall, the door of which was never closed; and which, having another door at its further end leading into another lane, had become itself a thoroughfare. But the passers through it were few in number. Now and then a boy might be seen there carrying on his head or shoulders a huge mass of papers which you would presume to be accounts, or some clerk employed in the purlieus of Chancery Lane who would know the shortest possible way from the chambers of some one attorney to those of some other. But this hall, though open at both ends, was as dark as Erebus; and any who lingered in it would soon find themselves to be growing damp, and would smell mildew, and would become naturally affected by the exhalations arising from those Chancery records beneath their feet.

The ugly stone building, which was called the Accountant-General's Record Office, was entered by a dark hall; and, having an open door at either end, this had become a thoroughfare. But the passers through it were few, and the hall was dark, damp, and smelt of mildew.


Up the stone stairs, from this hall, John Grey passed to Mr. Vavasor's signing-room. The stairs were broad, and almost of noble proportions, but the darkness and gloom which hung about the hall, hung also about them,--a melancholy set of stairs, up and down which no man can walk with cheerful feet. Here he came upon a long, broad passage, in which no sound was, at first, to be heard. There was no busy noise of doors slamming, no rapid sound of shoes, no passing to and fro of men intent on their daily bread. Pausing for a moment, that he might look round about him and realize the deathlike stillness of the whole, John Grey could just distinguish the heavy breathing of a man, thereby learning that there was a captive in, at any rate, one of those prisons on each side of him. As he drew near to the door of Mr. Vavasor's chamber he knew that the breathing came from thence.
On the door there were words inscribed, which were just legible in the gloom--"Signing Room. Mr. Vavasor."

From this hall, up the gloomy stone stairs, John Grey passed to Mr. Vavasor's room. Pausing in the silent passage outside the door, he could just hear the heavy breathing of a man within.


How John Vavasor did hate those words! It seemed to him that they had been placed there with the express object of declaring his degradation aloud to the world. Since his grandfather's will had been read to him he had almost made up his mind to go down those melancholy stairs for the last time, to shake the dust off his feet as he left the Accountant-General's Record Office for ever, and content himself with half his official income. But how could he give up so many hundreds a year while his daughter was persisting in throwing away thousands as fast as, or faster than, she could lay her hands on them?


John Grey entered the room and found Mr. Vavasor sitting all alone in an arm-chair over the fire. I rather think that that breathing had been the breathing of a man asleep. He was resting himself amidst the labours of his signing. It was a large, dull room, which could not have been painted, I should think, within the memory of man, looking out backwards into some court. The black wall of another building seemed to stand up close to the window,--so close that no direct ray of the sun ever interrupted the signing-clerk at his work. In the middle of the room there was a large mahogany-table, on which lay a pile of huge papers. Across the top of them there was placed a bit of blotting-paper, with a quill pen, the two only tools which were necessary to the performance of the signing-clerk's work. On the table there stood a row of official books, placed lengthways on their edges: the "Post-Office Directory," the "Court Circular," a "Directory to the Inns of Court," a dusty volume of Acts of Parliament, which had reference to Chancery accounts,--a volume which Mr. Vavasor never opened; and there were some others; but there was no book there in which any Christian man or woman could take delight, either for amusement or for recreation. There were three or four chairs round the wall, and there was the one arm-chair which the occupant of the chamber had dragged away from its sacred place to the hearth-rug. There was also an old Turkey carpet on the floor.

He entered and found Mr. Vavasor sitting in an arm-chair by the fire, resting amidst his labours. It was a large, dull room, with the view through the window of the black wall of another building. A pile of papers lay on a large mahogany table. There were three or four chairs round the wall, the arm-chair on the hearth-rug, and an old Turkey carpet on the floor.


Other furniture there was none. Can it be a matter of surprise to any one that Mr. Vavasor preferred his club to his place of business? He was not left quite alone in this deathlike dungeon. Attached to his own large room there was a small closet, in which sat the signing-clerk's clerk,--a lad of perhaps seventeen years of age, who spent the greatest part of his time playing tit-tat-to by himself upon official blotting-paper. Had I been Mr. Vavasor I should have sworn a bosom friendship with that lad, have told him all my secrets, and joined his youthful games.

Other furniture there was none. Can it be any surprise that Mr. Vavasor preferred his club?
He was not quite alone in this deathlike dungeon. Attached to his own large room there was a small closet in which sat his clerk, a youth who spent most of his time doodling on the blotting-paper.


"Come in!" Mr. Vavasor had cried when John Grey disturbed his slumber by knocking at the door. "I'm glad to see you,--very. Sit down; won't you? Did you ever see such a wretched fire? The coals they give you in this place are the worst in all London. Did you ever see such coals?" And he gave a wicked poke at the fire.
It was now the 1st of May, and Grey, who had walked from Suffolk Street, was quite warm. "One hardly wants a fire at all, such weather as this," he said.

"Come in!" Mr. Vavasor cried. "I'm glad to see you. Sit down. Did you ever see such a wretched fire?


"Oh; don't you?" said the signing-clerk. "If you had to sit here all day, you'd see if you didn't want a fire. It's the coldest building I ever put my foot in. Sometimes in winter I have to sit here the whole day in a great-coat. I only wish I could shut old Sugden up here for a week or two, after Christmas." The great lawyer whom he had named was the man whom he supposed to have inflicted on him the terrible injury of his life, and he was continually invoking small misfortunes on the head of that tyrant.
"How is Alice?" said Grey, desiring to turn the subject from the ten-times-told tale of his friend's wrongs.

It's the coldest building I ever put my foot in. Sometimes in winter I have to sit here in a great-coat."
"How is Alice?" said Grey.


Mr. Vavasor sighed. "She is well enough, I believe," he said.
"Is anything the matter in Queen Anne Street?"
"You'll hardly believe it when I tell you; and, indeed, I hardly know whether I ought to tell you or not."
"As you and I have gone so far together, I think that you ought to tell me anything that concerns her nearly."
"That's just it. It's about her money. Do you know, Grey, I'm beginning to think that I've been wrong in allowing you to advance what you have done on her account?"
"Why wrong?"

Mr. Vavasor sighed. "She is well enough."
"Is anything the matter?"
"You'll hardly believe it when I tell you; and, indeed, I hardly know whether I ought to tell you."
"I think that you ought to tell me anything that concerns her."
"It's about her money. Do you know, Grey, I'm beginning to think that I've been wrong in allowing you to advance money on her account?"
"Why?"


