For the last five days of the affair George Vavasor knew that his chance was gone. Mr. Scruby's face, manner, and words, told the result of the election as plainly as any subsequent figures could do. He would be absent when Vavasor called, or the clerk would say that he was absent. He would answer in very few words, constantly shrugging his shoulders. He would even go away and leave the anxious candidate while he was in the middle of some discussion as to his plans. It was easy to see that Mr. Scruby no longer regarded him as a successful man, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr. Scruby had been.

Vavasor knew that his chance was gone. Mr. Scruby would be absent when he called. It was easy to see that Mr. Scruby no longer regarded him as a successful man, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr. Scruby had been.


George Vavasor was rejected, but he still had his five hundred pounds in his pocket. Of course he was subject to that mortification which a man feels when he reflects that some little additional outlay would have secured his object. Whether it might have been so, or not, who can say? But there he was, with the gateway between the lamps barred against him, ex-Member of Parliament for the Chelsea Districts, with five hundred pounds in his pocket, and little or nothing else that he could call his own. What was he to do with himself?

George Vavasor was rejected, but he still had his five hundred pounds in his pocket, if little or nothing else that he could call his own. What was he to do with himself?

Chapter 71: Showing How George Vavasor Received a Visit


After trying to make himself heard upon the hustings when he was rejected, and pledging himself to stand again at the next election, he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and endeavoured to consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost his inheritance. He had abandoned one profession after another, and was now beyond the pale of another chance in that direction. His ambition had betrayed him, and there were no longer possible to him any hopes of political activity. He had estranged from himself every friend that he had ever possessed. He had driven from him with violence the devotion even of his sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intended to marry of her money, and had so insulted her that no feeling of amity between them was any longer possible. He had nothing now but himself and that five hundred pounds, which he still held in his pocket. What should he do with himself and his money? He thought over it all with outer calmness for awhile, as he sat there in his arm-chair.

After pledging to stand again at the next election, he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and tried to consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost his inheritance. He had abandoned one profession after another. His ambition had betrayed him, and he had no more hopes of politics. He had estranged from himself every friend that he possessed. He had driven from him with violence even his devoted sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intended to marry, and had so insulted her that affection between them was impossible. He thought over it all with outer calmness, as he sat there in his arm-chair.


From the moment in which he had first become convinced that the election would go against him, and that he was therefore ruined on all sides, he had resolved that he would be calm amidst his ruin. Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing at his own position. Mr. Bott's day of rejection had come before his own, and he had written to Mr. Bott a drolling note of consolation and mock sympathy. He had shaken hands with Mr. Scruby, and had poked his fun at the agent, bidding him be sure to send in his little bill soon. To all who accosted him, he replied in a subrisive tone; and he bantered Calder Jones, whose seat was quite sure, till Calder Jones began to have fears that were quite unnecessary. And now, as he sat himself down, intending to come to some final decision as to what he would do, he maintained the same calmness. He smiled in the same way, though there was no one there to see the smile. He laughed even audibly once or twice, as he vainly endeavoured to persuade himself that he was able to regard the world and all that belonged to it as a bubble.

From the moment in which he had first realised that the election would go against him, he had resolved that he would be calm amidst his ruin. Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing at his own position. Mr. Bott's day of rejection had come before his own, and he had written Mr. Bott a droll note of consolation and mock sympathy. To all who accosted him, he replied in a bantering tone.
And now, as he sat down to consider his future, he smiled in the same way, though there was no one there to see the smile. He even jumped up and laughed audibly, as he tried to persuade himself that he regarded the world and all that belonged to it as a bubble.


There came to him a moment in which he laughed out very audibly. "Ha! ha!" he shouted, rising up from his chair, and he walked about the room, holding a large paper-knife in his hand. "Ha! ha!" Then he threw the knife away from him, and thrusting his hands into his trousers-pockets, laughed again--"Ha! ha!" He stood still in the centre of the room, and the laughter was very plainly visible on his face, had there been anybody there to see it.


But suddenly there was a change upon his face, as he stood there all alone, and his eyes became fierce, and the cicatrice that marred his countenance grew to be red and ghastly, and he grinned with his teeth, and he clenched his fists as he still held them within his pockets. "Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and for ever!" He had broken down in his calmness, when he thought of that old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at his death. "May all the evils which the dead can feel cling to him for ever and ever!" His laughter was all gone, and his assumed tranquillity had deserted him. Walking across the room, he struck his foot against a chair; upon this, he took the chair in his hands, and threw it across the room. But he hardly arrested the torrent of his maledictions as he did so. What good was it that he should lie to himself by that mock tranquillity, or that false laughter?

But suddenly there was a change, and his eyes became fierce, and the scar that marred his face grew red and ghastly. He showed his teeth and clenched his fists within his pockets.
"Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and for ever!" He was thinking of that old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at his death. His assumed tranquillity deserted him. He kicked a chair; then he took the chair in his hands, and threw it across the room.


He lied to himself no longer, but uttered a song of despair that was true enough. What should he do? Where should he go? From what fountain should he attempt to draw such small draughts of the water of comfort as might support him at the present moment? Unless a man have some such fountain to which he can turn, the burden of life cannot be borne. For the moment, Vavasor tried to find such fountain in a bottle of brandy which stood near him. He half filled a tumbler, and then, dashing some water on it, swallowed it greedily. "By ----!" he said, "I believe it is the best thing a man can do."

What should he do? Where should he go? From where might he find comfort to support him?
Vavasor turned to a bottle of brandy which stood near, half filled a tumbler, and swallowed it greedily. "By --!" he said, "I believe it is the best thing a man can do."


But where was he to go? to whom was he to turn himself? He went to a high desk which stood in one corner of the room, and unlocking it, took out a revolving pistol, and for a while carried it about with him in his hand. He turned it up, and looked at it, and tried the lock, and snapped it without caps, to see that the barrel went round fairly. "It's a beggarly thing to do," he said, and then he turned the pistol down again; "and if I do do it, I'll use it first for another purpose." Then he poured out for himself more brandy-and-water, and having drunk it, he threw himself upon the sofa, and seemed to sleep.

Then he went to a high desk in one corner of the room, and unlocking it, took out a revolver. He turned it over, and tried the lock, and snapped it without caps, to see that the barrel went round fairly.
"It's a beggarly thing to do," he said, and put the pistol down again. "If I do it, I'll use it first for another purpose." Then he poured himself more brandy-and-water, and having drunk it, he threw himself upon the sofa, and seemed to sleep.


But he did not sleep, and by-and-by there came a slight single knock at the door, which he instantly answered. But he did not answer it in the usual way by bidding the comer to come in. "Who's there?" he said. Then the comer attempted to enter, turning the handle of the door. But the door had been locked, and the key was on Vavasor's side. "Who's there?" he asked again, speaking out loudly, but in an angry voice. "It is I," said a woman's voice. "D----ation!"

But he did not sleep, and by-and-by there came a slight knock at the door.
"Who's there?" he said. Then the door handle turned. But the door had been locked. "Who's there?" he asked again, in a loud, angry voice.
"It is I," said a woman's voice.
"D--ation!"


The woman heard him, but she made no sign of having heard him. She simply remained standing where she was till something further should be done within. She knew the man well, and knew that she must bide his time. She was very patient,--and for the time was meek, though it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor, when he had heard her voice, and knew who was there, had again thrown himself on the sofa. There flashed across his mind another thought or two as to his future career,--another idea about the pistol, which still lay upon the table. Why should he let the intruder in, and undergo the nuisance of a disagreeable interview, if the end of all things might come in time to save him from such trouble? There he lay for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard again. He jumped upon his feet, and his eyes were full of fire. He knew that it was useless to bid her go and leave him.

The woman heard him, but she simply remained standing where she was. She knew the man well, and knew that she must wait. She was very patient - and for the time was meek, though it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor, lying on the sofa, had another idea flash across his mind about the pistol. Why should he let the intruder in, and have a disagreeable interview, if the end of all things might save him from such trouble?
There he lay for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard again. He jumped to his feet, with his eyes full of fire. He knew that it was useless to bid her go.


She would sit there, if it were through the whole night. Should he open the door and strangle her, and pass out over her with the pistol in his hand, so that he might make that other reckoning which he desired to accomplish, and then never come back any more?
He took a turn through the room, and then walked gently up to the door, and undid the lock. He did not open the door, nor did he bid his visitor enter, but having made the way easy for her if she chose to come in, he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again. As he did so, he passed his hand across the table so as to bring the pistol near to himself at the place where he would be lying. She paused a moment after she had heard the sound of the key, and then she made her way into the room. He did not at first speak to her. She closed the door very gently, and then, looking around, came up to the foot of the sofa. She paused a moment, waiting for him to address her; but as he said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she was the first to speak. "George," she said, "what am I to do?"

She would sit there all night. Should he open the door and strangle her, and go out with the pistol and never come back any more?
He walked gently up to the door, and undid the lock. Then he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again. As he did so, he passed his hand across the table to pull the pistol nearer.
The woman paused a moment, and then she made her way into the room. He did not speak. She closed the door very gently, and came up to the foot of the sofa. As he still said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she was the first to speak.
"George," she said, "what am I to do?"


