"That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield."
"There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears."
"Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone."
"But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?"
"By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?"

"That's what my dear Kate says, and I do my best to overcome it." Upon this, soft tears trickled down her cheek. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and smiled faintly. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield."
"There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, that I desire so much as permission to dry those tears."
"Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield."
"But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?"
"By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without friendship?"


"And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him.
"How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time.
"The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--"

"And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain refrained from following her immediately.
"How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again.
"The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it-"


"If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong."
"Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?"
"Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--"
"I did not know that you had seen active service."
"What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!"
"Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow.

"If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong."
"Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?"
"Yes; often; on the field of battle-"
"I did not know that you had seen active service."
"What! - not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty men I kept five hundred Kaffirs at bay - and never knew the comfort of a bed for seven long weeks!


"No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!"
"I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow.
"Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.
"But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind."

And did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I captured a slaver with my own hand and my own sword!"
"I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow.
"Ah, I understand. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. Yet who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain.
"When you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind."


"So I did. So I did. I don't know why I have been led away to speak of deeds that are very seldom mentioned, at any rate by myself. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me to make my service acceptable." Whereupon he took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her.
"But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in."

"So I did. I have been led away to speak of deeds that are seldom mentioned. But I cannot bear that a slanderous backbiting tongue should make you think that I have seen no service. I have served her Majesty in the four quarters of the globe, Mrs. Greenow; and now I am ready to serve you in any way in which you will allow me." He took one stride over to the sofa, and went down upon his knees before her.
"But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up; the girl will come in."


"I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?"
"Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way."
"But I want you to become my wife,--and then--"

"I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till you give me a little hope." Then he attempted to take her hand, but she put her hands behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?"
"Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way."
"But I want you to become my wife - and then-"


"Ah, then indeed! But that then isn't likely to come. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down,--unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's just half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then."

"Ah, then indeed! But that isn't likely to happen. Get up, Captain Bellfield, or I'll push you over and then ring the bell. A man never looks so much like a fool as when he's kneeling down, unless he's saying his prayers, as you ought to be doing now. Get up, I tell you. It's half past seven, and I told Jeannette to come to me then."


There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long.
"He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs.
"You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow.
"And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome."

Something in the widow's voice made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet.
"You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. In one minute she had restored them to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if he would stay for a cup.
He declined, and said farewell. She shook hands without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long.
"He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as he descended the stairs.
"You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow.


"I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves."
"As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her."
On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business.
"That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow.
"No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me."

"I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves."
"As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain. But kisses is presents as I never takes from anybody. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her."
On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre called as usual in the Close, but brought no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and viburnum flowers, and sent a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow on particular business.
"That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow.
"It doesn't mean me at all."


"I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know."
"Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--"
"Than he is of me, you were going to say."
"No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all."
"Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse."
"But if I don't want to do at all?"

"It seems to be the fashion now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know."
"You can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is not thinking of me."
"Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse."


"Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think."
At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone.
"Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept."

At half past three o'clock Mr. Cheesacre arrived, and was shown upstairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. As he wore a new frock coat, and kid gloves, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. His new boots creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and found the widow alone.
"Thanks for the flowers," she said


"As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down.
He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong.
"How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation.

, and sweetly bade him sit down.
First he put his hat and stick carefully in a corner, and laboriously pulled off his gloves. There came from his hair an ambrosial perfume - as of bone-marrow oil - and the fixed position of his whiskers indicated that he had recently been at a hairdresser's.
"How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest needed some assistance in starting the conversation.


"Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day."
"I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings."
"In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast."
"I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters."
"And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese."

"Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow. Everything will go very well if I am successful in my object today."
"I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings."
"In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. I don't owe a shilling to any bank in Norwich."
"I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre."
"I haven't left it all to Providence, either. I'm always at work, late and early.


"I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre."
"Yes, I do. I like a bit of fun well enough, when the time for it comes, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should; and I shoot over my own ground. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing."
"But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre."

I like a bit of fun well enough, as you saw at Yarmouth. And I keep my three or four hunters, as I think a country gentleman should. But I always stick to my work. There are men, like Bellfield, who won't work. What do they come to? They're always borrowing."
"But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre."


"He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes."
"But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--"
"He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead."

"He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes."
"But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance-"
"He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead."


"A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it."
"That's it; that's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" As he made the offer he got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart.
[Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"]
"I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said.

"A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it."
"That's just it. All I want is a mistress for it. And there's only one woman on earth that I would wish to see in that position. Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?" He got up and stood before her, placing his right hand upon his heart.
"I, Mr. Cheesacre!" she said.


"Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended."
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere."
"No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--"
"Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?"

"Yes, you. Who else? Since the first day I saw you I felt that my happiness depended on you."
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere."
"No, no, no. I have the highest regard for Miss Vavasor, but really-"
"Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?"


"What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!"
"Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months."

"Say that you'll be mine. Come, Mrs. Greenow!"
"Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly twelve months."


"But you have buried him, and there let there be an end of it. Your sitting here all alone, morning, noon, and night, won't bring him back. I'm sorry for him; I am indeed. Poor Greenow! But what more can I do?"
"I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence."

"But you have buried him, and sitting here all alone won't bring him back. I'm sorry, indeed. But what more can I do?"
"I can mourn for him in solitude and silence, Mr. Cheesacre."


"No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach.
"It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre."

"No, no, no. What's the use of breaking your heart for nothing - and my heart too." Mr. Cheesacre spoke reproachfully.
"It cannot be, Mr. Cheesacre."


"Ah, but it can be. Come, Mrs. Greenow. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering the room, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business.
"Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow.
"D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre.

"Ah, but it can be. We understand each other well enough now, surely. Come, dearest." And he approached her as though to put his arm round her waist.
But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Jeannette, entering, told her mistress that Captain Bellfield was below and wanted to know whether he could see her for a minute on particular business.
"Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow.
"D-- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre.


Mr. Grey and wife were duly carried away from Matching Priory by post horses, and did their honeymoon, we may be quite sure, with much satisfaction. When Alice was first asked where she would go, she simply suggested that it should not be to Switzerland. They did, in truth, go by slow stages to Italy, to Venice, Florence, and on to Rome; but such had not been their intention when they first started on their journey. At that time Mr. Grey believed that he would be wanted again in England, down at Silverbridge in Barsetshire, very shortly. But before he had married a week he learned that all that was to be postponed. The cup of fruition had not yet reached Mr. Palliser's lips. "There will be no vacancy either in the county or in the borough till Parliament meets." That had been the message sent by Mr. Palliser to Mr. Grey. Lady Glencora's message to Alice had been rather more full, having occupied three pages of note paper, the last of which had been crossed, but I do not know that it was more explicit. She had abused Lord Brock, had abused Mr. Finespun, and had abused all public things and institutions, because the arrangements as now proposed would be very comfortable to Alice, but would not, as she was pleased to think, be very comfortable to herself.

Mr. Grey and wife were duly carried away from Matching Priory for their honeymoon. When Alice was first asked where she wished to go, she simply suggested that it should not be to Switzerland. They travelled slowly through Italy to Rome, although that had not been their original intention, because Mr. Grey believed that he would be wanted in England, down at Silverbridge, very shortly. But he soon learned that things were to be postponed.
"There will be no vacancy till Parliament meets." That had been the message sent to him by Mr. Palliser. Lady Glencora's message to Alice had been rather longer, covering three pages; she had abused Lord Brock, had abused Mr. Finespun, and had abused all public things, because the arrangements now proposed would not be very comfortable to herself.

Chapter 80: The Story Is Finished Within the Halls of the Duke of Omnium


"You can go to Rome and see everything and enjoy yourself, which I was not allowed to do; and all this noise and bother, and crowd of electioneering, will take place down in Barsetshire just when I am in the middle of all my trouble." There were many very long letters came from Lady Glencora to Rome during the winter,--letters which Alice enjoyed thoroughly, but which she could not but regard as being very indiscreet. The Duke was at the Castle during the Christmas week, and the descriptions of the Duke and of his solicitude as to his heir were very comic. "He comes and bends over me on the sofa in the most stupendous way, as though a woman to be the mother of his heir must be a miracle in nature. He is quite awful when he says a word or two, and more awful in his silence. The devil prompted me the other day, and I said I hoped it would be a girl. There was a look came over his face which nearly frightened me. If it should be, I believe he will turn me out of the house; but how can I help it? I wish you were going to have a baby at the same time. Then, if yours was a boy and mine a girl, we'd make a change."