"Because I foresee there'll be a difficulty about it. How are we to manage about the repayment?"
"If she becomes my wife there will be no management wanted."
"But how if she never becomes your wife? I'm beginning to think she'll never do anything like any other woman."
"I'm not quite sure that you understand her," said Grey; "though of course you ought to do so better than any one else."
"Nobody can understand her," said the angry father. "She told me the other day, as you know, that she was going to have nothing more to do with her cousin--"

"Because I foresee difficulty about the repayment."
"If she becomes my wife there will be no management wanted."
"But what if she never becomes your wife? I'm beginning to think she'll never do anything like any other woman. She told me the other day, as you know, that she was going to have nothing more to do with her cousin-"


"Has she--has she become friends with him again?" said Grey. As he asked the question there came a red spot on each cheek, showing the strong mental anxiety which had prompted it.
"No; I believe not;--that is, certainly not in the way you mean. I think that she is beginning to know that he is a rascal."
"It is a great blessing that she has learned the truth before it was too late."
"But would you believe it;--she has given him her name to bills for two thousand pounds, payable at two weeks' sight? He sent to her only this morning a fellow that he called his clerk, and she has been fool enough to accept them. Two thousand pounds! That comes of leaving money at a young woman's own disposal."

"Has she become friends with him again?" said Grey, in strong anxiety.
"No - certainly not in the way you mean. I think that she is learning that he is a rascal. But would you believe it - she has given him her name to bills for two thousand pounds, payable at two weeks? Two thousand pounds!"


"But we expected that, you know," said Grey, who seemed to take the news with much composure.
"Expected it?"
"Of course we did. You yourself did not suppose that what he had before would have been the last."
"But after she had quarrelled with him!"
"That would make no difference with her. She had promised him her money, and as it seems that he will be content with that, let her keep her promise."

"But we expected that, you know," said Grey, with composure.
"Expected it? After she had quarrelled with him?"
"She had promised him her money, and as it seems that he will be content with that, let her keep her promise."


"And give him everything! Not if I can help it. I'll expose him. I will indeed. Such a pitiful rascal as he is!"
"You will do nothing, Mr. Vavasor, that will injure your daughter. I'm very sure of that."

"And give him everything! Not if I can help it. I'll expose the rascal, I will indeed!"
"You will do nothing, Mr. Vavasor, that will injure your daughter. I'm sure of that."


"But, by heavens--. Such sheer robbery as that! Two thousand pounds more in fourteen days!" The shortness of the date at which the bills were drawn seemed to afflict Mr. Vavasor almost as keenly as the amount. Then he described the whole transaction as accurately as he could do so, and also told how Alice had declared her purpose of going to Mr. Round the lawyer, if her father would not undertake to procure the money for her by the time the bills should become due. "Mr. Round, you know, has heard nothing about it," he continued. "He doesn't dream of any such thing. If she would take my advice, she would leave the bills, and let them be dishonoured. As it is, I think I shall call at Drummonds', and explain the whole transaction."

"But it's sheer robbery!" Then Mr. Vavasor described the whole transaction, and told how Alice had declared she would go to Mr. Round the lawyer, if her father would not procure the money for her. "If she would take my advice, she would leave the bills, and let them be dishonoured. I think I shall call at Drummonds bank, and explain it."


"You must not do that," said Grey. "I will call at Drummonds', instead, and see that the money is all right for the bills. As far as they go, let him have his plunder."
"And if she won't take you, at last, Grey? Upon my word, I don't think she ever will. My belief is she'll never get married. She'll never do anything like any other woman."
"The money won't be missed by me if I never get married," said Grey, with a smile. "If she does marry me, of course I shall make her pay me."

"You must not do that," said Grey. "I will call at Drummonds, instead, and see that the money is all right for the bills. Let him have his plunder."
"And what if she won't take you, Grey? My belief is she'll never get married."
"The money won't be missed by me if I never get married," said Grey, with a smile.


"No, by George! that won't do," said Vavasor. "If she were your daughter you'd know that she could not take a man's money in that way."
"And I know it now, though she is not my daughter. I was only joking. As soon as I am certain,--finally certain,--that she can never become my wife, I will take back my money. You need not be afraid. The nature of the arrangement we have made shall then be explained to her."
In this way it was settled; and on the following morning the father informed the daughter that he had done her bidding, and that the money would be placed to her credit at the bankers' before the bills came due. On that Saturday, the day which her cousin had named in his letter, she trudged down to Drummonds', and was informed by a very courteous senior clerk in that establishment, that due preparation for the bills had been made.

"No, by George! that won't do," said Vavasor.
"Then as soon as I am certain that she can never become my wife, I will take back my money."
So it was settled; and next morning the father informed the daughter that he had done her bidding, and that the money would be in the bank before the bills came due. On that Saturday which her cousin had named in his letter, she trudged down to Drummonds, and was informed by a very courteous senior clerk that due preparation for the bills had been made.


So far, I think we may say that Mr. George Vavasor was not unfortunate.

So far, I think we may say that Mr. George Vavasor was fortunate.


It will no doubt be understood that George Vavasor did not roam about in the woods unshorn, or wear leathern trappings and sandals, like Robinson Crusoe, instead of coats and trousers. His wildness was of another kind. Indeed, I don't know that he was in truth at all wild, though Lady Macleod had called him so, and Alice had assented to her use of the word.

It will be understood that George Vavasor did not roam about in the woods in leather clothes and sandals, like Robinson Crusoe. His wildness was of another kind. Indeed, I don't know that he was truly wild at all.


George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and now, at the time of the beginning of my story, he was a year or two over thirty. He was and ever had been the heir to his grandfather's estate; but that estate was small, and when George first came to London his father was a strong man of forty, with as much promise of life in him as his son had. A profession had therefore been absolutely necessary to him; and he had, at his uncle John's instance, been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent. With this parliamentary land agent he had quarrelled to the knife, but not before he had by his talents made himself so useful that he had before him the prospects of a lucrative partnership in the business. George Vavasor had many faults, but idleness--absolute idleness--was not one of them. He would occasionally postpone his work to pleasure. He would be at Newmarket when he should have been at Whitehall. But it was not usual with him to be in bed when he should be at his desk, and when he was at his desk he did not whittle his ruler, or pick his teeth, or clip his nails. Upon the whole his friends were pleased with the first five years of his life in London--in spite of his having been found to be in debt on more than one occasion. But his debts had been paid; and all was going on swimmingly, when one day he knocked down the parliamentary agent with a blow between the eyes, and then there was an end of that.