She was a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed poorly, in old garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at feminine prettiness. There were flowers in the bonnet on her head, though the bonnet had that unmistakable look of age which is quite as distressing to bonnets as it is to women, and the flowers themselves were battered and faded. She had long black ringlets on each cheek, hanging down much below her face, and brought forward so as to hide in some degree the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness, but now they left on those who looked at her cursorily no special impression as to their colour. They had been blue,--that dark violet blue, which is so rare, but is sometimes so lovely. Her forehead was narrow, her mouth was small, and her lips were thin; but her nose was perfect in its shape, and, by the delicacy of its modelling, had given a peculiar grace to her face in the days when things had gone well with her, when her cheeks had been full with youth and good living, and had been dimpled by the softness of love and mirth. There were no dimples there now, and all the softness which still remained was that softness which sorrow and continual melancholy give to suffering women. On her shoulders she wore a light shawl, which was fastened to her bosom with a large clasp brooch. Her faded dress was supported by a wide crinoline, but the under garment had lost all the grace of its ancient shape, and now told that woman's tale of poverty and taste for dress which is to be read in the outward garb of so many of Eve's daughters. The whole story was told so that those who ran might read it.

She was a woman of about thirty, dressed poorly in old garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at prettiness. There were faded flowers in her bonnet. She had long black ringlets on each cheek, which to some degree hid the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness, and her face was delicate; and in the days when things had gone well with her, she had possessed a soft and mirthful grace. All the softness which remained was that softness which continual sadness gives to suffering women.
She wore a light shawl over her shabby dress.


When she had left her home this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that something of the charm of apparel might be left to her; but she had known of her own failure at every twist that she had given to her gown, and at every jerk with which she had settled her shawl. She had despaired at every push she had given to her old flowers, vainly striving to bring them back to their old forms; but still she had persevered. With long tedious care she had mended the old gloves which would hardly hold her fingers. She had carefully hidden the rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a separate grief to her that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists;--and yet she knew that no cuffs could have availed her anything. Nothing could avail her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come forth anxiously, and would have waited there throughout the whole night had access to his room been debarred to her. "George," she said, standing at the bottom of the sofa, "what am I to do?"

When she had left her home this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that some charm might be left to her; but she had known her own failure at every point. With long tedious care she had mended her old gloves. She had carefully hidden the rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a grief to her that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists; and yet she knew that cuffs could not have helped her. Nothing could help her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come forth anxiously.
"George," she said, "what am I to do?"


As he lay there with his face turned towards her, the windows were at her back, and he could see her very plainly. He saw and appreciated the little struggles she had made to create by her appearance some reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel, the price of which would now have been important to him. He saw it all, and lay there for a while, silently reading it.
"Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."
"I don't want you to stand there," he said.
"That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to stand here. I know you don't want to see me ever again."

As he lay there, he saw and appreciated the little struggles she had made to create some reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel. He saw it all and lay there for a while, silently reading it.
"Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."
"I don't want you to stand there," he said.
"I know that. I know you don't want to see me ever again."


"Never."
"I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"
"That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink, and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all."

"Never."
"Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"
"I would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and drink, and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all."


"It was only for your sake,--because you liked it."
"Well;--I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all my other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you. What good do you do yourself by coming here to annoy me? Have I not told you over and over again that you were never to look for me here? Is it likely that I should give you money now, simply because you have disobeyed me!"
"Where else was I to find you?"

"It was only for your sake - because you liked it."
"Well; I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all my other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you. What good do you do by coming here to annoy me? Have I not told you over and over again never to come here?"
"Where else was I to find you?"


"Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. I shall give you nothing;--not a penny. You know very well that we've had all that out before. When I put you into business I told you that we were to see no more of each other."
"Business!" she said. "I never could make enough out of the shop to feed a bird."
"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to take the place."

"I don't want you to find me. I shall not give you a penny. When I put you into business I told you that we were to see no more of each other."
"Business!" she said. "I could never make enough out of the shop to feed a bird."
"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to it."


"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my other home away from me."
"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you;--and more than most men would have done, when all things are considered." Then he got up from the sofa, and stood himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the fireplace. "At any rate, you may be sure of this, Jane;--that I shall do nothing more. You have come here to torment me, but you shall get nothing by it."
"I have come here because I am starving."

"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my home away from me."
"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you; and more than most men would have done." Then he got up from the sofa, and stood on the hearthrug. "At any rate, Jane, I shall do nothing more. You shall get nothing by coming here."
"I have come here because I am starving."


"I have nothing for you. Now go;" and he pointed to the door. Nevertheless, for more than three years of his life this woman had been his closest companion, his nearest friend, the being with whom he was most familiar. He had loved her according to his fashion of loving, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he said repeating the word very angrily. "Do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for you."
"Will you give me a sovereign?"
"No;--I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to me here, and I will not pay for you coming."

"I have nothing for you. Now go." He pointed to the door. For more than three years of his life this woman had been his closest companion and his nearest friend. He had loved her according to his fashion, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he repeated angrily, "or it will be the worse for you."
"Will you give me a sovereign?"
"I will give you nothing."


"Then I will not go;" and the woman sat down upon a chair at the foot of the table. "I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. You may put me out of the room if you can, but I will lie at the door of the stairs. And if you get me out of the house, I will sit upon the door-step."
"If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you."
"Let them. It has come to that with me, that I care for nothing. Out of this I will not go till you give me money--unless I am put out."

"Then I will not go." She down upon a chair. "I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. If you put me out of the room, I will lie at the top of the stairs. And if you put me out of the house, I will sit upon the door-step."
"If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you."
"Let them. I care nothing for that. I will not go till you give me money."


And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending her gloves, and darning her little fragments of finery! He stood looking at her, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets,--looking at her and thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence. If he even quite resolved to take that little final journey of which we have spoken, with the pistol in his hand, why should he not go and leave her there? Or, for the matter of that, why should he not make her his heir to all remainder of his wealth? What he still had left was sufficient to place her in a seventh heaven of the earth. He cared but little for her, and was at this moment angry with her; but there was no one for whom he cared more, and no friend with whom he was less angry. But then his mind was not quite made up as to that final journey. Therefore he desired to rid himself and his room of the nuisance of her presence.
"Jane," he said, looking at her again with that assumed tranquillity of which I have spoken, "you talk of starving and of being ruined,--"

And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending her gloves, and darning her little fragments of finery! He stood looking at her, and thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence. If he quite resolved to take his final journey with the pistol's aid, why should he not go out and leave her here? Or, for that matter, why not give her the remainder of his wealth? What he still had left was enough to place her in a seventh heaven. He cared little for her, and was angry with her; but there was no one for whom he cared more, and no friend with whom he was less angry.
But his mind was not quite made up as to that final journey. So he wanted to get rid of her.
"Jane," he said, with that assumed tranquillity, "you talk of starving and of being ruined."


"I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world."
"Perhaps it may be a comfort to you in your troubles to know that I am, at any rate, as badly off as you are? I won't say that I am starving, because I could get food to eat at this moment if I wanted it; but I am utterly ruined. My property,--what should have been mine,--has been left away from me. I have lost the trumpery seat in Parliament for which I have paid so much. All my relations have turned their backs upon me--"
"Are you not going to be married?" she said, rising quickly from her chair and coming close to him.

"I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world."
"I am as badly off as you are. I won't say that I am starving; but I am utterly ruined. My property - what should have been mine - has been left away from me. I have lost the trumpery seat in Parliament for which I paid so much. All my relations have turned their backs upon me-"
"Are you not going to be married?" she said.


"Married! No;--but I am going to blow my brains out. Look at that pistol, my girl. Of course you won't think that I am in earnest,--but I am."
She looked up into his face piteously. "Oh! George," she said, "you won't do that?"
[Illustration: "Oh! George," she said, "you won't do that?"]

"Married! No - but I am going to blow my brains out. Look at that pistol, my girl. I am in earnest."
"Oh! George, you won't do that?"


"But I shall do that. There is nothing else left for me to do. You talk to me about starving. I tell you that I should have no objection to be starved, and so be put an end to in that way. It's not so bad as some other ways when it comes gradually. You and I, Jane, have not played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we've been beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd better go somewhere else and begin a new game."

"There is nothing else left for me to do. You and I, Jane, have not played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we've been beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd better go somewhere else and begin a new game."


"Go where?" said she.
"Ah!--that's just what I can't tell you."
"George," she said, "I'll go anywhere with you. If what you say is true,--if you're not going to be married, and will let me come to you, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I'm poorly looking now--"
"My girl, where I'm going, I shall not want any slave; and as for your looks--when you go there too,--they'll be of no matter, as far as I am able to judge."
"But, George, where are you going?"
"Wherever people do go when their brains are knocked out of them; or, rather, when they have knocked out their own brains,--if that makes any difference."

"Go where?"
"Ah! - I can't tell you."
"George," she said, "I'll go anywhere with you. If you're not going to be married, and will let me come to you, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I'm poorly looking now-"
"My girl, where I'm going, I shall not want any slave."
"But, George, where are you going?"
"Wherever people go when they have knocked out their own brains."


"George,"--she came up to him now, and took hold of him by the front of his coat, and for the moment he allowed her to do so,--"George, you frighten me. Do not do that. Say that you will not do that!"
"But I am just saying that I shall."
"Are you not afraid of God's anger? You and I have been very wicked."
"I have, my poor girl. I don't know much about your wickedness. I've been like Topsy;--indeed I am a kind of second Topsy myself. But what's the good of whimpering when it's over?"

"George," - she came up to him, and took hold of the front of his coat - "George, say that you will not do that!"
"But I am saying that I shall."
"Are you not afraid of God's anger? You and I have been very wicked."
"I have, my poor girl. I don't know much about your wickedness. But what's the good of whimpering when it's over?"