"You can go to Rome and see everything and enjoy yourself, which I was not allowed to do; and all this bother of electioneering will take place just when I am in the middle of all my trouble."
Many very long letters came from Lady Glencora to Rome during the winter - letters which Alice enjoyed thoroughly, but which were very indiscreet. The Duke was at the Castle for Christmas, and Glencora's descriptions of him were very comic.
"He comes and bends over me on the sofa in the most stupendous way, as though a woman who may the mother of his heir must be a miracle. The other day the devil prompted to say that I hoped it would be a girl. The look on his face nearly frightened me. If it is a girl, I believe he will turn me out of the house; but how can I help it? I wish you were going to have a baby at the same time. Then, if yours was a boy and mine a girl, we'd exchange."


This was very indiscreet. Lady Glencora would write indiscreet letters like this, which Alice could not show to her husband. It was a thousand pities.

This was very indiscreet, and it was a pity Alice could not show it to her husband.


But December and January wore themselves away, and the time came in which the Greys were bound to return to England. The husband had very fully discussed with his wife that matter of his parliamentary ambition, and found in her a very ready listener. Having made up his mind to do this thing, he was resolved to do it thoroughly, and was becoming almost as full of politics, almost as much devoted to sugar, as Mr. Palliser himself. He at any rate could not complain that his wife would not interest herself in his pursuits. Then, as they returned, came letters from Lady Glencora, written as her troubles grew nigh. The Duke had gone, of course; but he was to be there at the appointed time. "Oh, I do so wish he would have a fit of the gout in London,--or at Timbuctoo," said Lady Glencora. When they reached London they first heard the news from Mr. Vavasor, who on this occasion condescended to meet them at the railway. "The Duke has got an heir," he said, before the carriage-door was open;--"born this morning!" One might have supposed that it was the Duke's baby, and not the baby of Lady Glencora and Mr. Palliser.

But December and January wore themselves away, and the time came for the Greys to return to England. The husband had discussed his parliamentary ambition with his wife, and found her a very ready listener. Having made up his mind to do this, he was resolved to do it thoroughly, and was becoming almost as full of politics as Mr. Palliser himself.
Then, when they reached London, they heard the news from Mr. Vavasor, who met them at the railway.
"The Duke has got an heir," he said, before the carriage-door was open; "born this morning!" One might have supposed that it was the Duke's baby, and not Lady Glencora's and Mr. Palliser's.


There was a note from Mr. Palliser to Mr. Grey. "Thank God!" said the note, "Lady Glencora and the boy"--Mr. Palliser had scorned to use the word child--"Lady Glencora and the boy are quite as well as can be expected. Both the new writs were moved for last night." Mr. Palliser's honours, as will be seen, came rushing upon him all at once.

There was a note from Mr. Palliser to Mr. Grey. "Thank God!" it said, "Lady Glencora and the boy are quite as well as can be expected. Both the new writs were moved for last night." Mr. Palliser's honours came rushing upon him all at once.


Wondrous little baby,--_purpureo genitus!_ What have the gods not done for thee, if thou canst only manage to live till thy good things are all thine own,--to live through all the terrible solicitude with which they will envelope thee! Better than royal rank will be thine, with influence more than royal, and power of action fettered by no royalty. Royal wealth which will be really thine own, to do with it as it beseemeth thee. Thou wilt be at the top of an aristocracy in a country where aristocrats need gird themselves with no buckram. All that the world can give will be thine; and yet when we talk of thee religiously, philosophically, or politico-economically, we are wont to declare that thy chances of happiness are no better,--no better, if they be no worse,--than are those of thine infant neighbour just born, in that farmyard cradle. Who shall say that they are better or that they are worse? Or if they be better, or if they be worse, how shall we reconcile to ourselves that seeming injustice?

Wondrous little baby! Better than royal rank will be thine, with influence more than royal. All that the world can give will be thine; and yet when we talk of thee, we are wont to declare that thy chances of happiness are no better than those of thine infant neighbour, in the farmyard cradle. Who shall say that they are better or worse? And how shall we reconcile to ourselves that seeming injustice?


And now we will pay a little visit to the small one born in the purple, and the story of that visit shall be the end of our history. It was early in April, quite early in April, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey were both at Gatherum Castle. Mrs. Grey was there at the moment of which we write, but Mr. Grey was absent at Silverbridge with Mr. Palliser. This was the day of the Silverbridge election, and Mr. Grey had gone to that ancient borough, to offer himself as a candidate to the electors, backed by the presence and aid of a very powerful member of the Cabinet. Lady Glencora and Alice were sitting up-stairs with the small, purple-born one in their presence, and the small, purple-born one was lying in Alice's lap.
"It is such a comfort that it is over," said the mother.
"You are the most ungrateful of women."
"Oh, Alice,--if you could have known! Your baby may come just as it pleases. You won't lie awake trembling how on earth you will bear your disgrace if one of the vile weaker sex should come to disturb the hopes of your lords and masters;--for I had two, which made it so much more terrible."

And now we will pay a little visit to the small one, to end our history. It was early in April, when Mrs. Grey was at Gatherum Castle, but Mr. Grey was absent at Silverbridge with Mr. Palliser. This was the day of the Silverbridge election. Lady Glencora and Alice were sitting upstairs with the small, noble-born one lying in Alice's lap.
"It is such a comfort that it is over," said the mother.
"You are the most ungrateful of women."
"Oh, Alice! Your baby may come just as it pleases. You won't lie awake trembling how on earth you will bear your disgrace if it should be a girl."


"I'm sure Mr. Palliser would not have said a word."
"No, he would have said nothing,--nor would the Duke. The Duke would simply have gone away instantly, and never have seen me again till the next chance comes,--if it ever does come. And Mr. Palliser would have been as gentle as a dove;--much more gentle than he is now, for men are rarely gentle in their triumph. But I should have known what they both thought and felt."
"It's all right now, dear."

"I'm sure Mr. Palliser would not have said a word."
"No, he would have said nothing, nor would the Duke. The Duke would simply have gone away instantly, and never have seen me again till the next chance comes - if it ever does come. And Mr. Palliser would have been as gentle as a dove. But I should have known what they both thought and felt."
"It's all right now, dear."


"Yes, my bonny boy,--you have made it all right for me;--have you not?" And Lady Glencora took her baby into her own arms. "You have made everything right, my little man. But oh, Alice, if you had seen the Duke's long face through those three days; if you had heard the tones of the people's voices as they whispered about me; if you had encountered the oppressive cheerfulness of those two London doctors,--doctors are such bad actors,--you would have thought it impossible for any woman to live throughout. There's one comfort;--if my mannikin lives, I can't have another eldest. He looks like living;--don't he, Alice?" Then were perpetrated various mysterious ceremonies of feminine idolatry which were continued till there came a grandly dressed old lady, who called herself the nurse, and who took the idol away.
[Illustration: "Yes, my bonny boy,--you have made it all right for me."]

"Yes, my bonny boy, you have made it all right for me; have you not?" And Lady Glencora took her baby into her own arms. "But, oh, Alice, if you had seen the Duke's long face through those three days; if you had heard the oppressive cheerfulness of those two London doctors - doctors are such bad actors - you would have thought it impossible for any woman to live through it. But you have made everything right, my little man." Then there were various ceremonies of feminine idolatry till an old nurse carried the idol away.


In the course of that afternoon Lady Glencora took Alice all over the house. It was a castle of enormous size, quite new,--having been built by the present proprietor,--very cold, very handsome, and very dull. "What an immense place!" said Alice, as she stood looking round her in the grand hall, which was never used as an entrance except on very grand occasions. "Is it not? And it cost--oh, I can't tell you how much it cost. A hundred thousand pounds or more. Well;--that would be nothing, as the Duke no doubt had the money in his pocket to do what he liked with at the time. But the joke is, nobody ever thinks of living here. Who'd live in such a great, overgrown place such as this, if they could get a comfortable house like Matching?

That afternoon Lady Glencora took Alice all over the house. It was a castle of enormous size, quite new, very cold, very handsome, and very dull.
"What an immense place!" said Alice, as she stood looking round her in the grand hall.
"Is it not? And it cost a hundred thousand pounds or more. Well, that would be nothing to the Duke. But the joke is, nobody ever thinks of living here. Who'd live in such a great, overgrown place such as this, if they could get a comfortable house like Matching?