George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and was now just over thirty. He was the heir to his grandfather's estate; but that estate was small. He had therefore needed a profession; and with his uncle John's help, he had been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent. He had quarrelled with this land agent, but not before his talents had made him useful. George Vavasor had many faults, but idleness was not one of them. He would occasionally postpone his work for pleasure. He would be at Newmarket races when he should have been at Whitehall. But when he was at his desk he did not waste time.
Upon the whole his friends were pleased with the first five years of his life in London - in spite of the debts he ran up. But his debts were paid; and all was going on swimmingly, when one day he knocked down the parliamentary agent, and that was the end of that.


He himself was wont to say that he had known very well what he was about, that it had behoved him to knock down the man who was to have been his partner, and that he regretted nothing in the matter. At any rate the deed was looked upon with approving eyes by many men of good standing,--or, at any rate, sufficient standing to help George to another position; and within six weeks of the time of his leaving the office at Whitehall, he had become a partner in an established firm of wine merchants. A great-aunt had just then left him a couple of thousand pounds, which no doubt assisted him in his views with the wine merchants.
In this employment he remained for another period of five years, and was supposed by all his friends to be doing very well. And indeed he did not do badly, only that he did not do well enough to satisfy himself. He was ambitious of making the house to which he belonged the first house in the trade in London, and scared his partners by the boldness and extent of his views. He himself declared that if they would only have gone along with him he would have made them princes in the wine market. But they were men either of more prudence or of less audacity than he, and they declined to walk in his courses. At the end of the five years Vavasor left the house, not having knocked any one down on this occasion, and taking with him a very nice sum of money.

However, he had friends who helped him to another position, as a partner in an established firm of wine merchants. A great-aunt had just then left him a couple of thousand pounds, which no doubt helped him in the wine merchants' eyes.
In this employment he remained for another five years, and did not do badly, but did not do well enough to satisfy himself. He was ambitious for the company, and scared his partners by the boldness of his views. So at the end of the five years George Vavasor left the wine house, not having knocked anyone down on this occasion, and taking with him a very nice sum of money.


The two last of these five years had certainly been the best period of his life, for he had really worked very hard, like a man, giving up all pleasure that took time from him,--and giving up also most pleasures which were dangerous on account of their costliness. He went to no races, played no billiards, and spoke of Cremorne as a childish thing, which he had abandoned now that he was no longer a child. It was during these two years that he had had his love passages with his cousin; and it must be presumed that he had, at any rate, intended at one time to settle himself respectably as a married man. He had, however, behaved very badly to Alice, and the match had been broken off.

The two last of these five years had certainly been the best period of his life, for he had really worked very hard. It was during these two years that he had had his love passages with his cousin; and presumably had intended to become a respectable married man. He had, however, behaved very badly to Alice, and the match had been broken off.


He had also during the last two years quarrelled with his grandfather. He had wished to raise a sum of money on the Vavasor estate, which, as it was unentailed, he could only do with his grandfather's concurrence. The old gentleman would not hear of it,--would listen with no patience to the proposition. It was in vain that George attempted to make the squire understand that the wine business was going on very well, that he himself owed no man anything, that everything with him was flourishing;--but that his trade might be extended indefinitely by the use of a few thousand pounds at moderate interest. Old Mr. Vavasor was furious. No documents and no assurances could make him lay aside a belief that the wine merchants, and the business, and his grandson were all ruined and ruinous together. No one but a ruined man would attempt to raise money on the family estate! So they had quarrelled, and had never spoken or seen each other since. "He shall have the estate for his life," the squire said to his son John. "I don't think I have a right to leave it away from him.

He had also quarrelled with his grandfather. He had wished to raise a sum of money on the Vavasor estate, which he could only do with his grandfather's agreement. The old gentleman would not hear of it. In vain George tried to make the squire understand that the wine business was flourishing, but that his trade might be greatly extended by the use of a few thousand pounds.
Old Mr. Vavasor was furious. He was convinced that the wine merchants and his grandson were all ruined. No one but a ruined man would attempt to raise money on the family estate! So they had quarrelled, and had never spoken or seen each other since.
"He shall have the estate once I'm gone," the squire said to his younger son John.


It never has been left away from the heir. But I'll tie it up so that he shan't cut a tree on it." John Vavasor perhaps thought that the old rule of primogeniture might under such circumstances have been judiciously abandoned--in this one instance, in his own favour. But he did not say so. Nor would he have said it had there been a chance of his doing so with success. He was a man from whom no very noble deed could be expected; but he was also one who would do no ignoble deed.

"It never has been left away from the heir. But I'll tie it up so that he shan't cut a tree on it." John Vavasor perhaps thought that the old rule of primogeniture might have been judiciously abandoned in this case, in his own favour. But he did not say so.


After that George Vavasor had become a stockbroker, and a stockbroker he was now. In the first twelve months after his leaving the wine business,--the same being the first year after his breach with Alice,--he had gone back greatly in the estimation of men. He had lived in open defiance of decency. He had spent much money and had apparently made none, and had been, as all his friends declared, on the high road to ruin. Aunt Macleod had taken her judgement from this period of his life when she had spoken of him as a man who never did anything. But he had come forth again suddenly as a working man; and now they who professed to know, declared that he was by no means poor. He was in the City every day; and during the last two years had earned the character of a shrewd fellow who knew what he was about, who might not perhaps be very mealy-mouthed in affairs of business, but who was fairly and decently honourable in his money transactions. In fact, he stood well on 'Change.

After that George Vavasor had become a stockbroker, and a stockbroker he was now. In the first twelve months after his leaving the wine business, and after his breach with Alice, he had gone backwards in men's esteem. He had been, it seemed, on the road to ruin. Aunt Macleod was thinking of this period of his life when she said he was a man who never did anything. But now he was working in the City every day. During the last two years he had earned a reputation as a shrewd fellow who was honourable in his money transactions.


And during these two years he had stood a contest for a seat in Parliament, having striven to represent the metropolitan borough of Chelsea, on the extremely Radical interest. It is true that he had failed, and that he had spent a considerable sum of money in the contest. "Where on earth does your nephew get his money?" men said to John Vavasor at his club. "Upon my word I don't know," said Vavasor. "He doesn't get it from me, and I'm sure he doesn't get it from my father." But George Vavasor, though he failed at Chelsea, did not spend his money altogether fruitlessly. He gained reputation by the struggle, and men came to speak of him as though he were one who would do something. He was a stockbroker, a thorough-going Radical, and yet he was the heir to a fine estate, which had come down from father to son for four hundred years! There was something captivating about his history and adventures, especially as just at the time of the election he became engaged to an heiress, who died a month before the marriage should have taken place.