"It isn't over; it isn't over,--at any rate for you."
"I wish I knew how I could begin again. But all this is nonsense, Jane, and you must go."
"You must tell me, first, that you are not going to--kill yourself."
"I don't suppose I shall do it to-night,--or, perhaps, not to-morrow. Very probably I may allow myself a week, so that your staying here can do no good. I merely wanted to make you understand that you are not the only person who has come to grief."
"And you are not going to be married?"
"No; I'm not going to be married, certainly."
"And I must go now?"

"It isn't over; at any rate for you."
"I wish I knew how I could begin again. But all this is nonsense, Jane, and you must go."
"You must tell me, first, that you are not going to kill yourself."
"I don't suppose I shall do it tonight. I may allow myself a week, so your staying here can do no good."
"And you are not going to be married?"
"No."
"And I must go now?"


"Yes; I think you'd better go now." Then she rose and went, and he let her leave the room without giving her a shilling! His bantering tone, in speaking of his own position, had been successful. It had caused her to take herself off quietly. She knew enough of his usual manner to be aware that his threats of self destruction were probably unreal; but, nevertheless, what he had said had created some feeling in her heart which had induced her to yield to him, and go away in peace.

"Yes."
Then she rose and went. His bantering manner had worked. She felt that his threats of self-destruction were probably unreal; and she was persuaded to go away in peace.


As they came in at the billiard-room door, Mr. Palliser was there to meet them. "You must be very cold," he said to Glencora, who entered first. "No, indeed," said Glencora;--but her teeth were chattering, and her whole appearance gave the lie to her words. "Jeffrey," said Mr. Palliser, turning to his cousin, "I am angry with you. You, at least, should have known better than to have allowed her to remain so long." Then Mr. Palliser turned away, and walked his wife off, taking no notice whatsoever of Miss Vavasor.

As they came in, Mr. Palliser was there to meet them.
"You must be very cold," he said to Glencora.
"No, indeed," said Glencora; but her teeth were chattering.
"Jeffrey," said Mr. Palliser, turning to his cousin, "I am angry with you. You should have known better than to have allowed her to remain so long." Then Mr. Palliser led his wife off, taking no notice whatsoever of Miss Vavasor.


Alice felt the slight, and understood it all. He had told her plainly enough, though not in words, that he had trusted his wife with her, and that she had betrayed the trust. She might have brought Glencora in within five or six minutes, instead of allowing her to remain out there in the freezing night air for nearly three-quarters of an hour. That was the accusation which Mr. Palliser made against her, and he made it with the utmost severity. He asked no question of her whether she were cold. He spoke no word to her, nor did he even look at her. She might get herself away to her bedroom as she pleased. Alice understood all this completely, and though she knew that she had not deserved such severity, she was not inclined to resent it. There was so much in Mr. Palliser's position that was to be pitied, that Alice could not find it in her heart to be angry with him.
"He is provoked with us, now," said Jeffrey Palliser, standing with her for a moment in the billiard-room, as he handed her a candle.

Alice felt the slight, and understood: it told her that he had trusted his wife with her, and that she had betrayed the trust. She might have brought Glencora in within five or six minutes, instead of allowing her to remain out there in the freezing night air for nearly three-quarters of an hour. Therefore Mr. Palliser did not ask whether she were cold. He spoke no word to her, nor did he even look at her. Although Alice knew that she had not deserved such severity, she did not resent it. There was so much in Mr. Palliser's position to be pitied, that Alice could not find it in her heart to be angry with him.
"He is provoked with us, now," said Jeffrey Palliser, handing her a candle.


"He is afraid that she will have caught cold."
"Yes; and he thinks it wrong that she should remain out at night so long. You can easily understand, Miss Vavasor, that he has not much sympathy for romance."
"I dare say he is right," said Alice, not exactly knowing what to say, and not being able to forget what had been said about herself and Jeffrey Palliser when they first left the house. "Romance usually means nonsense, I believe."
"That is not Glencora's doctrine."
"No; but she is younger than I am. My feet are very cold, Mr. Palliser, and I think I will go up to my room."
"Good night," said Jeffrey, offering her his hand. "I think it so hard that you should have incurred his displeasure."

"He is afraid that she will have caught cold."
"Yes. You can easily understand, Miss Vavasor, that he has not much sympathy for romance."
"I dare say he is right," said Alice, not exactly knowing what to say. "Romance usually means nonsense, I believe."
"That is not Glencora's doctrine."
"No; but she is younger than I am. My feet are very cold, Mr. Palliser, and I think I will go up to my room."
"Good night," said Jeffrey, offering her his hand. "I think it hard that you should have incurred his displeasure."


"It will not hurt me," said Alice, smiling.
"No;--but he does not forget."
"Even that will not hurt me. Good night, Mr. Palliser."
"As it is the last night, may I say good night, Alice? I shall be away to-morrow before you are up."
He still held her hand; but it had not been in his for half a minute, and she had thought nothing of that, nor did she draw it away even now suddenly. "No," said she, "Glencora was very wrong there,--doing an injury without meaning it to both of us. There can be no possible reason why you should call me otherwise than is customary."
"Can there never be a reason?"

"It will not hurt me," said Alice, smiling.
"No; but he does not forget."
"Even that will not hurt me. Good night, Mr. Palliser."
"As it is the last night, may I say good night, Alice? I shall be away tomorrow before you are up."
He still held her hand; but she did not draw it away suddenly.
"No," said she, "Glencora was very wrong there. There can be no possible reason why you should call me other than Miss Vavasor."
"Can there never be a reason?"


"No, Mr. Palliser. Good night;--and if I am not to see you to-morrow morning, good-bye."
"You will certainly not see me to-morrow morning."
"Good-bye. Had it not been for this folly of Glencora's, our acquaintance would have been very pleasant."
"To me it has been very pleasant. Good night."

"No, Mr. Palliser. Good night; and good-bye. Had it not been for this folly of Glencora's, our acquaintance would have been very pleasant."
"To me it has been very pleasant. Good night."


Then she left him, and went up alone to her own room. Whether or no other guests were still left in the drawing-room she did not know; but she had seen that Mr. Palliser took his wife up-stairs, and therefore she considered herself right in presuming that the party was broken up for the night. Mr. Palliser,--Plantagenet Palliser, according to all rules of courtesy should have said a word to her as he went; but, as I have said before, Alice was disposed to overlook his want of civility on this occasion. So she went up alone to her room, and was very glad to find herself able to get close to a good fire. She was, in truth, very cold--cold to her bones, in spite of what Lady Glencora had said on behalf of the moonlight. They two had been standing all but still during the greater part of the time that they had been talking, and Alice, as she sat herself down, found that her feet were numbed with the damp that had penetrated through her boots. Certainly Mr. Palliser had reason to be angry that his wife should have remained out in the night air so long,--though perhaps not with Alice.

Then she left him, and went up alone to her own room, where she was very glad to get close to a good fire. She was, in truth, cold to her bones, and her feet were numbed with the damp. Certainly Mr. Palliser had reason to be angry that his wife should have remained out in the night air so long.


And then she began to think of what had been told her; and to try to think of what, under such circumstances, it behoved her to do. She could not doubt that Lady Glencora had intended to declare that, if opportunity offered itself, she would leave her husband, and put herself under the protection of Mr. Fitzgerald; and Alice, moreover, had become painfully conscious that the poor deluded unreasoning creature had taught herself to think that she might excuse herself for this sin to her own conscience by the fact that she was childless, and that she might thus give to the man who had married her an opportunity of seeking another wife who might give him an heir. Alice well knew how insufficient such an excuse would be even to the wretched woman who had framed it for herself. But still it would operate,--manifestly had already operated, on her mind, teaching her to hope that good might come out of evil. Alice, who was perfectly clearsighted as regarded her cousin, however much impaired her vision might have been with reference to herself, saw nothing but absolute ruin, ruin of the worst and most intolerable description, in the plan which Lady Glencora seemed to have formed. To her it was black in the depths of hell; and she knew that to Glencora also it was black. "I loathe myself," Glencora had said, "and the thing that I am thinking of."

And then she began to think of what had been told her; and to try to think of what she ought to do. She could not doubt that Lady Glencora had intended to declare that, if opportunity offered itself, she would leave her husband for Burgo Fitzgerald. Alice knew that the poor unreasoning creature had taught herself to think that she might excuse herself for this sin by the fact that she was childless, and that she might thus give her husband an chance to seek another wife to give him an heir. Alice, who was perfectly clear-sighted about her cousin, however impaired her vision might have been about herself, saw nothing but absolute ruin in Lady Glencora's plan. To her it was black as the depths of hell; and she knew that to Glencora also it was black.
"I loathe myself," Glencora had said, "and the thing that I am thinking of."


What was Alice to do under these circumstances? Mr. Palliser, she was aware, had quarrelled with her; for in his silent way he had first shown that he had trusted her as his wife's friend; and then, on this evening, he had shown that he had ceased to trust her. But she cared little for this. If she told him that she wished to speak to him, he would listen, let his opinion of her be what it might; and having listened he would surely act in some way that would serve to save his wife. What Mr. Palliser might think of herself, Alice cared but little.
But then there came to her an idea that was in every respect feminine,--that in such a matter she had no right to betray her friend. When one woman tells the story of her love to another woman, the confidant always feels that she will be a traitor if she reveals the secret. Had Lady Glencora made Alice believe that she meditated murder, or robbery, Alice would have had no difficulty in telling the tale, and thus preventing the crime. But now she hesitated, feeling that she would disgrace herself by betraying her friend. And, after all, was it not more than probable that Glencora had no intention of carrying out a threat the very thought of which must be terrible to herself?