Do you remember Longroyston and the hot-water pipes? I always think of the poor Duchess when I come through here. Nobody ever lives here, or ever will. The Duke comes for one week in the year, and Plantagenet says he hates to do that. As for me, nothing on earth shall ever make me live here. I was completely in their power and couldn't help their bringing me here the other day;--because I had, as it were, disgraced myself."
"How disgraced yourself?"

The Duke comes for one week in the year, and Plantagenet says he hates to do that. As for me, nothing on earth shall ever make me live here. I couldn't help their bringing me here;


"In being so long, you know, before that gentleman was born. But they shan't play me the same trick again. I shall dare to assert myself, now. Come,--we must go away. There are some of the British public come to see one of the British sights. That's another pleasure here. One has to run about to avoid being caught by the visitors. The housekeeper tells me they always grumble because they are not allowed to go into my little room up-stairs."

but I shall assert myself now. Come, we must go away to avoid being caught by the public tour."


On the evening of that day Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey returned home from Silverbridge together. The latter was then a Member of Parliament, but the former at that moment was the possessor of no such dignity. The election for the borough was now over, whereas that for the county had not yet taken place. But there was no rival candidate for the position, and Mr. Palliser was thoroughly contented with his fate. He was at this moment actually Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in about ten days' time would be on his legs in the House proposing for his country's use his scheme of finance. The two men were seated together in an open carriage, and were being whirled along by four horses. They were both no doubt happy in their ambition, but I think that of the two, Mr. Palliser showed his triumph the most. Not that he spoke even to his friend a word that was triumphant in its tone. It was not thus that he rejoiced. He was by nature too placid for that.

That evening Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey returned home from Silverbridge together. Mr. Grey was by then a Member of Parliament, but Mr. Palliser had to wait for the county election. But there was no rival candidate for the position, and Mr. Palliser was thoroughly contented. He was now Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in about ten days' time would be on his feet in the House proposing his scheme of finance.
The two men were seated together in an open carriage. Although Mr. Palliser was rejoicing, he did not speak a word that was triumphant in its tone.


But there was a nervousness in his contentment which told the tale to any observer who might know how to read it.
"I hope you'll like it," he said to Grey.
"I shall never like it as you do," Grey answered.
"And why not;--why not?"
"In the first place, I have not begun it so young."
"Any time before thirty-five is young enough."
"For useful work, yes,--but hardly for enjoyment in the thing. And then I don't believe it all as you do. To you the British House of Commons is everything."

"I hope you'll like it," he said to Grey.
"I shall never like it as you do," Grey answered.
"Why not?"
"In the first place, I have not begun it so young."
"Any time before thirty-five is young enough."
"For useful work, yes - but hardly for enjoyment in the thing. And then I don't believe it all as you do. To you the British House of Commons is everything."


"Yes;--everything," said Mr. Palliser with unwonted enthusiasm;--"everything, everything. That and the Constitution are everything."
"It is not so to me."
"Ah, but it will be. If you really take to the work, and put yourself into harness, it will be so. You'll get to feel it as I do. The man who is counted by his colleagues as number one on the Treasury Bench in the English House of Commons, is the first of living men. That's my opinion. I don't know that I ever said it before; but that's my opinion."
"And who is the second;--the purse-bearer to this great man?"

"Yes; everything," said Mr. Palliser with unusual enthusiasm; "everything, everything. That and the Constitution are everything."
"It is not so to me."
"Ah, but it will be. If you really take to the work, you'll get to feel it as I do. The man who is number one on the Treasury Bench in the English House of Commons, is the first of living men. That's my opinion. I don't know that I ever said it before; but that's my opinion."
"And who is the second; the purse-bearer to this great man?"


"I say nothing about the second. I don't know that there is any second. I wonder how we shall find Lady Glencora and the boy." They had then arrived at the side entrance to the Castle, and Mr. Grey ran up-stairs to his wife's room to receive her congratulations.
"And you are a Member of Parliament?" she asked.
"They tell me so, but I don't know whether I actually am one till I've taken the oaths."
"I am so happy. There's no position in the world so glorious!"

"I don't know that there is any second. I wonder how we shall find Lady Glencora and the boy." They had arrived at the Castle, and Mr. Grey ran upstairs to his wife's room to receive her congratulations.
"And you are a Member of Parliament?" she asked.
"They tell me so."
"I am so happy. There's no position in the world so glorious!"


"It's a pity you are not Mr. Palliser's wife. That's just what he has been saying."
"Oh, John, I am so happy. It is so much more than I have deserved. I hope,--that is, I sometimes think--"
"Think what, dearest?"
"I hope nothing that I have ever said has driven you to it."
"I'd do more than that, dear, to make you happy," he said, as he put his arm round her and kissed her; "more than that, at least if it were in my power."

"It's a pity you are not Mr. Palliser's wife. That's just what he has been saying."
"Oh, John, I am so happy. It is so much more than I have deserved. I hope - that is, I sometimes think-"
"Think what, dearest?"
"I hope nothing that I have ever said has driven you to it."
"I'd do more than that, dear, to make you happy," he said, as he put his arm round her and kissed her.


Probably my readers may agree with Alice, that in the final adjustment of her affairs she had received more than she had deserved. All her friends, except her husband, thought so. But as they have all forgiven her, including even Lady Midlothian herself, I hope that they who have followed her story to its close will not be less generous.

Probably my readers may agree with Alice that she had received more than she deserved. All her friends, except her husband, thought so.
But as they have all forgiven her, including even Lady Midlothian herself, I hope that they who have followed her story to its close will not be less generous.


Kate Vavasor had sent to her brother only the first half of her cousin's letter, that half in which Alice had attempted to describe what had taken place between her and Mr. Grey. In doing this, Kate had been a wicked traitor,--a traitor to that feminine faith against which treason on the part of one woman is always unpardonable in the eyes of other women. But her treason would have been of a deeper die had she sent the latter portion, for in that Alice had spoken of George Vavasor himself. But even of this treason, Kate would, I think, have been guilty, had the words which Alice wrote been of a nature to serve her own purpose if read by her brother. But they had not been of this nature. They had spoken of George as a man with whom any closer connection than that which existed at present was impossible, and had been written with the view of begging Kate to desist from making futile attempts in that direction. "I feel myself driven," Alice had said, "to write all this, as otherwise,--if I were simply to tell you that I have resolved to part from Mr. Grey,--you would think that the other thing might follow. The other thing cannot follow. I should think myself untrue in my friendship to you if I did not tell you about Mr. Grey; and you will be untrue in your friendship to me if you take advantage of my confidence by saying more about your brother." This part of Alice's letter Kate had not sent to George Vavasor;--"But the other thing shall follow," Kate had said, as she read the words for the second time, and then put the papers into her desk.

Kate Vavasor had sent to her brother only the first half of her cousin's letter, in which Alice had described her meeting with Mr. Grey. In doing this, Kate had been a wicked traitor to Alice. But her treason would have been worse if she had sent the second half, in which Alice had spoken of George Vavasor himself.
Kate might have done even this, if Alice had not spoken of George as a man with whom any closer connection was impossible. She had begged Kate to cease making futile attempts in that direction.
"I feel myself driven," Alice had said, "to write all this, as otherwise, when I tell you that I have resolved to part from Mr. Grey, you would think that the other thing might follow. The other thing cannot follow."
"But the other thing shall follow," Kate said, as she read the words.

Chapter 14: Alice Vavasor Becomes Troubled


"It shall follow."
To give Kate Vavasor her due, she was, at any rate, unselfish in her intrigues. She was obstinately persistent, and she was moreover unscrupulous, but she was not selfish. Many years ago she had made up her mind that George and Alice should be man and wife, feeling that such a marriage would be good at any rate for her brother. It had been almost brought about, and had then been hindered altogether through a fault on her brother's part. But she had forgiven him this sin as she had forgiven many others, and she was now at work in his behalf again, determined that they two should be married, even though neither of them might be now anxious that it should be so. The intrigue itself was dear to her, and success in it was necessary to her self-respect.
She answered Alice's letter with a pleasant, gossiping epistle, which shall be recorded, as it will tell us something of Mrs. Greenow's proceedings at Yarmouth. Kate had promised to stay at Yarmouth for a month, but she had already been there six weeks, and was still under her aunt's wing.
Yarmouth, October, 186--.