And during these two years he had stood for a seat in Parliament, having striven to represent Chelsea as a Radical candidate. It is true that he had failed, after spending a large sum of money in the contest. But though he failed, he did not spend his money fruitlessly. Men began to speak of him as a man who would do something. He was a stockbroker, a Radical, and yet the heir to a fine old estate! There was something captivating about his history and adventures, especially as at the time of the election he became engaged to an heiress, who died a month before their marriage.


She died without a will, and her money all went to some third cousins.


George Vavasor bore this last disappointment like a man, and it was at this time that he again became fully reconciled to his cousin. Previous to this they had met; and Alice, at her cousin Kate's instigation, had induced her father to meet him. But at first there had been no renewal of real friendship. Alice had given her cordial assent to her cousin's marriage with the heiress, Miss Grant, telling Kate that such an engagement was the very thing to put him thoroughly on his feet. And then she had been much pleased by his spirit at that Chelsea election. "It was grand of him, wasn't it?" said Kate, her eyes brimming full of tears. "It was very spirited," said Alice. "If you knew all, you would say so. They could get no one else to stand but that Mr. Travers, and he wouldn't come forward, unless they would guarantee all his expenses."

George Vavasor bore this last disappointment like a man, and it was at this time that he again became fully reconciled with his cousin. Before this there had been no renewal of real friendship, although Alice had given her cordial assent to her cousin's marriage with the heiress, telling Kate that such an engagement was the very thing to put George on his feet. And she had been pleased by his spirit at the Chelsea election.
"It was grand of him, wasn't it?" said Kate, her eyes brimming with tears.
"It was very spirited," said Alice.


"I hope it didn't cost George much," said Alice. "It did, though; nearly all he had got. But what matters? Money's nothing to him, except for its uses. My own little mite is my own now, and he shall have every farthing of it for the next election, even though I should go out as a housemaid the next day." There must have been something great about George Vavasor, or he would not have been so idolized by such a girl as his sister Kate.

"I hope it didn't cost him much."
"It did, though; nearly all he had got. But money's nothing to him, except for its uses. He shall have every farthing of my own money for the next election, even if I have go out as a housemaid." There must have been something great about George Vavasor, or he would not have been idolized by such a girl as his sister Kate.


Early in the present spring, before the arrangements for the Swiss journey were made, George Vavasor had spoken to Alice about that intended marriage which had been broken off by the lady's death. He was sitting one evening with his cousin in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, waiting for Kate, who was to join him there before going to some party. I wonder whether Kate had had a hint from her brother to be late! At any rate, the two were together for an hour, and the talk had been all about himself. He had congratulated her on her engagement with Mr. Grey, which had just become known to him, and had then spoken of his own last intended marriage.
"I grieved for her," he said, "greatly."
"I'm sure you did, George."
"Yes, I did;--for her, herself. Of course the world has given me credit for lamenting the loss of her money. But the truth is, that as regards both herself and her money, it is much better for me that we were never married."

Early in the spring, before the arrangements for the Swiss journey were made, George Vavasor had spoken to Alice about that intended marriage which had been broken off by the lady's death. They were sitting one evening in her drawing-room, waiting for Kate to join them. I wonder whether Kate had had a hint from her brother to be late! At any rate, the two were together for an hour, and the talk had been all about himself. He had congratulated her on her engagement with Mr. Grey, and had then spoken of his own intended marriage.
"I grieved for her," he said, "greatly."
"I'm sure you did, George."
"Of course the world thinks I was lamenting the loss of her money. But the truth is, that as regards both herself and her money, it is much better for me that we were never married."


"Do you mean even though she should have lived?"
"Yes;--even had she lived."
"And why so? If you liked her, her money was surely no drawback."
"No; not if I had liked her."
"And did you not like her?"
"No."
"Oh, George!"

"Do you mean even if she had lived?"
"Yes."
"Why? If you liked her, her money was surely no drawback."
"No; not if I had liked her."
"And did you not like her?"


"I did not love her as a man should love his wife, if you mean that. As for my liking her, I did like her. I liked her very much."
"But you would have loved her?"
"I don't know. I don't find that task of loving so very easy. It might have been that I should have learned to hate her."
"If so, it is better for you, and better for her, that she has gone."

"I liked her very much. But I did not love her as a man should love his wife."
"But you would have come to love her?"
"I don't know. I don't find that task of loving very easy. I might have learned to hate her.


"It is better. I am sure of it. And yet I grieve for her, and in thinking of her I almost feel as though I were guilty of her death."
"But she never suspected that you did not love her?"
"Oh no. But she was not given to think much of such things. She took all that for granted. Poor girl! she is at rest now, and her money has gone, where it should go, among her own relatives."
"Yes; with such feelings as yours are about her, her money would have been a burden to you."

And yet I grieve for her, and feel almost guilty of her death."
"But she never suspected that you did not love her?"
"Oh no. She took all that for granted. Poor girl! she is at rest now, and her money has gone, where it should go, among her own relatives.


"I would not have taken it. I hope, at least, that I would not have taken it. Money is a sore temptation, especially to a poor man like me. It is well for me that the trial did not come in my way."
"But you are not such a very poor man now, are you, George? I thought your business was a good one."
"It is, and I have no right to be a poor man. But a man will be poor who does such mad things as I do. I had three or four thousand pounds clear, and I spent every shilling of it on the Chelsea election. Goodness knows whether I shall have a shilling at all when another chance comes round; but if I have I shall certainly spend it, and if I have not, I shall go in debt wherever I can raise a hundred pounds."

I would not have taken it - I hope so, at least. Money is a sore temptation."
"But you are not a poor man, are you, George? I thought your business was a good one."
"It is, and I have no right to be a poor man. I had three or four thousand pounds clear, but I spent every shilling on the Chelsea election. Goodness knows whether I shall have a shilling at all when another chance comes round; but if I have I shall certainly spend it, or else go in debt to raise the money."


"I hope you will be successful at last."
"I feel sure that I shall. But, in the mean time, I cannot but know that my career is perfectly reckless. No woman ought to join her lot to mine unless she has within her courage to be as reckless as I am. You know what men do when they toss up for shillings?"
"Yes, I suppose I do."
"I am tossing up every day of my life for every shilling that I have."
"Do you mean that you're--gambling?"

"I hope you will be successful."
"I feel sure that I shall. But meamwhile, no woman ought to join her lot to mine unless she is brave enough to be as reckless as I am.