What was Alice to do? Mr. Palliser had quarrelled with her in his silent way. But if she told him that she wished to speak to him, he would listen; and then he would surely act in some way that would save his wife. What Mr. Palliser might think of herself, Alice cared little.
But then there came to her the feminine idea that she had no right to betray her friend. If Lady Glencora had told Alice that she meditated murder, or robbery, Alice would have had no difficulty in telling the tale. But now she hesitated. After all, was Glencora really intending to carry out a threat, the very thought of which must be terrible to herself?


As she was thinking of all this, sitting in her dressing-gown close over the fire, there came a loud knock at the door, which, as she had turned the key, she was forced to answer in person. She opened the door, and there was Iphigenia Palliser, Jeffrey's cousin, and Mr. Palliser's cousin. "Miss Vavasor," she said, "I know that I am taking a great liberty, but may I come into your room for a few minutes? I so much wish to speak to you!" Alice of course bade her enter, and placed a chair for her by the fire.

As Alice was thinking of all this, sitting in her dressing-gown by the fire, there came a loud knock at the door. It was Iphigenia Palliser, Mr. Palliser's cousin.
"Miss Vavasor," she said, "I know that I am taking a great liberty, but may I come in for a few minutes? I so much wish to speak to you!" Alice of course bade her enter.


Alice Vavasor had made very little intimacy with either of the two Miss Pallisers. It had seemed to herself as though there had been two parties in the house, and that she had belonged to the one which was headed by the wife, whereas the Miss Pallisers had been naturally attached to that of the husband. These ladies, as she had already seen, almost idolized their cousin; and though Plantagenet Palliser had till lately treated Alice with the greatest personal courtesy, there had been no intimacy of friendship between them, and consequently none between her and his special adherents. Nor was either of these ladies prone to sudden friendship with such a one as Alice Vavasor. A sudden friendship, with a snuffy president of a foreign learned society, with some personally unknown lady employed on female emigration, was very much in their way. But Alice had not shown herself to be useful or learned, and her special intimacy with Lady Glencora had marked her out as in some sort separated from them and their ways.
"I know that I am intruding," said Miss Palliser, as though she were almost afraid of Alice.
"Oh dear, no," said Alice. "If I can do anything for you I shall be very happy."

Alice Vavasor had formed very little intimacy with either of the two Miss Pallisers. It had seemed to her as though there had been two parties in the house, and that she had belonged to the one headed by the wife, whereas the Miss Pallisers had been naturally attached to that of the husband. Alice's friendship with Lady Glencora had marked her out as somehow separated from them.
"I know that I am intruding," said Miss Palliser, as though she were almost afraid of Alice.
"Oh dear, no," said Alice.


"You are going to-morrow, and if I did not speak to you now I should have no other opportunity. Glencora seems to be very much attached to you, and we all thought it so good a thing that she should have such a friend."
"I hope you have not all changed your minds," said Alice, with a faint smile, thinking as she spoke that the "all" must have been specially intended to include the master of the house.
"Oh, no;--by no means. I did not mean that. My cousin, Mr. Palliser, I mean, liked you so much when you came."
"And he does not like me quite so much now, because I went out in the moonlight with his wife. Isn't that it?"

"You are going tomorrow, and if I did not speak to you now I should have no other opportunity. Glencora seems to be very much attached to you, and we all thought it so good a thing that she should have such a friend."
"I hope you have not changed your minds," said Alice, with a faint smile.
"Oh, no. I did not mean that. My cousin, Mr. Palliser, I mean, liked you so much when you came."
"And he does not like me quite so much now, because I went out in the moonlight with his wife. Isn't that it?"


"Well;--no, Miss Vavasor. I had not intended to mention that at all. I had not indeed. I have seen him certainly since you came in,--just for a minute, and he is vexed. But it is not about that that I would speak to you."
"I saw plainly enough that he was angry with me."
"He thought you would have brought her in earlier."

"Well; no, Miss Vavasor. I had not intended to mention that. He was a little vexed, but it is not about that that I would speak to you."
"I saw plainly enough that he was angry with me."
"He thought you would have brought her in earlier."


"And why should he think that I can manage his wife? She was the mistress out there as she is in here. Mr. Palliser has been unreasonable. Not that it signifies."
"I don't think he has been unreasonable; I don't, indeed, Miss Vavasor. He has certainly been vexed. Sometimes he has much to vex him. You see, Glencora is very young."

"Why should he think that I can manage his wife? Mr. Palliser has been unreasonable. Not that it signifies."
"I don't think he has been unreasonable; I don't, indeed, Miss Vavasor. He has certainly been vexed. Sometimes he has much to vex him. You see, Glencora is very young."


Mr. Bott also had declared that Lady Glencora was very young. It was probable, therefore, that that special phrase had been used in some discussion among Mr. Palliser's party as to Glencora's foibles. So thought Alice as the remembrance of the word came upon her.
"She is not younger than when Mr. Palliser married her," Alice said.
"You mean that if a man marries a young wife he must put up with the trouble. That is a matter of course. But their ages, in truth, are very suitable. My cousin himself is not yet thirty. When I say that Glencora is young--"
"You mean that she is younger in spirit, and perhaps in conduct, than he had expected to find her."

Mr. Bott also had declared that Lady Glencora was very young. It was probable, therefore, that that special phrase had been used in some discussion among Mr. Palliser's party about Glencora's foibles.
"She is not younger than when Mr. Palliser married her," Alice said.
"You mean that if a man marries a young wife he must put up with the trouble. But when I say that Glencora is young-"
"You mean that she is younger in spirit, and perhaps in conduct, than he had expected to find her."


"But you are not to suppose that he complains, Miss Vavasor. He is much too proud for that."
"I should hope so," said Alice, thinking of Mr. Bott.
"I hardly know how to explain to you what I wish to say, or how far I may be justified in supposing that you will believe me to be acting solely on Glencora's behalf. I think you have some influence with her;--and I know no one else that has any."
"My friendship with her is not of very long date, Miss Palliser."
"I know it, but still there is the fact. Am I not right in supposing--"
"In supposing what?"
"In supposing that you had heard the name of Mr. Fitzgerald as connected with Glencora's before her marriage with my cousin?"

"But he does not complain, Miss Vavasor. He is much too proud for that."
"I should hope so," said Alice, thinking of Mr. Bott.
"I hardly know how to explain what I wish to say, or whether you will believe me to be acting solely on Glencora's behalf. I think you have some influence with her; and I know no one else that has any."
"My friendship with her is not of very long date, Miss Palliser."
"I know it, but still there is the fact. Am I not right in supposing - that you had heard the name of Mr. Fitzgerald connected with Glencora's before her marriage?"


Alice paused a moment before she answered.
"Yes, I had," she then said.
"And I think you were agreed, with her other relations, that such a marriage would have been very dreadful."
"I never spoke of the matter in the presence of any relatives of Glencora's. You must understand, Miss Palliser, that though I am her far-away cousin, I do not even know her nearest connections. I never saw Lady Midlothian till she came here the other day."
"But you advised her to abandon Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Never!"
"I know she was much with you, just at that time."
"I used to see her, certainly."

Alice paused a moment. "Yes, I had," she said.
"And I think you were agreed, with her other relations, that such a marriage would have been very dreadful."
"I never spoke of the matter to any relatives of Glencora's. You must understand, Miss Palliser, that though I am her distant cousin, I do not even know her nearest relations. I never saw Lady Midlothian till she came here the other day."
"But you advised her to abandon Mr. Fitzgerald."
"Never!"
"I know she was much with you, just at that time."
"I used to see her, certainly."


Then there was a pause, and Miss Palliser, in truth, scarcely knew how to go on. There had been a hardness about Alice which her visitor had not expected,--an unwillingness to speak or even to listen, which made Miss Palliser almost wish that she were out of the room. She had, however, mentioned Burgo Fitzgerald's name, and out of the room now she could not go without explaining why she had done so. But at this point Alice came suddenly to her assistance.
"Just then she was often with me," said Alice, continuing her reply; "and there was much talk between us about Mr. Fitzgerald. What was my advice then can be of little matter; but in this we shall be both agreed, Miss Palliser, that Glencora now should certainly not be called upon to be in his company."
"She has told you, then?"
"Yes;--she has told me."
"That he is to be at Lady Monk's?"
"She has told me that Mr. Palliser expects her to meet him at the place to which they are going when they leave the Duke's, and that she thinks it hard that she should be subjected to such a trial."

Then there was a pause, and Miss Palliser, in truth, scarcely knew how to go on. There had been a hardness about Alice which her visitor had not expected. But at this point Alice came suddenly to her assistance.
"She was often with me," said Alice, "and there was much talk between us about Mr. Fitzgerald. What was my advice then can be of little matter; but in this we shall be both agreed, Miss Palliser, that Glencora now should certainly not be called upon to be in his company."
"She has told you, then, that he is to be at Lady Monk's?"
"She has told me that Mr. Palliser expects her to meet him, and that she thinks it hard that she should be subjected to such a trial."


"It should be no trial, Miss Vavasor."
"How can it be otherwise? Come, Miss Palliser; if you are her friend, be fair to her."
"I am her friend;--but I am, above everything, my cousin's friend. He has told me that she has complained of having to meet this man. He declares that it should be nothing to her, and that the fear is an idle folly. It should be nothing to her, but still the fear may not be idle. Is there any reason,--any real reason,--why she should not go? Miss Vavasor, I conjure you to tell me,--even though in doing so you must cast so deep reproach upon her name! Anything will be better than utter disgrace and sin!"