To give Kate Vavasor her due, she was unselfish in her intrigues. She was obstinately persistent, and unscrupulous, but she was not selfish. Many years ago she had made up her mind that George and Alice should be man and wife, feeling that such a marriage would be good at any rate for her brother. It had almost happened, and had then been hindered through her brother's fault. But she was now at work on his behalf again, determined that the two should be married. The intrigue itself was dear to her, and success was necessary to her self-respect.
She answered Alice's letter with a pleasant, gossiping epistle about Mrs. Greenow's proceedings at Yarmouth. Kate had promised to stay at Yarmouth for a month, but she had already been there six weeks, under her aunt's wing. She wrote:


Of course I am delighted. It is no good saying that I am not. I know how difficult it is to deal with you, and therefore I sit down to answer your letter with fear and trembling, lest I should say a word too much, and thereby drive you back, or not say quite enough and thereby fail to encourage you on. Of course I am glad. I have long thought that Mr. Grey could not make you happy, and as I have thought so, how can I not be glad? It is no use saying that he is good and noble, and all that sort of thing. I have never denied it. But he was not suited to you, and his life would have made you wretched. Ergo, I rejoice. And as you are the dearest friend I have, of course I rejoice mightily.

Of course I am delighted. It is no good saying that I am not; but I answer your letter with fear and trembling, lest I should say too much. I have long thought that Mr. Grey could not make you happy. He is good and noble, and all that sort of thing; but he was not suited to you, and his life would have made you wretched. So I rejoice.


I can understand accurately the sort of way in which the interview went. Of course he had the best of it. I can see him so plainly as he stood up in unruffled self-possession, ignoring all that you said, suggesting that you were feverish or perhaps bilious, waving his hand over you a little, as though that might possibly do you some small good, and then taking his leave with an assurance that it would be all right as soon as the wind changed. I suppose it's very noble in him, not taking you at your word, and giving you, as it were, another chance; but there is a kind of nobility which is almost too great for this world. I think very well of you, my dear, as women go, but I do not think well enough of you to believe that you are fit to be Mr. John Grey's wife.

I can well understand how the interview went. I can see him so plainly in his unruffled self-possession, ignoring all that you said, suggesting that you were feverish, waving his hand over you as though that might do you good, and leaving with an assurance that it would be all right as soon as the wind changed. I suppose it's very noble in him, giving you, as it were, another chance; but there is a kind of nobility which is almost too great for this world.


Of course I'm very glad. You have known my mind from the first to the last, and, therefore, what would be the good of my mincing matters? No woman wishes her dearest friend to marry a man to whom she herself is antipathetic. You would have been as much lost to me, had you become Mrs. Grey of Nethercoats, Cambridgeshire, as though you had gone to heaven. I don't say but what Nethercoats may be a kind of heaven,--but then one doesn't wish one's friend that distant sort of happiness. A flat Eden I can fancy it, hemmed in by broad dykes, in which cream and eggs are very plentiful, where an Adam and an Eve might drink the choicest tea out of the finest china, with toast buttered to perfection, from year's end to year's end; into which no money troubles would ever find their way, nor yet any naughty novels. But such an Eden is not tempting to me, nor, as I think, to you. I can fancy you stretching your poor neck over the dyke, longing to fly away that you might cease to be at rest, but knowing that the matrimonial dragon was too strong for any such flight. If ever bird banged his wings to pieces against gilded bars, you would have banged yours to pieces in that cage.

Of course I'm very glad. No woman wishes her dearest friend to marry a man whom she herself does not like. You would have been lost to me as Mrs. Grey of Nethercoats. I daresay it is a lovely place, but if ever bird banged his wings to pieces against gilded bars, you would have banged yours to pieces in that cage.


You say that you have failed to make him understand that the matter is settled. I need not say that of course it is settled, and that he must be made to understand it. You owe it to him now to put him out of all doubt. He is, I suppose, accessible to the words of a mortal, god though he be. But I do not fear about this, for, after all, you have as much firmness about you as most people;--perhaps as much as he has at bottom, though you may not have so many occasions to show it.
As to that other matter I can only say that you shall be obliged, as far as it is in my power to obey you. For what may come out from me by word of mouth when we are together, I will not answer with certainty. But my pen is under better control, and it shall not write the offending name.

You say that you have failed to make him understand that the matter is settled. Of course it is settled, and he must be made to understand it. You owe it to him now to put him out of all doubt.


And now I must tell you a little about myself;--or rather, I am inclined to spin a yarn, and tell you a great deal. I have got such a lover! But I did describe him before. Of course it's Mr. Cheesacre. If I were to say he hasn't declared himself, I should hardly give you a fair idea of my success. And yet he has not declared himself,--and, which is worse, is very anxious to marry a rival. But it's a strong point in my favour that my rival wants him to take me, and that he will assuredly be driven to make me an offer sooner or later, in obedience to her orders. My aunt is my rival, and I do not feel the least doubt as to his having offered to her half a dozen times. But then she has another lover, Captain Bellfield, and I see that she prefers him. He is a penniless scamp and looks as though he drank.

And now I must tell you a little about myself; or rather, tell you a great deal. I have got such a lover! I described him before. Of course it's Mr. Cheesacre. As yet he has not declared himself, and, what's worse, is very anxious to marry a rival - my aunt. But she wants him to take me, so he will be driven to make me an offer sooner or later, in obedience to her orders.
My aunt has another lover, Captain Bellfield, and she prefers him. He is a penniless scamp and looks as though he drank.


He paints his whiskers too, which I don't like; and, being forty, tries to look like twenty-five. Otherwise he is agreeable enough, and I rather approve of my aunt's taste in preferring him.

He paints his whiskers too; otherwise he is agreeable enough.


But my lover has solid attractions, and allures me on by a description of the fat cattle which he sends to market. He is a man of substance, and should I ever become Mrs. Cheesacre, I have reason to think that I shall not be left in want. We went up to his place on a visit the other day. Oileymead is the name of my future home;--not so pretty as Nethercoats, is it? And we had such a time there! We reached the place at ten and left it at four, and he managed to give us three meals. I'm sure we had before our eyes at different times every bit of china, delf, glass, and plate in the establishment. He made us go into the cellar, and told us how much wine he had got there, and how much beer. "It's all paid for, Mrs. Greenow, every bottle of it," he said, turning round to my aunt, with a pathetic earnestness, for which I had hardly given him credit. "Everything in this house is my own; it's all paid for.

But my lover has solid attractions. He is a man of substance, and should I ever become Mrs. Cheesacre, I should not be left in want. We went to visit his place the other day. Oileymead is its name - and we had such a time there! We reached the place at ten and left it at four, and he managed to give us three meals. I'm sure we saw every bit of china, glass, and plate in the establishment. He made us go into the cellar, and told us how much wine and beer he had got there.
"It's all paid for, Mrs. Greenow, every bottle," he said with a pathetic earnestness.


I don't call anything a man's own till it's paid for. Now that jacket that Bellfield swells about with on the sands at Yarmouth,--that's not his own,--and it's not like to be either." And then he winked his eye as though bidding my aunt to think of that before she encouraged such a lover as Bellfield. He took us into every bedroom, and disclosed to us all the glories of his upper chambers. It would have done you good to see him lifting the counterpanes, and bidding my aunt feel the texture of the blankets! And then to see her turn round to me and say:--"Kate, it's simply the best-furnished house I ever went over in my life!"--"It does seem very comfortable," said I. "Comfortable!" said he. "Yes, I don't think there's anybody can say that Oileymead isn't comfortable."

"I don't call anything a man's own till it's paid for. Now that jacket that Bellfield swells about with - that's not his own."
Then he took us into every bedroom, and showed us all their glories. You should have seen him bidding my aunt feel the thickness of the blankets! And she turned round to me and said:
"Kate, it's simply the best-furnished house I ever went over in my life!"
"Yes," said he, "nobody can say that Oileymead isn't comfortable."


I did so think of you and Nethercoats. The attractions are the same;--only in the one place you would have a god for your keeper, and in the other a brute. For myself, if ever I'm to have a keeper at all, I shall prefer a man. But when we got to the farmyard his eloquence reached the highest pitch. "Mrs. Greenow," said he, "look at that," and he pointed to heaps of manure raised like the streets of a little city. "Look at that!" "There's a great deal," said my aunt. "I believe you," said he. "I've more muck upon this place here than any farmer in Norfolk, gentle or simple; I don't care who the other is." Only fancy, Alice; it may all be mine; the blankets, the wine, the muck, and the rest of it.

I thought of you and Nethercoats. The attractions are the same; only in the one place you would have a god for your keeper, and in the other a brute.
But when we got to the farmyard his eloquence reached the highest pitch.
"Mrs. Greenow," said he, "look at that," and he pointed to heaps of manure. "I've more muck upon this place here than any farmer in Norfolk." Only fancy, Alice; it may all be mine; the blankets, the wine, the muck, and the rest of it.