"No. I have given that up altogether. I used to gamble, but I never do that now, and never shall again. What I mean is this,--that I hold myself in readiness to risk everything at any moment, in order to gain any object that may serve my turn. I am always ready to lead a forlorn hope. That's what I mean by tossing up every day for every shilling that I have."
Alice did not quite understand him, and perhaps he did not intend that she should. Perhaps his object was to mystify her imagination. She did not understand him, but I fear that she admired the kind of courage which he professed. And he had not only professed it: in that matter of the past election he had certainly practised it.

I keep myself ready to risk everything at any moment, in order to gain any object that may serve my turn."
Alice did not quite understand him, and perhaps he intended to mystify her. I fear that she admired the kind of courage which he professed.


In talking of beauty to his sister he had spoken of himself as being ugly. He would not generally have been called ugly by women, had not one side of his face been dreadfully scarred by a cicatrice, which in healing, had left a dark indented line down from his left eye to his lower jaw. That black ravine running through his cheek was certainly ugly. On some occasions, when he was angry or disappointed, it was very hideous; for he would so contort his face that the scar would, as it were, stretch itself out, revealing all its horrors, and his countenance would become all scar. "He looked at me like the devil himself--making the hole in his face gape at me," the old squire had said to John Vavasor in describing the interview in which the grandson had tried to bully his grandfather into assenting to his own views about the mortgage. But in other respects George's face was not ugly, and might have been thought handsome by many women. His hair was black, and was parted in the front. His forehead, though low, was broad. His eyes were dark and bright, and his eyebrows were very full, and perfectly black. At those periods of his anger, all his face which was not scar, was eye and eyebrow.

George described himself as ugly. One side of his face been dreadfully scarred, with a dark line running down from his left eye to his lower jaw. That black ravine through his cheek was certainly ugly, and sometimes, when his face was distorted by anger or disappointment, it was hideous; for it seemed to stretch itself out, and his countenance would become all scar.
But in other respects George was not ugly. His hair was black; his forehead, though low, was broad. His eyes were dark and bright, and his black eyebrows were very full.


He wore a thick black moustache, which covered his mouth, but no whiskers. People said of him that he was so proud of his wound that he would not grow a hair to cover it. The fact, however, was that no whisker could be made to come sufficiently forward to be of service, and therefore he wore none.

He wore a thick black moustache, but no sideburns. People said that he was so proud of his wound that he would not grow a hair to cover it. The fact, however, was that no whisker could be made to fully cover it, and therefore he wore none.


The story of that wound should be told. When he was yet hardly more than a boy, before he had come up to London, he was living in a house in the country which his father then occupied. At the time his father was absent, and he and his sister only were in the house with the maid-servants. His sister had a few jewels in her room, and an exaggerated report of them having come to the ears of certain enterprising burglars, a little plan was arranged for obtaining them. A small boy was hidden in the house, a window was opened, and at the proper witching hour of night a stout individual crept up-stairs in his stocking-feet, and was already at Kate Vavasor's door,--when, in the dark, dressed only in his nightshirt, wholly unarmed, George Vavasor flew at the fellow's throat. Two hours elapsed before the horror-stricken women of the house could bring men to the place. George's face had then been ripped open from the eye downwards, with some chisel, or house-breaking instrument. But the man was dead. George had wrenched from him his own tool, and having first jabbed him all over with insufficient wounds, had at last driven the steel through his windpipe. The small boy escaped, carrying with him two shillings and threepence which Kate had left upon the drawing-room mantelpiece.

The story of that wound should be told. When he was a youth, he lived in his father's house in the country. At the time his father was absent, and only he and his sister were in the house with the maid-servants. His sister had a few jewels in her room, and when an exaggerated report of them reached the ears of some enterprising burglars, they hatched a little plan. A small boy was hidden in the house, a window was opened, and in the dead of night a man crept upstairs in his stocking-feet, and was already at Kate Vavasor's door - when George, in his nightshirt, wholly unarmed, flew at the fellow's throat. George's face was ripped open from the eye downwards, with a chisel used as a house-breaking instrument. But the man was dead. George had wrenched his own tool from him, and after several vain jabs, had at last driven the steel through his windpipe. The small boy escaped.


George Vavasor was rather low in stature, but well made, with small hands and feet, but broad in the chest and strong in the loins. He was a fine horseman and a hard rider; and men who had known him well said that he could fence and shoot with a pistol as few men care to do in these peaceable days. Since volunteering had come up, he had become a captain of Volunteers, and had won prizes with his rifle at Wimbledon.
Such had been the life of George Vavasor, and such was his character, and such his appearance. He had always lived alone in London, and did so at present; but just now his sister was much with him, as she was staying up in town with an aunt, another Vavasor by birth, with whom the reader will, if he persevere, become acquainted in course of time. I hope he will persevere a little, for of all the Vavasors Mrs. Greenow was perhaps the best worth knowing. But Kate Vavasor's home was understood to be in her grandfather's house in Westmoreland.

George Vavasor was not tall, but well made, broad-chested and strong. He was a fine horseman, and could shoot and fence, it was said, better than most men.
He had always lived alone in London; but just now his sister Kate was much with him, as she was staying up in town with an aunt - another Vavasor by birth, now called Mrs. Greenow. But Kate Vavasor's home was her grandfather's house in Westmorland.


On the evening before they started for Switzerland, George and Kate walked from Queen Anne Street, where they had been dining with Alice, to Mrs. Greenow's house. Everything had been settled about luggage, hours of starting, and routes as regarded their few first days; and the common purse had been made over to George. That portion of Mr. Grey's letter had been read which alluded to the Paynims and the glasses of water, and everything had passed in the best of good-humour. "I'll endeavour to get the cold water for you," George had said; "but as to the breakfasts, I can only hope you won't put me to severe trials by any very early hours. When people go out for pleasure it should be pleasure."
The brother and sister walked through two or three streets in silence, and then Kate asked a question.
"George, I wonder what your wishes really are about Alice?"
"That she shouldn't want her breakfast too early while we are away."
"That means that I'm to hold my tongue, of course."
"No, it doesn't."

On the evening before they started for Switzerland, George and Kate walked from Queen Anne Street, where they had been dining with Alice, to Mrs. Greenow's house. Everything had been settled about luggage and routes for their few first days; and that part of Mr. Grey's letter had been read which alluded to the Paynims and the glasses of water, in the best of good-humour.
Now the brother and sister walked in silence, before Kate asked, "George, I wonder what your wishes really are about Alice?"


"Then it means that you intend to hold yours."
"No; not that either."
"Then what does it mean?"
"That I have no fixed wishes on the subject. Of course she'll marry this man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word about her."
"She will no doubt, if you don't interfere. Probably she will whether you interfere or not. But if you wish to interfere--"
"She's got four hundred a year, and is not so good-looking as she was."