"It should be no trial, Miss Vavasor."
"How can it be otherwise? Come, Miss Palliser; if you are her friend, be fair to her."
"I am her friend; but I am, above everything, my cousin's friend. He has told me that she has complained of having to meet this man. He declares that it should be nothing to her, and that the fear is an idle folly. Is there any real reason why she should not go? Miss Vavasor, please tell me - even if in doing so you must cast deep reproach upon her name! Anything will be better than utter disgrace and sin!"


"I conceive that I cast no reproach upon her in saying that there is great reason why she should not go to Monkshade."
"You think there is absolute grounds for interference? I must tell him, you know, openly what he would have to fear."
"I think,--nay, Miss Palliser, I know,--that there is ample reason why you should save her from being taken to Monkshade, if you have the power to do so."
"I can only do it, or attempt to do it, by telling him just what you tell me."
"Then tell him. You must have thought of that, I suppose, before you came to me."

"I cast no reproach upon her in saying that there is great reason why she should not go to Monkshade."
"You think there is absolute grounds for interference? I must tell him, you know, openly."
"I think - nay, Miss Palliser, I know - that there is great reason why you should save her from being taken to Monkshade, if you can."
"I can only do it by telling him just what you tell me."
"Then tell him."


"Yes;--yes, Miss Vavasor. I had thought of it. No doubt I had thought of it. But I had believed all through that you would assure me that there was no danger. I believed that you would have said that she was innocent."
"And she is innocent," said Alice, rising from her chair, as though she might thus give emphasis to words which she hardly dared to speak above a whisper. "She is innocent. Who accuses her of guilt? You ask me a question on his behalf--"
"On hers--and on his, Miss Vavasor."

"Yes - yes, Miss Vavasor. But I believed that you would have said that she was innocent."
"And she is innocent," said Alice, rising from her chair. "She is innocent. Who accuses her of guilt? You ask me a question on his behalf-"
"On hers - and on his, Miss Vavasor."


"A question which I feel myself bound to answer truly,--to answer with reference to the welfare of them both; but I will not have it said that I accuse her. She had been attached to Mr. Fitzgerald when your cousin married her. He knew that this had been the case. She told him the whole truth. In a worldly point of view her marriage with Mr. Fitzgerald would probably have been very imprudent."
"It would have been utterly ruinous."
"Perhaps so; I say nothing about that. But as it turned out, she gave up her own wishes and married your cousin."
"I don't know about her own wishes, Miss Vavasor."

"A question which I feel myself bound to answer truly; but I will not have it said that I accuse her. She had been attached to Mr. Fitzgerald when your cousin married her. He knew that this had been the case. She told him the whole truth. In a worldly point of view her marriage with Mr. Fitzgerald would probably have been very imprudent."
"It would have been utterly ruinous."
"Perhaps so. But as it turned out, she gave up her own wishes and married your cousin."
"I don't know about her own wishes, Miss Vavasor."


"It is what she did. She would have married Mr. Fitzgerald, had she not been hindered by the advice of those around her. It cannot be supposed that she has forgotten him in so short a time. There can be no guilt in her remembrance."
"There is guilt in loving any other than her husband."
"Then, Miss Palliser, it was her marriage that was guilty, and not her love. But all that is done and past. It should be your cousin's object to teach her to forget Mr. Fitzgerald, and he will not do that by taking her to a house where that gentleman is staying."
"She has said so much to you herself?"

"She would have married Mr. Fitzgerald, had she not been hindered by the advice of those around her. It cannot be supposed that she has forgotten him in so short a time. There can be no guilt in her remembrance."
"There is guilt in loving any other than her husband."
"Then, Miss Palliser, it was her marriage that was guilty, and not her love. But all that is done and past. It should be your cousin's object to teach her to forget Mr. Fitzgerald, and he will not do that by taking her to a house where that gentleman is staying."
"She has said so much to you herself?"


"I do not know that I need declare to you what she has said herself. You have asked me a question, and I have answered it, and I am thankful to you for having asked it. What object can either of us have but to assist her in her position?"
"And to save him from dishonour. I had so hoped that this was simply a childish dread on her part."
"It is not so. It is no childish dread. If you have the power to prevent her going to Lady Monk's, I implore you to use it. Indeed, I will ask you to promise me that you will do so."
"After what you have said, I have no alternative."

"I do not need to tell you what she said. You have asked me a question, and I have answered it, and I am thankful to you for having asked it. What object can either of us have but to help her?"
"And to save him from dishonour. I had so hoped that this was simply a childish dread on her part."
"It is not so. It is no childish dread. If you have the power to prevent her going to Lady Monk's, I implore you to use it. Indeed, I will ask you to promise me that you will do so."
"After what you have said, I have no alternative."


"Exactly. There is no alternative. Either for his sake or for hers, there is none."


Thereupon Miss Palliser got up, and wishing her companion good night, took her departure. Throughout the interview there had been no cordiality of feeling between them. There was no pretence of friendship, even as they were parting. They acknowledged that their objects were different. That of Alice was to save Lady Glencora from ruin. That of Miss Palliser was to save her cousin from disgrace,--with perhaps some further honest desire to prevent sorrow and sin. One loved Lady Glencora, and the other clearly did not love her. But, nevertheless, Alice felt that Miss Palliser, in coming to her, had acted well, and that to herself this coming had afforded immense relief. Some step would now be taken to prevent that meeting which she had so deprecated, and it would be taken without any great violation of confidence on her part. She had said nothing as to which Lady Glencora could feel herself aggrieved.

Thereupon Miss Palliser got up, and wishing her companion good night, she left the room. There was no pretence of friendship, even as they were parting. They acknowledged that their objects were different. That of Alice was to save Lady Glencora from ruin. That of Miss Palliser was to save her cousin from disgrace. One loved Lady Glencora, and the other clearly did not.
Nevertheless, Alice felt that Miss Palliser, in coming to her, had acted well, and she felt immense relief. Some step would now be taken to prevent that meeting, and she had said nothing about which Lady Glencora could feel aggrieved.


On the next morning she was down in the breakfast-room soon after nine, and had not been in the room many minutes before Mr. Palliser entered. "The carriage is ordered for you at a quarter before ten," he said, "and I have come down to give you your breakfast." There was a smile on his face as he spoke, and Alice could see that he intended to make himself pleasant.
"Will you allow me to give you yours instead?" said she. But as it happened, no giving on either side was needed, as Alice's breakfast was brought to her separately.
"Glencora bids me say that she will be down immediately," said Mr. Palliser.

On the next morning she was down in the breakfast-room soon after nine, and in a few minutes Mr. Palliser entered.
"The carriage is ordered for you at a quarter to ten," he said, "and I have come down to give you your breakfast." There was a smile on his face, and Alice could see that he intended to make himself pleasant. "Glencora bids me say that she will be down immediately."


Alice then made some inquiry with reference to the effects of last night's imprudence, which received only a half-pronounced reply. Mr. Palliser was willing to be gracious, but did not intend to be understood as having forgiven the offence. The Miss Pallisers then came in together, and after them Mr. Bott, closely followed by Mrs. Marsham, and all of them made inquiries after Lady Glencora, as though it was to be supposed that she might probably be in a perilous state after what she had undergone on the previous evening. Mr. Bott was particularly anxious. "The frost was so uncommonly severe," said he, "that any delicate person like Lady Glencora must have suffered in remaining out so long."
The insinuation that Alice was not a delicate person and that, as regarded her, the severity of the frost was of no moment, was very open, and was duly appreciated. Mr. Bott was aware that his great patron had in some sort changed his opinion about Miss Vavasor, and he was of course disposed to change his own. A fortnight since Alice might have been as delicate as she pleased in Mr. Bott's estimation.
"I hope you do not consider Lady Glencora delicate," said Alice to Mr. Palliser.
"She is not robust," said the husband.

Alice inquired about the effects of last night's imprudence, which received only a half-reply. Mr. Palliser was willing to be gracious, but did not intend to be understood as having forgiven the offence.
The Miss Pallisers then came in together, and Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham, and all of them inquired after Lady Glencora, as though she might be in a perilous state.
"The frost was so uncommonly severe," said Mr. Bott, "that any delicate person like Lady Glencora must have suffered in remaining out so long."
The insinuation that Alice was not a delicate person was very open, and was duly appreciated. Mr. Bott was aware that his great patron had changed his opinion about Miss Vavasor, and he was of course disposed to change his own.
"I hope you do not consider Lady Glencora delicate," said Alice to Mr. Palliser.
"She is not robust," said the husband.


"By no means," said Mrs. Marsham.
"Indeed, no," said Mr. Bott.
Alice knew that she was being accused of being robust herself; but she bore it in silence. Ploughboys and milkmaids are robust, and the accusation was a heavy one. Alice, however, thought that she would not have minded it, if she could have allowed herself to reply; but this at the moment of her going away she could not do.
"I think she is as strong as the rest of us," said Iphigenia Palliser, who felt that after last night she owed something to Miss Vavasor.
"As some of us," said Mr. Bott, determined to persevere in his accusation.
At this moment Lady Glencora entered, and encountered the eager inquiries of her two duennas. These, however, she quickly put aside, and made her way up to Alice. "The last morning has come, then," she said.

"By no means," said Mrs. Marsham.
"Indeed, no," said Mr. Bott.
Alice knew that she was being accused of being robust herself; but she bore it in silence. Ploughboys and milkmaids are robust, and the accusation was a heavy one.
"I think she is as strong as the rest of us," said Iphigenia Palliser, who felt that after last night she owed something to Miss Vavasor.
"As some of us," said Mr. Bott, determined to persevere in his accusation.
At this moment Lady Glencora entered, and encountered eager inquiries. These, however, she quickly put aside, and made her way to Alice. "The last morning has come, then," she said.