So my aunt assured me when we got home that evening. When I remarked that the wealth had been exhibited to her and not to me, she did not affect to deny it, but treated that as a matter of no moment. "He wants a wife, my dear," she said, "and you may pick him up to-morrow by putting out your hand." When I remarked that his mind seemed to be intent on low things, and specially named the muck, she only laughed at me. "Money's never dirty," she said, "nor yet what makes money." She talks of taking lodgings in Norwich for the winter, saying that in her widowed state she will be as well there as anywhere else, and she wants me to stay with her up to Christmas. Indeed she first proposed the Norwich plan on the ground that it might be useful to me,--with a view to Mr. Cheesacre, of course; but I fancy that she is unwilling to tear herself away from Captain Bellfield. At any rate to Norwich she will go, and I have promised not to leave her before the second week in November. With all her absurdities I like her. Her faults are terrible faults, but she has not the fault of hiding them by falsehood.

So my aunt assured me when we got home that evening. When I remarked that the wealth had been exhibited to her and not to me, she did not deny it, but said, "He wants a wife, my dear, and you may have him tomorrow by putting out your hand."
When I mentioned the muck, she only laughed. "Money's never dirty," she said, "nor what makes money." She talks of taking lodgings in Norwich for the winter, and she wants me to stay with her up to Christmas. I fancy that she is unwilling to tear herself away from Captain Bellfield. At any rate, I have promised not to leave her before the second week in November. With all her absurdities and faults, I like her.


She is never stupid, and she is very good-natured. She would have allowed me to equip myself from head to foot at her expense, if I would have accepted her liberality, and absolutely offered to give me my trousseau if I would marry Mr. Cheesacre.
I live in the hope that you will come down to the old place at Christmas. I won't offend you more than I can help. At any rate he won't be there. And if I don't see you there, where am I to see you? If I were you I would certainly not go to Cheltenham. You are never happy there.
Do you ever dream of the river at Basle? I do;--so often.

She is never stupid, and she is very good-natured. She absolutely offered to give me my trousseau if I would marry Mr. Cheesacre.
I hope that you will come up to the old place at Christmas. I won't offend you more than I can help. At any rate he won't be there. If I were you I would certainly not go to Cheltenham. You are never happy there.
Do you ever dream of the river at Basle? I do; so often.


Most affectionately yours,
KATE VAVASOR.
[Illustration: "Mrs. Greenow, look at that."]

Most affectionately yours,
Kate Vavasor.


Alice had almost lost the sensation created by the former portion of Kate's letter by the fun of the latter, before she had quite made that sensation her own. The picture of the Cambridgeshire Eden would have displeased her had she dwelt upon it, and the allusion to the cream and toast would have had the very opposite effect to that which Kate had intended. Perhaps Kate had felt this, and had therefore merged it all in her stories about Mr. Cheesacre. "I will go to Cheltenham," she said to herself. "He has recommended it. I shall never be his wife;--but, till we have parted altogether, I will show him that I think well of his advice." That same afternoon she told her father that she would go to Lady Macleod's at Cheltenham before the end of the month. She was, in truth, prompted to this by a resolution, of which she was herself hardly conscious, that she would not at this period of her life be in any way guided by her cousin. Having made up her mind about Mr. Grey, it was right that she should let her cousin know her purpose; but she would never be driven to confess to herself that Kate had influenced her in the matter. She would go to Cheltenham.

"I will go to Cheltenham," said Alice to herself after reading this. "He has recommended it. I shall never be his wife; but I will show him that I think well of his advice." That afternoon she told her father that she would go to Lady Macleod's at Cheltenham.
She was, in truth, prompted by a resolution, of which she was herself hardly conscious, that she would not be guided by her cousin just now. She would go to Cheltenham.


Lady Macleod would no doubt vex her by hourly solicitations that the match might be renewed; but, if she knew herself, she had strength to withstand Lady Macleod.
She received one letter from Mr. Grey before the time came for her departure, and she answered it, telling him of her intention;--telling him also that she now felt herself bound to explain to her father her present position. "I tell you this," she said, "in consequence of what you said to me on the matter. My father will know it to-morrow, and on the following morning I shall start for Cheltenham. I have heard from Lady Macleod and she expects me."
On the following morning she did tell her father, standing by him as he sat at his breakfast. "What!" said he, putting down his tea-cup and looking up into her face; "What! not marry John Grey!"
"No, papa; I know how strange you must think it."

Lady Macleod would no doubt vex her by begging that the match might be renewed; but she had strength to withstand Lady Macleod.
She received one letter from Mr. Grey before she departed, and she answered it, telling him that she now felt bound to explain the position to her father.
On the following morning she told her father at breakfast.
"What!" said he, putting down his tea-cup. "What! not marry John Grey!"
"No, papa; I know how strange you must think it."


"And you say that there has been no quarrel."
"No;--there has been no quarrel. By degrees I have learned to feel that I should not make him happy as his wife."
"It's d----d nonsense," said Mr. Vavasor. Now such an expression as this from him, addressed to his daughter, showed that he was very deeply moved.
"Oh, papa! don't talk to me in that way."

"And there has been no quarrel?"
"No. But I have learned to feel that I should not make him happy as his wife."
"It's d---d nonsense," said Mr. Vavasor, very deeply moved.
"Oh, papa! don't talk to me in that way."


"But it is. I never heard such trash in my life. If he comes to me I shall tell him so. Not make him happy! Why can't you make him happy?"
"We are not suited to each other."
"But what's the matter with him? He's a gentleman."
"Yes; he's a gentleman."

"But it is. I never heard such trash in my life. If he comes to me I shall tell him so. Not make him happy! Why can't you make him happy?"
"We are not suited to each other."
"But what's the matter with him? He's a gentleman."
"Yes."


"And a man of honour, and with good means, and with all that knowledge and reading which you profess to like. Look here, Alice; I am not going to interfere, nor shall I attempt to make you marry anyone. You are your own mistress as far as that is concerned. But I do hope, for your sake and for mine,--I do hope that there is nothing again between you and your cousin."
"There is nothing, papa."
"I did not like your going abroad with him, though I didn't choose to interrupt your plan by saying so. But if there were anything of that kind going on, I should be bound to tell you that your cousin's position at present is not a good one. Men do not speak well of him."
"There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speaking ill of him would not deter me."

"And a man of honour, and with good means, and with all that knowledge and reading which you profess to like. Look here, Alice; I am not going to interfere. You are your own mistress. But I do hope that there is nothing again between you and your cousin."
"There is nothing, papa."
"I did not like your going abroad with him, though I didn't want to say so. But I must tell you that men do not speak well of your cousin."
"There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speaking ill of him would not deter me."


"And men speaking well of Mr. Grey will not do the other thing. I know very well that women can be obstinate."
"I haven't come to this resolution without thinking much about it, papa."
"I suppose not. Well;--I can't say anything more. You are your own mistress, and your fortune is in your own keeping. I can't make you marry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me I shall tell him so. You are going down to Cheltenham, are you?"
"Yes, papa; I have promised Lady Macleod."

"And men speaking well of Mr. Grey will not do the other thing."
"No. I have thought a great deal about it, papa."
"Well; I can't make you marry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me I shall tell him so."


"Very well. I'd sooner it should be you than me; that's all I can say." Then he took up his newspaper, thereby showing that he had nothing further to say on the matter, and Alice left him alone.


The whole thing was so vexatious that even Mr. Vavasor was disturbed by it. As it was not term time he had no signing to do in Chancery Lane, and could not, therefore, bury his unhappiness in his daily labour,--or rather in his labour that was by no means daily. So he sat at home till four o'clock, expressing to himself in various phrases his wonder that "any man alive should ever rear a daughter." And when he got to his club the waiters found him quite unmanageable about his dinner, which he ate alone, rejecting all proposition of companionship. But later in the evening he regained his composure over a glass of whiskey-toddy and a cigar. "She's got her own money," he said to himself, "and what does it matter? I don't suppose she'll marry her cousin. I don't think she's fool enough for that. And after all she'll probably make it up again with John Grey." And in this way he determined that he might let this annoyance run off him, and that he need not as a father take the trouble of any interference.

The whole thing was so vexatious that when Mr. Vavasor went to his club the waiters found him quite unmanageable about his dinner. But later in the evening he regained his composure over a whiskey-toddy and a cigar.
"She's got her own money," he said to himself, "and what does it matter? I don't think she's fool enough to marry her cousin. And she'll probably make it up again with John Grey." So he decided that he need not take any fatherly trouble about it.