"I have no wishes on the subject. Of course she'll marry this man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word about her."
"She will, no doubt, if you don't interfere. But if you wish to interfere-"
"She's got four hundred a year, and is not so good-looking as she was."


"Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more handsome now than ever she was. I know that you think so;--and that you love her and love no one else--unless you have a sneaking fondness for me."
"I'll leave you to judge of that last."
"And as for me,--I only love two people in the world; her and you. If ever you mean to try, you should try now."

"Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more handsome now than ever she was. I know that you think so; and that you love her and no-one else - unless you have a sneaking fondness for me."
"I'll leave you to judge that."
"As for me, I only love two people in the world; her and you. If ever you mean to try, you should try now."


George Vavasor remained about four days beneath his grandfather's roof; but he was not happy there himself, nor did he contribute to the happiness of any one else. He remained there in great discomfort so long, being unwilling to leave till an answer had been received to the request made to Aunt Greenow, in order that he might insist on Kate's performance of her promise with reference to Alice, if that answer should be unfavourable. During these five days Kate did all in her power to induce her brother to be, at any rate, kind in his manner towards his grandfather, but it was in vain. The Squire would not be the first to be gracious; and George, quite as obstinate as the old man, would take no steps in that direction till encouraged to do so by graciousness from the other side. Poor Kate entreated each of them to begin, but her entreaties were of no avail. "He is an ill-mannered cub," the old man said, "and I was a fool to let him into the house. Don't mention his name to me again." George argued the matter more at length. Kate spoke to him of his own interest in the matter, urging upon him that he might, by such conduct, drive the Squire to exclude him altogether from the property.
"He must do as he likes," George said, sulkily.

George Vavasor remained about four days beneath his grandfather's roof; but he was not happy there, nor did he add to anyone else's happiness. However, he was unwilling to leave till an answer came from Aunt Greenow about Kate's request for money. Kate did everything in her power to induce her brother to be kind to his grandfather, but it was in vain. Both men were as obstinate as each other, and neither would take the first step towards graciousness. Poor Kate entreated each of them to no avail.
"He is an ill-mannered cub," the old man said, "and I was a fool to let him into the house."
So Kate told George that his conduct might drive the Squire to disinherit him completely.
"He must do as he likes," George said sulkily.


"Alice would be the last to expect me to submit to unreasonable ill-usage for the sake of money. As regards myself, I confess that I'm very fond of money and am not particularly squeamish. I would do anything that a man can do to secure it. But this I can't do. I never injured him, and I never asked him to injure himself. I never attempted to borrow money from him. I have never cost him a shilling. When I was in the wine business he might have enabled me to make a large fortune simply by settling on me then the reversion of property which, when he dies, ought to be my own. He was so perversely ignorant that he would make no inquiry, but chose to think that I was ruining myself, at the only time of my life when I was really doing well."
"But he had a right to act as he pleased," urged Kate.

"Alice would be the last to expect me to submit to ill-usage for the sake of money. I confess that I'm very fond of money and would do anything that a man can do to secure it. But this I can't do. I have never cost him a shilling. When I was in the wine business he might have enabled me to make a large fortune simply by giving me my property in advance. He perversely chose to think that I was ruining myself, at the only time of my life when I was really doing well."
"But he had a right to act as he pleased," urged Kate.


"Certainly he had. But he had no right to resent my asking such a favour at his hands. He was an ignorant old fool not to do it; but I should never have quarrelled with him on that account. Nature made him a fool, and it wasn't his fault. But I can't bring myself to kneel in the dirt before him simply because I asked for what was reasonable."

"Certainly he had. But he had no right to resent my asking such a favour. Nature made him a fool, and that's not his fault. But I can't bring myself to kneel in the dirt before him simply because I asked for what was reasonable."


The two men said very little to each other. They were never alone together except during that half-hour after dinner in which they were supposed to drink their wine. The old Squire always took three glasses of port during this period, and expected that his grandson would take three with him. But George would drink none at all. "I have given up drinking wine after dinner," said he, when his grandfather pushed the bottle over to him. "I suppose you mean that you drink nothing but claret," said the Squire, in a tone of voice that was certainly not conciliatory. "I mean simply what I say," said George--"that I have given up drinking wine after dinner." The old man could not openly quarrel with his heir on such a point as that. Even Mr. Vavasor could not tell his grandson that he was going to the dogs because he had become temperate. But, nevertheless, there was offence in it; and when George sat perfectly silent, looking at the fire, evidently determined to make no attempt at conversation, the offence grew, and became strong.

The two men said very little to each other. They were never alone together except during that half-hour after dinner in which they were supposed to drink their wine. The old Squire always took three glasses of port, but George would drink none at all.
"I have given up drinking wine after dinner," said he, when his grandfather pushed the bottle over to him. The old man could not openly quarrel with his heir on such a point. But, nevertheless, there was offence in it; and when George sat perfectly silent, looking at the fire, with no attempt at conversation, the offence grew, and became strong.


"What the devil's the use of your sitting there if you neither drink nor talk?" said the old man. "No use in the world, that I can see," said George; "if, however, I were to leave you, you would abuse me for it." "I don't care how soon you leave me," said the Squire. From all which it may be seen that George Vavasor's visit to the hall of his ancestors was not satisfactory.
On the fourth day, about noon, came Aunt Greenow's reply. "Dearest Kate," she said, "I am not going to do what you ask me,"--thus rushing instantly into the middle of her subject.

"What the devil's the use of your sitting there if you neither drink nor talk?" said the old man.
"No use in the world, that I can see," said George; "if, however, I were to leave you, you would abuse me for it."
"I don't care how soon you leave me," said the Squire. From all which it may be seen that George Vavasor's visit to his ancestral hall was not satisfactory.
On the fourth day Aunt Greenow's reply came. It said:
Dearest Kate,
I am not going to do what you ask me.


You see, I don't know my nephew, and have no reason for being specially anxious that he should be in Parliament. I don't care two straws about the glory of the Vavasor family. If I had never done anything for myself, the Vavasors would have done very little for me. I don't care much about what you call 'blood.' I like those who like me, and whom I know. I am very fond of you, and because you have been good to me I would give you a thousand pounds if you wanted it for yourself; but I don't see why I am to give my money to those I don't know. If it is necessary to tell my nephew of this, pray tell him that I mean no offence.
Your friend C. is still waiting--waiting--waiting, patiently; but his patience may be exhausted.
Your affectionate aunt,
ARABELLA GREENOW.