"Yes, indeed," said Alice. "Mr. Palliser must have thought that I was never going."
"On the other hand," said he, "I have felt much obliged to you for staying." But he said it coldly; and Alice began to wish that she had never seen Matching Priory.
"Obliged!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "I can't tell you how much obliged I am. Oh, Alice, I wish you were going to stay with us!"
"We are leaving this in a week's time," said Mr. Palliser.

"Yes, indeed," said Alice. "Mr. Palliser must have thought that I was never going."
"On the other hand," said he, "I have felt much obliged to you for staying." But he said it coldly.
"Obliged!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "I can't tell you how much obliged I am. Oh, Alice, I wish you were going to stay with us!"
"We are leaving in a week's time," said Mr. Palliser.


"Of course we are," said Lady Glencora. "With all my heart I wish we were not. Dear Alice! I suppose we shall not meet till we are all in town."
"You will let me know when you come up," said Alice.
"I will send to you instantly; and, Alice, I will write to you from Gatherum,--or from Monkshade."
Alice could not help looking around and catching Miss Palliser's eye. Miss Palliser was standing with her foot on the fender, but was so placed that she could see Alice. She made a slight sign with her head, as much as to say that Lady Glencora must have no opportunity of writing from the latter place; but she said nothing.

"Of course we are," said Lady Glencora. "With all my heart I wish we were not. Dear Alice! I suppose we shall not meet till we are all in town."
"You will let me know when you are there," said Alice.
"I will write to you instantly; and, Alice, I will write to you from Gatherum - or from Monkshade."
Alice could not help looking around and catching Miss Palliser's eye. Miss Palliser made a slight sign with her head; but she said nothing.


Then the carriage was announced, and Mr. Palliser took Alice out on his arm. "Don't come to the door, Glencora," he said. "I especially wish you not to do so." The two cousins then kissed each other, and Alice went away to the carriage.
"Good-bye, Miss Vavasor," said Mr. Palliser; but he expressed no wish that he might see her again as his guest at Matching Priory.
Alice, as she was driven in solitary grandeur to the railway station, could not but wish that she had never gone there.

Then the carriage was announced, and Mr. Palliser took Alice to it. "Don't come to the door, Glencora," he said. The two cousins kissed each other, and Alice went.
"Good-bye, Miss Vavasor," said Mr. Palliser; but he expressed no wish that he might see her again as his guest at Matching. Alice, as she was driven away in solitary grandeur, could only wish that she had never gone there.


When George Vavasor left Mr. Scruby's office--the attentive reader will remember that he did call upon Mr. Scruby, the Parliamentary lawyer, and there recognised the necessity of putting himself in possession of a small sum of money with as little delay as possible;--when he left the attorney's office, he was well aware that the work to be done was still before him. And he knew also that the job to be undertaken was a very disagreeable job. He did not like the task of borrowing his cousin Alice's money.

When George Vavasor left Mr. Scruby's office, he knew that he needed money. And he knew that he had a very disagreeable job ahead of him. He did not like the task of borrowing his cousin Alice's money.


We all of us know that swindlers and rogues do very dirty tricks, and we are apt to picture to ourselves a certain amount of gusto and delight on the part of the swindlers in the doing of them. In this, I think we are wrong. The poor, broken, semi-genteel beggar, who borrows half-sovereigns apiece from all his old acquaintances, knowing that they know that he will never repay them, suffers a separate little agony with each petition that he makes. He does not enjoy pleasant sailing in this journey which he is making. To be refused is painful to him. To get his half sovereign with scorn is painful. To get it with apparent confidence in his honour is almost more painful. "D---- it," he says to himself on such rare occasions, "I will pay that fellow;" and yet, as he says it, he knows that he never will pay even that fellow. It is a comfortless unsatisfying trade, that of living upon other people's money.

We are apt to imagine that rogues and swindlers carry out their dirty tricks with gusto and delight. In this, I think we are wrong. The poor, broken, semi-genteel beggar, who borrows half-sovereigns from all his old acquaintances, aware that they know that he will never repay them, suffers a little agony each time he asks for money. It is a comfortless, unsatisfying trade, that of living upon other people's money.


How was George Vavasor to make his first step towards getting his hand into his cousin's purse? He had gone to her asking for her love, and she had shuddered when he asked her. That had been the commencement of their life under their new engagement. He knew very well that the money would be forthcoming when he demanded it,--but under their present joint circumstances, how was he to make the demand? If he wrote to her, should he simply ask for money, and make no allusion to his love? If he went to her in person, should he make his visit a mere visit of business,--as he might call on his banker?

How was George Vavasor to make his first step towards getting his hand into his cousin's purse? Although she had shuddered at his approach, he knew that the money would be forthcoming when he demanded it - but how was he to make the demand? If he wrote to her, should he simply ask for money, and make no allusion to his love? If he went to her in person, should he make it a mere business visit?


He resolved at last that Kate should do the work for him. Indeed, he had felt all along that it would be well that Kate should act as ambassador between him and Alice in money matters, as she had long done in other things. He could talk to Kate as he could not talk to Alice;--and then, between the women, those hard money necessities would be softened down by a romantic phraseology which he would not himself know how to use with any effect. He made up his mind to see Kate, and with this view he went down to Westmoreland; and took himself to a small wayside inn at Shap among the fells, which had been known to him of old. He gave his sister notice that he would be there, and begged her to come over to him as early as she might find it possible on the morning after his arrival. He himself reached the place late in the evening by train from London. There is a station at Shap, by which the railway company no doubt conceives that it has conferred on that somewhat rough and remote locality all the advantages of a refined civilization; but I doubt whether the Shappites have been thankful for the favour. The landlord at the inn, for one, is not thankful. Shap had been a place owing all such life as it had possessed to coaching and posting. It had been a stage on the high road from Lancaster to Carlisle, and though it lay high and bleak among the fells, and was a cold, windy, thinly-populated place,--filling all travellers with thankfulness that they had not been made Shappites, nevertheless, it had had its glory in its coaching and posting.

He resolved that Kate should do the work for him, and act as his ambassador in money matters. He could talk to Kate as he could not talk to Alice. He decided to see Kate, and with this purpose he went north to Westmorland, to a small wayside inn at Shap among the fells. He wrote to tell his sister he would be there, and begged her to visit him the morning after his arrival.
He reached the place late in the evening by train. There is a station at Shap, for which the landlord at the inn, for one, is not thankful. Shap used to owe all its life to the stage-coach, being a stage on the road from Lancaster to Carlisle. It is a high, bleak, thinly-populated place, and


I have no doubt that there are men and women who look back with a fond regret to the palmy days of Shap.
Vavasor reached the little inn about nine in the evening on a night that was pitchy dark, and in a wind which made it necessary for him to hold his hat on to his head. "What a beastly country to live in," he said to himself, resolving that he would certainly sell Vavasor Hall in spite of all family associations, if ever the power to do so should be his. "What trash it is," he said, "hanging on to such a place as that without the means of living like a gentleman, simply because one's ancestors have done so." And then he expressed a doubt to himself whether all the world contained a more ignorant, opinionated, useless old man than his grandfather,--or, in short, a greater fool.

 Vavasor reached the little inn on a pitch dark, windy night.
"What a beastly past of the country," he said to himself, resolving that he would certainly sell Vavasor Hall if it ever became his. "What trash it is, hanging on to such a place as that, simply because one's ancestors have done so. But the world does not hold a more ignorant, useless old fool than my grandfather."


"Well, Mr. George," said the landlord as soon as he saw him, "a sight of you's guid for sair een. It's o'er lang since you've been doon amang the fells." But George did not want to converse with the innkeeper, or to explain how it was that he did not visit Vavasor Hall. The innkeeper, no doubt, knew all about it,--knew that the grandfather had quarrelled with his grandson, and knew the reason why; but George, if he suspected such knowledge, did not choose to refer to it. So he simply grunted something in reply, and getting himself in before a spark of fire which hardly was burning in a public room with a sandy floor, begged that the little sitting-room up-stairs might be got ready for him. There he passed the evening in solitude, giving no encouragement to the landlord, who, nevertheless, looked him up three or four times,--till at last George said that his head ached, and that he would wish to be alone. "He was always one of them cankery chiels as never have a kindly word for man nor beast," said the landlord. "Seems as though that raw slash in his face had gone right through into his heart." After that George was left alone, and sat thinking whether it would not be better to ask Alice for two thousand pounds at once,--so as to save him from the disagreeable necessity of a second borrowing before their marriage. He was very uneasy in his mind.

George rejected the landlord's friendly greeting, merely grunting in reply. He passed the evening in a little sitting-room in solitude, giving no encouragement to the landlord, who looked in three or four times, till at last George said that he wished to be alone.
"He was always one of them cankery chiels as never have a kindly word," said the landlord. "Seems as though that raw slash in his face had gone right through into his heart."
After that George was left alone, and sat thinking whether it would be better to ask Alice for two thousand pounds at once, so as to save him from the disagreeable necessity of a second borrowing before their marriage.
He was very uneasy.


He had flattered himself through it all that his cousin had loved him. He had felt sure that such was the case while they were together in Switzerland. When she had determined to give up John Grey, of course he had told himself the same thing. When she had at once answered his first subsequent overture with an assent, he had of course been certain that it was so. Dark, selfish, and even dishonest as he was, he had, nevertheless, enjoyed something of a lover's true pleasure in believing that Alice had still loved him through all their mischances. But his joy had in a moment been turned into gall during that interview in Queen Anne Street. He had read the truth at a glance. A man must be very vain, or else very little used to such matters, who at George Vavasor's age cannot understand the feelings with which a woman receives him. When Alice contrived as she had done to escape the embrace he was so well justified in asking, he knew the whole truth. He was sore at heart, and very angry withal.