But while he was at his club there came a visitor to Queen Anne Street, and that visitor was the dangerous cousin of whom, according to his uncle's testimony, men at present did not speak well. Alice had not seen him since they had parted on the day of their arrival in London,--nor, indeed, had heard of his whereabouts. In the consternation of her mind at this step which she was taking,--a step which she had taught herself to regard as essentially her duty before it was taken, but which seemed to herself to be false and treacherous the moment she had taken it,--she had become aware that she had been wrong to travel with her cousin. She felt sure,--she thought that she was sure,--that her doing so had in nowise affected her dealings with Mr. Grey. She was very certain,--she thought that she was certain,--that she would have rejected him just the same had she never gone to Switzerland. But every one would say of her that her journey to Switzerland with such companions had produced that result. It had been unlucky and she was sorry for it, and she now wished to avoid all communication with her cousin till this affair should be altogether over. She was especially unwilling to see him; but she had not felt it necessary to give any special injunctions as to his admittance; and now, before she had time to think of it,--on the eve of her departure for Cheltenham,--he was in the room with her, just as the dusk of the October evening was coming on. She was sitting away from the fire, almost behind the window-curtains, thinking of John Grey and very unhappy in her thoughts, when George Vavasor was announced. It will of course be understood that Vavasor had at this time received his sister's letter.

But while he was at his club a visitor came to Queen Anne Street: the dangerous cousin. Alice had not seen him since they had parted on their arrival in London. In her trouble at this step which she was taking - a step which she had taught herself to regard as her duty, but which seemed to herself to be false and treacherous the moment she had taken it - she had become aware that she had been wrong to travel with her cousin.
She felt sure it had not affected her dealings with Mr. Grey. She was very certain - she thought she was certain - that she would have rejected him just the same. But everyone would say that her journey had caused it, and she wished to avoid all communication with her cousin for now. However, she had not given any orders about his admittance; and now, before she had time to think, he was in the room with her, just as the October dusk was coming on.
She was sitting away from the fire, very unhappy in her thoughts, when George Vavasor was announced. He had received his sister's letter


He had received it, and had had time to consider the matter since the Sunday morning on which we saw him in his own rooms in Cecil Street. "She can turn it all into capital to-morrow, if she pleases," he had said to himself when thinking of her income. But he had also reminded himself that her grandfather would probably enable him to settle an income out of the property upon Alice, in the event of their being married. And then he had also felt that he could have no greater triumph than "walking atop of John Grey," as he called it. His return for the Chelsea Districts would hardly be sweeter to him than that.
"You must have thought I had vanished out of the world," said George, coming up to her with his extended hand.
Alice was confused, and hardly knew how to address him. "Somebody told me that you were shooting," she said after a pause.

, and had had time to consider the matter.
"She can turn all her income into capital tomorrow, if she pleases," he had said to himself. But he had also reminded himself that her grandfather would probably allow him to settle an income upon Alice out of his property if they married. And he had also felt that he could have no greater triumph than "walking atop of John Grey."
"You must have thought I had vanished out of the world," said George.
Alice, confused, hardly knew how to address him. "Somebody told me that you were shooting," she said after a pause.


"So I was, but my shooting is not like the shooting of your great Nimrods,--men who are hunters upon the earth. Two days among the grouse and two more among the partridges are about the extent of it. Capel Court is the preserve in which I am usually to be found."
Alice knew nothing of Capel Court, and said, "Oh, indeed."
"Have you heard from Kate?" George asked.
"Yes, once or twice; she is still at Yarmouth with Aunt Greenow."

"So I was, but two days among the grouse and two more among the partridges was about the extent of it. Have you heard from Kate?"
"Yes, once or twice; she is still at Yarmouth with Aunt Greenow."


"And is going to Norwich, as she says. Kate seems to have made a league with Aunt Greenow. I, who don't pretend to be very disinterested in money matters, think that she is quite right. No doubt Aunt Greenow may marry again, but friends with forty thousand pounds are always agreeable."
"I don't believe that Kate thinks much of that," said Alice.
"Not so much as she ought, I dare say. Poor Kate is not a rich woman, or, I fear, likely to become one. She doesn't seem to dream of getting married, and her own fortune is less than a hundred a year."
"Girls who never dream of getting married are just those who make the best marriages at last," said Alice.

"And is going to Norwich, as she says. Kate seems to have made friends with Aunt Greenow, and I think that she is quite right. Friends with forty thousand pounds are always agreeable."
"I don't believe that Kate thinks much about that," said Alice.
"Not so much as she ought, I dare say. Poor Kate is not a rich woman, or, I fear, likely to become one. She doesn't seem to dream of getting married, and her own fortune is less than a hundred a year."
"Girls who never dream of getting married are just those who make the best marriages at last," said Alice.


"Perhaps so, but I wish I was easier about Kate. She is the best sister a man ever had."
"Indeed she is."
"And I have done nothing for her as yet. I did think, while I was in that wine business, that I could have done anything I pleased for her. But my grandfather's obstinacy put me out of that; and now I'm beginning the world again,--that is, comparatively. I wonder whether you think I'm wrong in trying to get into Parliament?"

"Perhaps so, but I wish I was easier about Kate. She is the best sister a man ever had."
"Indeed she is."
"I did think, while I was in that wine business, that I could have done something for her. But my grandfather's obstinacy prevented that; and now I'm beginning the world again - that is, comparatively. I wonder whether you think I'm wrong in trying to get into Parliament?"


"No; quite right. I admire you for it. It is just what I would do in your place. You are unmarried, and have a right to run the risk."
"I am so glad to hear you speak like that," said he. He had now managed to take up that friendly, confidential, almost affectionate tone of talking which he had so often used when abroad with her, and which he had failed to assume when first entering the room.
"I have always thought so."
"But you have never said it."
"Haven't I? I thought I had."

"No; I admire you for it. It is just what I would do in your place. You are unmarried, and have a right to run the risk."
"I am so glad to hear you speak like that," said he. He had now managed to take up that friendly, confidential tone of talking which he had often used when abroad with her.
"I have always thought so."
"But you have never said it."
"Haven't I? I thought I had."


"Not heartily like that. I know that people abuse me;--my own people, my grandfather, and probably your father,--saying that I am reckless and the rest of it. I do risk everything for my object; but I do not know that any one can blame me,--unless it be Kate. To whom else do I owe anything?"
"Kate does not blame you."
"No; she sympathizes with me; she, and she only, unless it be you." Then he paused for an answer, but she made him none. "She is brave enough to give me her hearty sympathy. But perhaps for that very reason I ought to be the more chary in endangering the only support that she is like to have. What is ninety pounds a year for the maintenance of a single lady?"

"Not heartily like that. I know that people abuse me, saying that I am reckless and the rest of it. I do risk everything for my object; but I do not know that anyone can blame me, unless it be Kate. To whom else do I owe anything?"
"Kate does not blame you."
"No; she sympathizes with me; no-one else does, unless it be you." Then he paused for an answer, but she made him none. "She is brave enough to give me her hearty sympathy. But perhaps for that very reason I ought to be more careful in endangering the only support that she is likely to have."


"I hope that Kate will always live with me," said Alice; "that is, as soon as she has lost her home at Vavasor Hall."
He had been very crafty and had laid a trap for her. He had laid a trap for her, and she had fallen into it. She had determined not to be induced to talk of herself; but he had brought the thing round so cunningly that the words were out of her mouth before she remembered whither they would lead her. She did remember this as she was speaking them, but then it was too late.
"What;--at Nethercoats?" said he. "Neither she nor I doubt your love, but few men would like such an intruder as that into their household, and of all men Mr. Grey, whose nature is retiring, would like it the least."
"I was not thinking of Nethercoats," said Alice.

"I hope that Kate will live with me," said Alice; "that is, once she has lost her home at Vavasor Hall."
He had been very crafty and had laid a trap for her, and she had fallen into it. She had been determined not to talk of herself; but the words were out of her mouth before she remembered where they would lead her.
"What - at Nethercoats?" said he. "Few men would like such an intruder into their household, and of all men Mr. Grey, whose nature is retiring, would like it the least."
"I was not thinking of Nethercoats," said Alice.


"Ah, no; that is it, you see. Kate says so often to me that when you are married she will be alone in the world."
"I don't think she will ever find that I shall separate myself from her."
"No; not by any will of your own. Poor Kate! You cannot be surprised that she should think of your marriage with dread. How much of her life has been made up of her companionship with you;--and all the best of it too! You ought not to be angry with her for regarding your withdrawal into Cambridgeshire with dismay."