You see, I don't know my nephew, and have no reason for being specially anxious that he should be in Parliament. I don't care two straws about the glory of the Vavasor family, who have never done much for me. I am very fond of you, and because you have been good to me I would give you a thousand pounds if you wanted it for yourself; but I don't see why I should give my money to those I don't know. Pray tell my nephew that I mean no offence.
Your friend C. is still waiting - waiting, patiently; but his patience may be exhausted.
Your affectionate aunt,
Arabella Greenow.


"Of course she won't," said George, as he threw back the letter to his sister. "Why should she?"
"I had hoped she would," said Kate.
"Why should she? What did I ever do for her? She is a sensible woman. Who is your friend C., and why is he waiting patiently?"
"He is a man who would be glad to marry her for her money, if she would take him."
"Then what does she mean by his patience being exhausted?"

"Of course she won't," said George, as he threw back the letter to his sister. "Why should she? She is a sensible woman. Who is your friend C., and why is he waiting patiently?"
"He is a man who would be glad to marry her for her money, if she would take him.


"It is her folly. She chooses to pretend to think that the man is a lover of mine."
"Has he got any money?"
"Yes; lots of money--or money's worth."
"And what is his name?"
"His name is Cheesacre. But pray don't trouble yourself to talk about him."
"If he wants to marry you, and has plenty of money, why shouldn't you take him?"

But she pretends to think that he is a lover of mine."
"Has he got any money?"
"Yes; lots."
"And what is his name?"
"His name is Cheesacre. But don't talk about him."
"If he wants to marry you, and has plenty of money, why shouldn't you take him?"


"Good heavens, George! In the first place he does not want to marry me. In the next place all his heart is in his farmyard."
"And a very good place to have it," said George.
"Undoubtedly. But, really, you must not trouble yourself to talk about him."
"Only this,--that I should be very glad to see you well married."
"Should you?" said she, thinking of her close attachment to himself.

"Good heavens, George! In the first place he does not want to marry me. In the next place all his heart is in his farmyard."
"And a very good place to have it," said George.
"Undoubtedly. But, really, do not talk about him."
"I should be very glad to see you well married."
"Should you?" said she, thinking of her close attachment to him.


"And now, about the money," said George. "You must write to Alice at once."--"Oh, George!"
"Of course you must; you have promised. Indeed, it would have been much wiser if you had taken me at my word, and done it at once."--"I cannot do it."
Then the scar on his face opened itself, and his sister stood before him in fear and trembling. "Do you mean to tell me," said he, "that you will go back from your word, and deceive me;--that after having kept me here by this promise, you will not do what you have said you would do?"
"Take my money now, and pay me out of hers as soon as you are married. I will be the first to claim it from her,--and from you."

"And now," said George, "you must write to Alice at once. You promised."
"I cannot do it."
Then the scar on his face opened itself, making her tremble.
"Do you mean to tell me," said he, "that you will go back from your word?"
"Take my money now, and pay me out of hers as soon as you are married."


"That is nonsense."
"Why should it be nonsense? Surely you need have no scruple with me. I should have none with you if I wanted assistance."
"Look here, Kate; I won't have it, and there's an end of it. All that you have in the world would not pull me through this election, and therefore such a loan would be worse than useless."
"And am I to ask her for more than two thousand pounds?"

"That is nonsense. All that you have in the world would not pull me through this election, and such a loan would be worse than useless."
"Am I to ask her for more than two thousand pounds?"


"You are to ask her simply for one thousand. That is what I want, and must have, at present. And she knows that I want it, and that she is to supply it; only she does not know that my need is so immediate. That you must explain to her."
"I would sooner burn my hand, George!"
"But burning your hand, unfortunately, won't do any good. Look here, Kate; I insist upon your doing this for me. If you do not, I shall do it, of course, myself; but I shall regard your refusal as an unjustifiable falsehood on your part, and shall certainly not see you afterwards. I do not wish, for reasons which you may well understand, to write to Alice myself on any subject at present. I now claim your promise to do so; and if you refuse, I shall know very well what to do."

"You are to ask her simply for one thousand. That is what I need at present. She knows that I want it, and that she is to supply it; only she does not know that my need is immediate. That you must explain to her."
"I would sooner burn my hand, George!"
"Look here, Kate; I insist. If you do not write, I shall; but I certainly shall not see you afterwards. I do not wish to write to Alice myself on any subject at present. If you refuse, I shall know very well what to do."


Of course she did not persist in her refusal. With a sorrowful heart, and with fingers that could hardly form the needful letters, she did write a letter to her cousin, which explained the fact--that George Vavasor immediately wanted a thousand pounds for his electioneering purposes. It was a stiff, uncomfortable letter, unnatural in its phraseology, telling its own tale of grief and shame. Alice understood very plainly all the circumstances under which it was written, but she sent back word to Kate at once, undertaking that the money should be forthcoming; and she wrote again before the end of January, saying that the sum named had been paid to George's credit at his own bankers.
Kate had taken immense pride in the renewal of the match between her brother and her cousin, and had rejoiced in it greatly as being her own work. But all that pride and joy were now over. She could no longer write triumphant notes to Alice, speaking always of George as one who was to be their joint hero, foretelling great things of his career in Parliament, and saying little soft things of his enduring love. It was no longer possible to her now to write of George at all, and it was equally impossible to Alice. Indeed, no letters passed between them, when that monetary correspondence was over, up to the end of the winter. Kate remained down in Westmoreland, wretched and ill at ease, listening to hard words spoken by her grandfather against her brother, and feeling herself unable to take her brother's part as she had been wont to do in other times.

With a sorrowful heart, she did write to her cousin, explaining that George Vavasor immediately wanted a thousand pounds for his electioneering. It was a stiff, uncomfortable letter, telling its own tale of grief and shame. Alice understood very plainly the circumstances under which it was written, but she sent back word to Kate at once, promising that the money should be forthcoming; and before the end of January she wrote to say that the sum named had been paid to George's credit at his bankers.
Kate had felt immense joy and pride in the renewal of the match between Alice and her brother. But all that pride and joy were now over. She could no longer write triumphant notes to Alice, speaking of George as their joint hero, and saying little soft things of his enduring love. It was no longer possible for her to write of George at all, and it was equally impossible to Alice.
Indeed, no letters passed between them after that, until the end of winter. Kate remained in Westmorland, wretched and ill at ease, listening to her grandfather's hard words about her brother, and feeling unable to take her brother's part as she used to do.