He had flattered himself all along that his cousin loved him. He had felt sure of it in Switzerland. When she had determined to give up John Grey, of course he had told himself the same thing.
Dark, selfish, and dishonest as he was, he had, nevertheless, enjoyed something of a lover's true pleasure in believing that Alice had still loved him. But his joy had been turned into gall during that interview in Queen Anne Street. He had read the truth at a glance. When Alice managed to escape his embrace, he knew the whole truth. He was sore at heart, and very angry.


He could have readily spurned her from him, and rejected her who had once rejected him. He would have done so had not his need for her money restrained him. He was not a man who could deceive himself in such matters. He knew that this was so, and he told himself that he was a rascal.
Vavasor Hall was, by the road, about five miles from Shap, and it was not altogether an easy task for Kate to get over to the village without informing her grandfather that the visit was to be made, and what was its purport. She could, indeed, walk, and the walk would not be so long as that she had taken with Alice to Swindale fell;--but walking to an inn on a high road, is not the same thing as walking to a point on a hill side over a lake. Had she been dirty, draggled, and wet through on Swindale fell, it would have simply been matter for mirth; but her brother she knew would not have liked to see her enter the Lowther Arms at Shap in such a condition. It, therefore, became necessary that she should ask her grandfather to lend her the jaunting car.

He could have readily spurned her then, and would have done so had not his need for her money restrained him. He knew this, and he told himself that he was a rascal.
Vavasor Hall was about five miles from Shap, and it was not easy for Kate to get over to the village without informing her grandfather. She could, indeed, walk; but her brother would not like to see her enter the Lowther Arms dirty and bedraggled. So she had to ask her grandfather to lend her the jaunting-car.


"Where do you want to go?" he asked sharply. In such establishments as that at Vavasor Hall the family horse is generally used for double duties. Though he draws the lady of the house one day, he is not too proud to draw manure on the next. And it will always be found that the master of the house gives a great preference to the manure over the lady. The squire at Vavasor had come to do so to such an extent that he regarded any application for the animal's services as an encroachment.
"Only to Shap, grandpapa."
"To Shap! what on earth can take you to Shap? There are no shops at Shap."

"Where do you want to go?" he asked sharply.
"Only to Shap, grandpapa."
"To Shap! what on earth for? There are no shops there."


"I am not going to do shopping. I want to see some one there."
"Whom can you want to see at Shap?"
Then it occurred to Kate on the spur of the moment that she might as well tell her grandfather the fact. "My brother has come down," she said; "and is at the inn there. I had not intended to tell you, as I did not wish to mention his name till you had consented to receive him here."
"And he expects to come here now;--does he?" said the squire.

"I am not going shopping. My brother is at the inn," she said. "I had not intended to tell you, as I did not wish to mention his name till you had consented to receive him here."
"And he expects to come here now, does he?" said the squire.


"Oh, no, sir. I think he has no expectation of the kind. He has come down simply to see me;--about business I believe."
"Business! what business? I suppose he wants to get your money from you?"
"I think it is with reference to his marriage. I think he wants me to use my influence with Alice that it may not be delayed."

"Oh, no, sir, I don't think so. He has come simply to see me - about business, I believe."
"Business! what business? I suppose he wants to get your money from you?"
"I think it is with reference to his marriage."


"Look here, Kate; if ever you lend him your money, or any of it,--that is, of the principal I mean,--I will never speak to him again under any circumstance. And more than that! Look here, Kate. In spite of all that has past and gone, the property will become his for his life when I die,--unless I change my will. If he gets your money from you, I will change it, and he shall not be a shilling richer at my death than he is now. You can have the horse to go to Shap."

"Look here, Kate; if ever you lend him your money, I will never speak to him again. And more than that! Look here, Kate. In spite of all that has passed, the property will become his for his life when I die - unless I change my will. If he gets your money from you, I will change it, and he shall not be a shilling richer at my death. You can have the horse to go to Shap."


What unlucky chance had it been which had put this idea into the old squire's head on this especial morning? Kate had resolved that she would entreat her brother to make use of her little fortune. She feared that he was now coming with some reference to his cousin's money,--that something was to be done to enable him to avail himself of his cousin's offer; and Kate, almost blushing in the solitude of her chamber at the thought, was determined that her brother must be saved from such temptation. She knew that money was necessary to him. She knew that he could not stand a second contest without assistance. With all their confidences, he had never told her much of his pecuniary circumstances in the world, but she was almost sure that he was a poor man. He had said as much as that to her, and in his letter desiring her to come to him at Shap, he had inserted a word or two purposely intended to prepare her mind for monetary considerations.

What unlucky chance had put this idea into the old squire's head this morning? Kate had resolved to ask her brother to use her little fortune. She feared that he was coming about his cousin's money - that he wished to take up his cousin's offer; and Kate was determined that he must be saved from such temptation. She knew he needed money for the election contest; and she was almost sure that he was a poor man.


As she was jogged along over the rough road to Shap, she made up her mind that Aunt Greenow would be the proper person to defray the expense of the coming election. To give Kate her due she would have given up every shilling of her own money without a moment's hesitation, or any feeling that her brother would be wrong to accept it. Nor would she, perhaps, have been unalterably opposed to his taking Alice's money, had Alice simply been his cousin. She felt that as Vavasors they were bound to stand by the future head of the family in an attempt which was to be made, as she felt, for the general Vavasor interest. But she could not endure to think that her brother should take the money of the girl whom he was engaged to marry. Aunt Greenow's money she thought was fair game. Aunt Greenow herself had made various liberal offers to herself which Kate had declined, not caring to be under pecuniary obligations even to Aunt Greenow without necessity; but she felt that for such a purpose as her brother's contest, she need not hesitate to ask for assistance, and she thought also that such assistance would be forthcoming.
"Grandpapa knows that you are here, George," said Kate, when their first greeting was over.
"The deuce he does! and why did you tell him?"

As she was jogged along over the rough road to Shap, she made up her mind that Aunt Greenow would be the proper person to defray the expense of the coming election. To give Kate her due, she would have given up every shilling of her own money without hesitation. Perhaps she would not have been so opposed to his taking Alice's money, if Alice had simply been his cousin, supporting him in the general Vavasor interest. But she could not bear to think that her brother should take the money of the girl whom he was engaged to marry.
Aunt Greenow's money she thought was fair game. Aunt Greenow had made generous offers to Kate herself, which she had declined; but she felt that she need not hesitate to ask for assistance for her brother.
"Grandpapa knows that you are here, George," said Kate, after their first greeting.
"The deuce he does! why did you tell him?"


"I could not get the car to come in without letting him know why I wanted it."
"What nonsense! as if you couldn't have made any excuse! I was particularly anxious that he should not guess that I am here."
"I don't see that it can make any difference, George."
"But I see that it can,--a very great difference. It may prevent my ever being able to get near him again before he dies. What did he say about my coming?"
"He didn't say much."
"He made no offer as to my going there?"

"I could not get the car without letting him know why I wanted it."
"What nonsense! as if you couldn't have made any excuse! I was particularly anxious that he should not guess that I am here."
"I don't see that it can make any difference, George."
"But I see that it can. It may prevent my ever being able to get near him again before he dies. What did he say about my coming?"
"He didn't say much."
"He didn't invite he over there?"


"No."
"I should not have gone if he had. I don't know now that I ever shall go. To be there to do any good,--so as to make him alter his will, and leave me in the position which I have a right to expect, would take more time than the whole property is worth. And he would endeavour to tie me down in some way I could not stand;--perhaps ask me to give up my notion for going into Parliament."
"He might ask you, but he would not make it ground for another quarrel, if you refused."
"He is so unreasonable and ignorant that I am better away from him. But, Kate, you have not congratulated me on my matrimonial prospects."
"Indeed I did, George, when I wrote to you."

"No."
"I should not have gone if he had. I don't know that I ever shall go. To be there long enough to make him alter his will, and leave me in the position which I have a right to expect, would take more time than the whole property is worth. And he would try to tie me down in some way - perhaps ask me to give up my notion of going into Parliament."
"He might ask you, but he would not make it ground for another quarrel."
"He is so unreasonable and ignorant that I am better away from him. But, Kate, you have not congratulated me on my engagement."
"Indeed I did, George, when I wrote to you."


"Did you? well; I had forgotten. I don't know that any very strong congratulatory tone is necessary. As things go, perhaps it may be as well for all of us, and that's about the best that can be said for it."
"Oh, George!"
"You see I'm not romantic, Kate, as you are. Half a dozen children with a small income do not generally present themselves as being desirable to men who wish to push their way in the world."
"You know you have always longed to make her your wife."

"Did you? I had forgotten. I don't know that any great congratulations are necessary."
"Oh, George! You know you have always longed to make her your wife."


"I don't know anything of the kind. You have always been under a match-making hallucination on that point. But in this case you have been so far successful, and are entitled to your triumph."
"I don't want any triumph; you ought to know that."
"But I'll tell you what I do want, Kate. I want some money." Then he paused, but as she did not answer immediately, he was obliged to go on speaking. "I'm not at all sure that I have not been wrong in making this attempt to get into Parliament,--that I'm not struggling to pick fruit which is above my reach."
"Don't say that, George."