"Ah, no. Kate says often to me that when you are married she will be alone in the world. Poor Kate! You cannot be surprised that she should dread your marriage. How much of her life has been made up of her companionship with you! You ought not to be angry with her for regarding your marriage with dismay."


Alice could not act the lie which now seemed to be incumbent on her. She could not let him talk of Nethercoats as though it were to be her future home. She made the struggle, and she found that she could not do it. She was unable to find the words which should tell no lie to the ear, and which should yet deceive him. "Kate may still live with me," she said slowly. "Everything is over between me and Mr. Grey."
"Alice!--is that true?"
"Yes, George; it is true. If you will allow me to say so, I would rather not talk about it;--not just at present."
"And does Kate know it?"

Alice could not let him talk of Nethercoats as though it were to be her future home.
"Kate may still live with me," she said slowly. "Everything is over between me and Mr. Grey."
"Alice! is that true?"
"Yes, George. I would rather not talk about it at present."
"And does Kate know it?"


"Yes, Kate knows it."
"And my uncle?"
"Yes, papa knows it also."
"Alice, how can I help speaking of it? How can I not tell you that I am rejoiced that you are saved from a thraldom which I have long felt sure would break your heart?"
"Pray do not talk of it further."

"Yes."
"And my uncle?"
"Yes, papa knows it also."
"Alice, how can I help speaking of it? I am rejoiced that you are saved from a thraldom which I was sure would break your heart!"
"Pray do not talk of it further."


"Well; if I am forbidden I shall of course obey. But I own it is hard to me. How can I not congratulate you?" To this she answered nothing, but beat with her foot upon the floor as though she were impatient of his words. "Yes, Alice, I understand. You are angry with me," he continued. "And yet you have no right to be surprised that when you tell me this I should think of all that passed between us in Switzerland. Surely the cousin who was with you then has a right to say what he thinks of this change in your life; at any rate he may do so, if as in this case he approves altogether of what you are doing."
"I am glad of your approval, George; but pray let that be an end to it."

"Well; I shall of course obey. But how can I not congratulate you?" To this she answered nothing, but beat with her foot upon the floor as though impatient of his words. "Yes, Alice, I understand. You are angry with me," he continued. "Yet surely your cousin has a right to say what he thinks of this change in your life; especially if he approves of it."
"I am glad of your approval, George; but pray let that be an end to it."


After that the two sat silent for a minute or two. She was waiting for him to go, but she could not bid him leave the house. She was angry with herself, in that she had allowed herself to tell him of her altered plans, and she was angry with him because he would not understand that she ought to be spared all conversation on the subject. So she sat looking through the window at the row of gaslights as they were being lit, and he remained in his chair with his elbow on the table and his head resting on his hand.
"Do you remember asking me whether I ever shivered," he said at last; "--whether I ever thought of things that made me shiver? Don't you remember; on the bridge at Basle?"
"Yes; I remember."
"Well, Alice;--one cause for my shivering is over. I won't say more than that now. Shall you remain long at Cheltenham?"

After that the two sat silent for a minute or two. She was waiting for him to go, but she could not bid him leave. She was angry with herself, for allowing herself to tell him of her altered plans, and she was angry with him because he would not understand that she ought to be spared all conversation on the subject. So she sat looking through the window at the gas-lamps as they were being lit, and he remained in his chair.
"Do you remember asking me whether I ever shivered," he said at last, "on the bridge at Basle?"
"Yes; I remember."
"Well, Alice, one cause for my shivering is over. I won't say more than that now. Shall you remain long at Cheltenham?"


"Just a month."
"And then you come back here?"
"I suppose so. Papa and I will probably go down to Vavasor Hall before Christmas. How much before I cannot say."
"I shall see you at any rate after your return from Cheltenham? Of course Kate will know, and she will tell me."
"Yes; Kate will know. I suppose she will stay here when she comes up from Norfolk. Good-bye."

"Just a month."
"And then you come back here?"
"I suppose so. Papa and I will probably go to Vavasor Hall before Christmas."
"I shall see you at any rate after your return from Cheltenham? Of course Kate will know."
"Yes; I suppose Kate will stay here when she comes back from Norfolk. Good-bye."


"Good-bye, Alice. I shall have fewer fits of that inward shivering that you spoke of,--many less, on account of what I have now heard. God bless you, Alice; good-bye."
"Good-bye, George."

"Good-bye, Alice. I shall have fewer fits now of that inward shivering that you spoke of. God bless you, Alice; good-bye."
"Good-bye, George."


As he went he took her hand and pressed it closely between his own. In those days when they were lovers,--engaged lovers, a close, long-continued pressure of her hand had been his most eloquent speech of love. He had not been given to many kisses,--not even to many words of love. But he would take her hand and hold it, even as he looked away from her, and she remembered well the touch of his palm. It was ever cool,--cool, and with a surface smooth as a woman's,--a small hand that had a firm grip. There had been days when she had loved to feel that her own was within it, when she trusted in it, and intended that it should be her staff through life. Now she distrusted it; and as the thoughts of the old days came upon her, and the remembrance of that touch was recalled, she drew her hand away rapidly. Not for that had she driven from her as honest a man as had ever wished to mate with a woman. He, George Vavasor, had never so held her hand since the day when they had parted, and now on this first occasion of her freedom she felt it again. What did he think of her?

He took her hand and pressed it closely between his own. In the days when they were engaged, a close pressure of her hand had been his most eloquent speech of love. He had not been given to many kisses - not even to many words of love. But he would take her hand and hold it, and she remembered well the touch of his palm. It was a cool, smooth, small hand that had a firm grip. There had been days when she had loved to feel that her own was within it, when she trusted in it, as her staff through life.
Now she distrusted it; and she drew her hand away rapidly. What did he think of her?


Did he suppose that she could transfer her love in that way, as a flower may be taken from one buttonhole and placed in another? He read it all, and knew that he was hurrying on too quickly. "I can understand well," he said in a whisper, "what your present feelings are; but I do not think you will be really angry with me because I have been unable to repress my joy at what I cannot but regard as your release from a great misfortune." Then he went.

Did he suppose that she could transfer her love in that way, as a flower may be taken from one buttonhole and placed in another?
He read it all, and knew that he was hurrying on too quickly.
"I can understand well," he whispered, "what your present feelings are; but I do not think you will be really angry with me because I have been unable to repress my joy at your release from a great misfortune." Then he went.


"My release!" she said, seating herself on the chair from which he had risen. "My release from a misfortune! No;--but my fall from heaven! Oh, what a man he is! That he should have loved me, and that I should have driven him away from me!" Her thoughts travelled off to the sweetness of that home at Nethercoats, to the excellence of that master who might have been hers; and then in an agony of despair she told herself that she had been an idiot and a fool, as well as a traitor. What had she wanted in life that she should have thus quarrelled with as happy a lot as ever had been offered to a woman? Had she not been mad, when she sent from her side the only man that she loved,--the only man that she had ever truly respected? For hours she sat there, all alone, putting out the candles which the servant had lighted for her, and leaving untasted the tea that was brought to her.

"My release!" she said. "My release from a misfortune! No; my fall from heaven! Oh, what a man he is! That he should have loved me, and that I should have driven him away!" Her thoughts travelled off to the sweetness of that home at Nethercoats, to the excellence of its master; and in an agony of despair she told herself that she had been an idiot and a fool, as well as a traitor. Had she not been mad, when she sent away the only man that she loved - the only man that she had ever truly respected? For hours she sat there, all alone, leaving untasted the tea that was brought to her.


Poor Alice! I hope that she may be forgiven. It was her special fault, that when at Rome she longed for Tibur, and when at Tibur she regretted Rome. Not that her cousin George is to be taken as representing the joys of the great capital, though Mr. Grey may be presumed to form no inconsiderable part of the promised delights of the country. Now that she had sacrificed her Tibur, because it had seemed to her that the sunny quiet of its pastures lacked the excitement necessary for the happiness of life, she was again prepared to quarrel with the heartlessness of Rome, and already was again sighing for the tranquillity of the country.