George returned to town at the end of those four days, and found that the thousand pounds was duly placed to his credit before the end of the month. It is hardly necessary to tell the reader that this money had come from the stores of Mr. Tombe, and that Mr. Tombe duly debited Mr. Grey with the amount. Alice, in accordance with her promise, had told her father that the money was needed, and her father, in accordance with his promise, had procured it without a word of remonstrance. "Surely I must sign some paper," Alice had said. But she had been contented when her father told her that the lawyers would manage all that.
It was nearly the end of February when George Vavasor made his first payment to Mr. Scruby on behalf of the coming election; and when he called at Mr. Scruby's office with this object, he received some intelligence which surprised him not a little. "You haven't heard the news," said Scruby. "What news?" said George.

George returned to town, and found the thousand pounds duly placed to his credit before the end of the month. It is hardly necessary to tell the reader that this money had come from Mr. Tombe, and that Mr. Tombe duly debited Mr. Grey with the amount. Alice, as she had promised to do, had told her father that the money was needed, and her father had procured it without a word of remonstrance.
"Surely I must sign some paper," Alice had said. But she had been content when her father told her that the lawyers would manage all that.
It was nearly the end of February when George Vavasor made his first payment to Mr. Scruby for the coming election; and when he called at Mr. Scruby's office, he received some news.


"The Marquis is as nearly off the hooks as a man can be." Mr. Scruby, as he communicated the tidings, showed clearly by his face and voice that they were supposed to be of very great importance; but Vavasor did not at first seem to be as much interested in the fate of "the Marquis" as Scruby had intended.
"I'm very sorry for him," said George. "Who is the Marquis? There'll be sure to come another, so it don't much signify."
"There will come another, and that's just it. It's the Marquis of Bunratty; and if he drops, our young Member will go into the Upper House."
"What, immediately; before the end of the Session?" George, of course, knew well enough that such would be the case, but the effect which this event would have upon himself now struck him suddenly.

"The Marquis is as nearly dead as a man can be," said Mr. Scruby, as if the matter were of very great importance.
"I'm very sorry for him," said George. "Who is the Marquis?"
"It's the Marquis of Bunratty; and if he drops, our young Member will go into the House of Lords."
"What, immediately?" George now realised that there would be a by-election, sooner than expected.


"To be sure," said Scruby. "The writ would be out immediately. I should be glad enough of it, only that I know that Travers's people have heard of it before us, and that they are ready to be up with their posters directly the breath is out of the Marquis's body. We must go to work immediately; that's all."
"It will only be for part of a Session," said George.
"Just so," said Mr. Scruby.
"And then there'll be the cost of another election."
"That's true," said Mr. Scruby; "but in such cases we do manage to make it come a little cheaper. If you lick Travers now, it may be that you'll have a walk-over for the next."

"To be sure," said Scruby. "Unfortunately Travers's people heard of it before us, and are ready to be up with their posters directly the breath is out of the Marquis's body. We must go to work immediately; that's all."
"It will only be for part of a Session," said George.
"Just so," said Mr. Scruby.
"And then there'll be the cost of another election."
"That's true," said Mr. Scruby; "but in such cases we do manage to make it a little cheaper. If you beat Travers now, maybe you'll have a walk-over for the next."


"Have you seen Grimes?" asked George.
"Yes, I have; the blackguard! He is going to open his house on Travers's side. He came to me as bold as brass, and told me so, saying that he never liked gentlemen who kept him waiting for his odd money. What angers me is that he ever got it."
"We have not managed it very well, certainly," said Vavasor, looking nastily at the attorney.

"Have you seen Grimes?" asked George.
"Yes, I have; the blackguard! He is going to open his public house on Travers's side. He came to me as bold as brass, saying that he never liked gentlemen who kept him waiting for money."
"We have not managed it very well, certainly," said Vavasor, looking nastily at the attorney.


"We can't help those little accidents, Mr. Vavasor. There are worse accidents than that turn up almost daily in my business. You may think yourself almost lucky that I haven't gone over to Travers myself. He is a Liberal, you know; and it hasn't been for want of an offer, I can tell you."
Vavasor was inclined to doubt the extent of his luck in this respect, and was almost disposed to repent of his Parliamentary ambition. He would now be called upon to spend certainly not less than three thousand pounds of his cousin's money on the chance of being able to sit in Parliament for a few months. And then, after what a fashion would he be compelled to negotiate that loan! He might, to be sure, allow the remainder of this Session to run, and stand, as he had intended, at the general election; but he knew that if he now allowed a Liberal to win the seat, the holder of the seat would be almost sure of subsequent success. He must either fight now, or give up the fight altogether; and he was a man who did not love to abandon any contest in which he had been engaged.

"We can't help those little accidents, Mr. Vavasor. You may think yourself lucky that I haven't gone over to Travers myself. He is a Liberal, you know; and it hasn't been for want of an offer, I can tell you."
Vavasor almost repented of his Parliamentary ambition. He would now have to spend at least three thousand pounds of his cousin's money on the chance of being able to sit in Parliament for a few months. He might, to be sure, wait for the general election; but if he allowed a Liberal to win the seat now, that holder of the seat would be almost sure to win it again. He must either fight now, or give up the fight altogether.


"Well, Squire," said Scruby, "how is it to be?" And Vavasor felt that he detected in the man's voice some diminution of that respect with which he had hitherto been treated as a paying candidate for a metropolitan borough.
"This lord is not dead yet," said Vavasor.
"No; he's not dead yet, that we have heard; but it won't do for us to wait. We want every minute of time that we can get. There isn't any hope for him, I'm told. It's gout in the stomach, or dropsy at the heart, or some of those things that make a fellow safe to go."
"It won't do to wait for the next election?"

"Well, Squire," said Scruby, "how is it to be?" And Vavasor felt that he detected in the man's voice some lessening of respect.
"This lord is not dead yet," said Vavasor.
"No; but we can't wait. We need every minute we can get. There isn't any hope for him, I'm told."


"If you ask me, I should say certainly not. Indeed, I shouldn't wish to have to conduct it under such circumstances. I hate a fight when there's no chance of success. I grudge spending a man's money in such a case; I do indeed, Mr. Vavasor."
"I suppose Grimes's going over won't make much difference?"
"The blackguard! He'll take a hundred and fifty votes, I suppose; perhaps more. But that is not much in such a constituency as the Chelsea districts. You see, Travers played mean at the last election, and that will be against him."
"But the Conservatives will have a candidate."

"Will Grimes's going over make much difference?"
"He'll take a hundred and fifty votes, I suppose. But that is not much in Chelsea."
"But the Conservatives will have a candidate."