"I don't know anything of the kind. You have always been under a match-making hallucination on that point. But you have succeeded, and are entitled to your triumph."
"I don't want any triumph; you ought to know that."
"But I'll tell you what I do want, Kate. I want some money." Then he paused, but as she did not answer, he was obliged to go on speaking. "I'm not sure that I'm right in making this attempt to get into Parliament. It's beyond my reach."
"Don't say that, George."


"Ah, but I can't help feeling it. I need hardly tell you that I am ready to risk anything of my own. If I know myself I would toss up to-morrow, or for the matter of that to-day, between the gallows and a seat in the House. But I cannot go on with this contest by risking what is merely my own. Money, for immediate use, I have none left, and my neck, though I were ever so willing to risk it, is of no service."
"Whatever I have can be yours to-morrow," said Kate, in a hesitating voice, which too plainly pronounced her misery as she made the offer. She could not refrain herself from making it. Though her grandfather's threat was ringing in her ears,--though she knew that she might be ruining her brother by proposing such a loan, she had no alternative. When her brother told her of his want of money, she could not abstain from tendering to him the use of what was her own.

"Ah, but I can't help feeling it. I need hardly tell you that I am ready to risk anything of my own. But I have no ready money left."
"Whatever I have can be yours tomorrow," said Kate, in a hesitating voice, which too plainly pronounced her misery. She could not refrain herself. Though her grandfather's threat was ringing in her ears - though she knew that she might be ruining her brother by proposing such a loan - she could not help offering.


"No;" said he. "I shall not take your money."
"You would not scruple, if you knew how welcome you are."
"At any rate, I shall not take it. I should not think it right. All that you have would only just suffice for my present wants, and I should not choose to make you a beggar. There would, moreover, be a difficulty about readjusting the payment."
"There would be no difficulty, because no one need be consulted but us two."
"I should not think it right, and therefore let there be an end of it," said George in a tone of voice which had in it something of magniloquence.

"No, I shall not take your money. I should not think it right to make you a beggar. Therefore let there be an end of it," said George loftily.


"What is it you wish then?" said Kate, who knew too well what he did wish.
"I will explain to you. When Alice and I are married, of course there will be a settlement made on her, and as we are both the grandchildren of the old squire I shall propose that the Vavasor property shall be hers for life in the event of her outliving me."
"Well," said Kate.
"And if this be done, there can be no harm in my forestalling some of her property, which, under the circumstances of such a settlement, would of course become mine when we are married."
"But the squire might leave the property to whom he pleases."
"We know very well that he won't, at any rate, leave it out of the family. In fact, he would only be too glad to consent to such an agreement as that I have proposed, because he would thereby rob me of all power in the matter."
"But that could not be done till you are married."

"What is it you wish then?" said Kate, who knew already.
"I will explain. When Alice and I are married, of course there will be a settlement made on her, and as we are both the grandchildren of the old squire I shall propose that the Vavasor property shall be hers for life in the event of her outliving me. If this is done, there can be no harm in my using some of her property, which would of course become mine when we are married."
"But the squire might leave the property to whom he pleases."
"We know very well that he won't leave it out of the family. In fact, he would be only too glad to consent to such an agreement, because it would rob me of all power in the matter.


"Look here, Kate;--don't you make difficulties." And now, as he looked at her, the cicature on his face seemed to open and yawn at her. "If you mean to say that you won't help me, do say so, and I will go back to London."
"I would do anything in my power to help you,--that was not wrong!"
"Yes; anybody could say as much as that. That is not much of an offer if you are to keep to yourself the power of deciding what is wrong. Will you write to Alice,--or better still, go to her, and explain that I want the money."
"How can I go to London now?"

Look here, Kate; don't make difficulties." As he looked at her, the scar on his face seemed to open and yawn at her. "If you won't help me, say so, and I will go back to London."
"I would do anything in my power to help you, that was not wrong!"
"That is not much of an offer if you keep the power of deciding what is wrong. Will you write to Alice, or better still, go to her, and explain that I want the money?"
"How can I go to London now?"


"You can do it very well, if you choose. But if that be too much, then write to her. It will come much better from you than from me; write to her, and explain that I must pay in advance the expenses of this contest, and that I cannot look for success unless I do so. I did not think that the demand would come so quick on me; but they know that I am not a man of capital, and therefore I cannot expect them to carry on the fight for me, unless they know that the money is sure. Scruby has been bitten two or three times by these metropolitan fellows, and he is determined that he will not be bitten again." Then he paused for Kate to speak.
"George," she said, slowly.
"Well."
"I wish you would try any other scheme but that."

"You can do it very well, if you choose. But if not, then write to her. It will come much better from you than from me. Explain that I must pay the expenses of this contest in advance, and that I cannot hope for success unless I do so. I cannot expect them to carry on the fight for me, unless they know that the money is there. Scruby has been bitten two or three times by these city fellows, and he is determined not to be bitten again."
"George, I wish you would try any other scheme but that."


"There is no other scheme! That's so like a woman;--to quarrel with the only plan that is practicable."
"I do not think you ought to take Alice's money."
"My dear Kate, you must allow me to be the best judge of what I ought to do, and what I ought not to do. Alice herself understands the matter perfectly. She knows that I cannot obtain this position, which is as desirable for her as it is for me--"
"And for me as much as for either," said Kate, interrupting him.

"There is no other scheme! That's so like a woman; to quarrel with the only plan that is practicable."
"I do not think you ought to take Alice's money."
"My dear Kate, you must allow me to be the best judge of what I ought to do. Alice herself understands the matter perfectly. She knows that I cannot obtain this position


"Very well. Alice, I say, knows that I cannot do this without money, and has offered the assistance which I want. I would rather that you should tell her how much I want, and that I want it now, than that I should do so. That is all. If you are half the woman that I take you to be, you will understand this well enough."
Kate did understand it well enough. She was quite awake to the fact that her brother was ashamed of the thing he was about to do,--so much ashamed of it that he was desirous of using her voice instead of his own. "I want you to write to her quite at once," he continued; "since you seem to think that it is not worth while to take the trouble of a journey to London."
"There is no question about the trouble," said Kate. "I would walk to London to get the money for you, if that were all."

 without money, and has offered her assistance. I would rather that you should tell her how much I want, than that I should do so. That is all."
Kate understood that her brother was ashamed; so ashamed that he wanted to use her voice instead of his own. "I want you to write to her at once," he continued; "since you seem to think that it is not worthwhile to take the trouble of a journey to London."
"There is no question about the trouble," said Kate. "I would walk to London to get the money for you, if that were all."


"Do you think that Alice will refuse to lend it me?" said he, looking into her face.
"I am sure that she would not, but I think that you ought not to take it from her. There seems to me to be something sacred about property that belongs to the girl you are going to marry."


"If there is anything on earth I hate," said George, walking about the room, "it is romance. If you keep it for reading in your bedroom, it's all very well for those who like it, but when it comes to be mixed up with one's business it plays the devil. If you would only sift what you have said, you would see what nonsense it is. Alice and I are to be man and wife. All our interests, and all our money, and our station in life, whatever it may be, are to be joint property. And yet she is the last person in the world to whom I ought to go for money to improve her prospects as well as my own. That's what you call delicacy. I call it infernal nonsense."
"I tell you what I'll do, George. I'll ask Aunt Greenow to lend you the money,--or to lend it to me."

"If there is anything on earth I hate," said George, walking about the room, "it is romance. When it gets mixed up with one's business it plays the devil. It's all nonsense. Alice and I are to be man and wife. All our interests, and all our money, are to be joint property. And yet she is the last person in the world to whom I ought to go for money to improve our prospects? That's infernal nonsense."
"George, I'll ask Aunt Greenow to lend you the money - or to lend it to me."


"I don't believe she'd give me a shilling. Moreover, I want it quite immediately, and the time taken up in letter-writing and negotiations would be fatal to me. If you won't apply to Alice, I must. I want you to tell me whether you will oblige me in this matter."
Kate was still hesitating as to her answer, when there came a knock at the door, and a little crumpled note was brought up to her. A boy had just come with it across the fell from Vavasor Hall, and Kate, as soon as she saw her name on the outside, knew that it was from her grandfather. It was as follows:--
"If George wishes to come to the Hall, let him come. If he chooses to tell me that he regrets his conduct to me, I will see him."

"I don't believe she'd give me a shilling. Moreover, I want it immediately, and the time taken up in letter-writing and negotiations would be fatal. If you won't apply to Alice, I must. Will you do it?"
Kate was still hesitating when there came a knock at the door, and a little crumpled note was given her. A boy had just brought it across the fell from Vavasor Hall, and Kate knew at once that it was from her grandfather. It was as follows:-
"If George wishes to come to the Hall, let him come. If he chooses to tell me that he regrets his conduct to me, I will see him."


"What is it?" said George. Then Kate put the note into her brother's hand.
"I'll do nothing of the kind," he said. "What good should I get by going to the old man's house?"
"Every good," said Kate. "If you don't go now you never can do so."
"Never till it's my own," said George.
"If you show him that you are determined to be at variance with him, it never will be your own;--unless, indeed, it should some day come to you as part of Alice's fortune. Think of it, George; you would not like to receive everything from her."

"What is it?" said George, and Kate put the note into his hand.
"I'll do nothing of the kind," he said. "What good should I get by going to the old man's house?"
"Every good," said Kate. "If you don't go now you never can do so."
"Never till it's my own," said George.
"If you show him that you are determined to disagree with him, it never will be your own - unless, indeed, it should some day come to you as part of Alice's fortune. Think of it, George; you would not like to receive everything from her."