Sitting there, full of these regrets, she declared to herself that she would wait for her father's return, and then, throwing herself upon his love and upon his mercy, would beg him to go to Mr. Grey and ask for pardon for her. "I should be very humble to him," she said; "but he is so good, that I may dare to be humble before him." So she waited for her father. She waited till twelve, till one, till two;--but still he did not come. Later than that she did not dare to wait for him. She feared to trust him on such business returning so late as that,--after so many cigars; after, perhaps, some superfluous beakers of club nectar. His temper at such a moment would not be fit for such work as hers. But if he was late in coming home, who had sent him away from his home in unhappiness? Between two and three she went to bed, and on the following morning she left Queen Anne Street for the Great Western Station before her father was up.

Sitting there, full of these regrets, she declared to herself that she would wait for her father's return, and then, throwing herself upon his love and mercy, would beg him to go to Mr. Grey and ask for pardon for her.
"I should be very humble to him," she said; "but he is so good, that I may dare to be humble before him." So she waited for her father. She waited till twelve, till one, till two;-but still he did not come. Later than that she did not dare to wait for him. His temper at such a time would not be fit for the task. Between two and three she went to bed, and on the following morning she left Queen Anne Street for the station before her father was up.


Poor Kate's condition at the old Hall on that night was very sad. The presence of death is always a source of sorrow, even though the circumstances of the case are of a kind to create no agony of grief. The old man who had just passed away up-stairs was fully due to go. He had lived his span all out, and had himself known that to die was the one thing left for him to do. Kate also had expected his death, and had felt that the time had come in which it would be foolish even to wish that it should be arrested. But death close to one is always sad as it is solemn.

Poor Kate's condition that night was very sad. Death is always a sorrow, even though it may cause no agony of grief. The old man had lived his span; both he and Kate had expected his death. But death close to one is always sad and solemn.

Chapter 54: Showing How Alice Was Punished


And she was quite alone at Vavasor Hall. She had no acquaintance within some miles of her. From the young vicar, though she herself had not quarrelled with him, she could receive no comfort, as she hardly knew him; nor was she of a temperament which would dispose her to turn to a clergyman at such a time for comfort, unless to one who might have been an old friend. Her aunt and brother would probably both come to her, but they could hardly be with her for a day or two, and during that day or two it would be needful that orders should be given which it is disagreeable for a woman to have to give. The servants, moreover, in the house were hardly fit to assist her much. There was an old butler, or footman, who had lived at the Hall for more than fifty years, but he was crippled with rheumatism, and so laden with maladies, that he rarely crept out of his own room. He was simply an additional burden on the others. There was a boy who had lately done all the work which the other should have done, and ever so much more beside. There is no knowing how much work such a boy will do when properly drilled, and he was now Kate's best minister in her distress. There was the old nurse,--but she had been simply good for nursing, and there were two rough Westmoreland girls who called themselves cook and housemaid.

And she was quite alone at Vavasor Hall. She had no acquaintance within miles. Her aunt and brother would probably both come, but they could take a day or two, and during that time she needed to give orders which were disagreeable for a woman.
The servants were hardly fit to assist her much. There was an old butler who had lived at the Hall for more than fifty years, but he was crippled with rheumatism, and was simply an additional burden on the others. There was a boy who had lately done all the work, and he was now Kate's best minister in her distress. There was the old nurse - but she had been good only for nursing; and there were two rough Westmorland girls who called themselves cook and housemaid.


On that first evening,--the very day on which her grandfather had died,--Kate would have been more comfortable had she really found something that she could do. But there was in truth nothing. She hovered for an hour or two in and out of the room, conscious of the letter which she had in her pocket, and very desirous in heart of reading it, but restrained by a feeling that at such a moment she ought to think only of the dead. In this she was wrong. Let the living think of the dead, when their thoughts will travel that way whether the thinker wish it or no. Grief taken up because grief is supposed to be proper, is only one degree better than pretended grief. When one sees it, one cannot but think of the lady who asked her friend, in confidence, whether hot roast fowl and bread-sauce were compatible with the earliest state of weeds; or of that other lady,--a royal lady she,--who was much comforted in the tedium of her trouble when assured by one of the lords about the Court that piquet was mourning.
It was late at night, near eleven, before Kate took out her letter and read it. As something of my story hangs upon it, I will give it at length, though it was a long letter. It had been written with great struggles, and with many tears, and Kate, as she read it to the end, almost forgot that her grandfather was lying dead in the room above her.

On that evening of the day on which her grandfather had died, Kate would have been more comfortable if she had found something that she could do. But there was nothing. She hovered for an hour or two around the room, conscious of the letter from Alice in her pocket, wishing to read it, but restrained by a feeling that at the moment she ought to think only of the dead.
It was late at night before Kate took out her letter and read it. It had been written with great struggles, and with many tears, and Kate, as she read it, almost forgot that her grandfather was lying dead in the room above her.


Queen Anne Street, April, 186--.
DEAREST KATE,
I hardly know how to write to you--what I have to tell, and yet I must tell it. I must tell it to you, but I shall never repeat the story to any one else. I should have written yesterday, when it occurred, but I was so ill that I felt myself unable to make the exertion. Indeed, at one time, after your brother had left me, I almost doubted whether I should ever be able to collect my thoughts again. My dismay was at first so great that my reason for a time deserted me, and I could only sit and cry like an idiot.

Queen Anne Street, April, 186--.
Dearest Kate,
I hardly know how to write what I have to tell, and yet I must tell it; but I shall never repeat the story to anyone else. I would have written yesterday, when it occurred, but I was so ill that I felt unable to. Indeed, at one time, after your brother had left me, I almost doubted whether I should ever be able to collect my thoughts again. My dismay was so great that my reason for a time deserted me, and I could only sit and cry like an idiot.


Dear Kate, I hope you will not be angry with me for telling you. I have endeavoured to think about it as calmly as I can, and I believe that I have no alternative. The fact that your brother has quarrelled with me cannot be concealed from you, and I must not leave him to tell you of the manner of it. He came to me yesterday in great anger. His anger then was nothing to what it became afterwards; but even when he first came in he was full of wrath. He stood up before me, and asked me how it had come to pass that I had sent him the money which he had asked of me through the hands of Mr. Grey. Of course I had not done this, and so I told him at once. I had spoken of the matter to no one but papa, and he had managed it for me. Even now I know nothing of it, and as I have not yet spoken to papa I cannot understand it. George at once told me that he disbelieved me, and when I sat quiet under this insult, he used harsher words, and said that I had conspired to lower him before the world.

Dear Kate, I hope you will not be angry with me for telling you. I have tried to think about it as calmly as I can, and I believe that I have no alternative. The fact that your brother has quarrelled with me cannot be concealed from you, and I must not leave him to tell you about it.
He came to me yesterday in great anger; although his anger then was nothing to what it became afterwards. He stood before me, and asked me how it had come to pass that I had sent him my money through the hands of Mr. Grey. Of course I had not done this, and so I told him. I had spoken of the matter to no one but papa, and he had managed it for me. Even now I know nothing of it, and as I have not yet spoken to papa I cannot understand it. George at once told me that he disbelieved me, and when I sat quiet, he used harsher words, and said that I had conspired to lower him before the world.


He then asked me whether I loved him. Oh, Kate, I must tell it you all, though it is dreadful to me that I should have to write it. You remember how it came to pass when we were in Westmoreland together at Christmas? Do not think that I am blaming you, but I was very rash then in the answers which I made to him. I thought that I could be useful to him as his wife, and I had told myself that it would be good that I should be of use in some way. When he asked me that question yesterday, I sat silent. Indeed, how could I have answered it in the affirmative, when he had just used such language to me,--while he was standing opposite to me, looking at me in that way which he has when he is enraged? Then he spoke again and demanded of me that I should at once send back to Mr. Grey all presents of his which I had kept, and at the same time took up and threw across the table on to the sofa near me, a little paper knife which Mr. Grey once gave me. I could not allow myself to be so ordered by him; so I said nothing, but put the knife back upon the table. He then took it again and threw it beneath the grate.

He then asked me whether I loved him. Oh, Kate, I must tell it you all, though it is dreadful to write it. You remember what happened when we were in Westmorland together at Christmas? Do not think that I am blaming you, but I was very rash then in the answer I made to him. I thought that I could be useful to him as his wife, and I thought it would be good that I should be of use in some way. When he asked me that question yesterday, I sat silent. Indeed, how could I have answered "yes", when he had just used such language to me - while he was standing there looking so enraged?
Then he demanded that I should at once send back to Mr. Grey all presents of his which I had kept, and he threw across the table a little paper knife which Mr. Grey once gave me. I could not allow myself to be so ordered by him; so I said nothing, but put the knife back upon the table. He then took it again and threw it beneath the grate.