I shall wait for a further letter from you before I speak either to my father or to my grandfather. If you can tell me that you accede to my views, I will at once try to bring about a reconciliation between you and the Squire. I think that that will be almost easier than inducing my father to look with favour upon our marriage. But I need hardly say that should either one or the other oppose it,--or should both do so,--that would not turn me from my purpose.
I also wait for your answer to write a last line to Mr. Grey.
Your affectionate cousin,
ALICE VAVASOR.

I shall wait for a further letter from you before I speak either to my father or to my grandfather. If you agree, I will try to bring about a reconciliation between you and the Squire. I think that will be almost easier than inducing my father to look with favour upon our marriage. But I need hardly say that should either of them oppose it, that would not turn me from my purpose.
Your affectionate cousin,
Alice Vavasor.


George Vavasor when he had read the letter threw it carelessly from him on to the breakfast table, and began to munch his toast. He threw it carelessly from him, as though taking a certain pride in his carelessness. "Very well," said he; "so be it. It is probably the best thing that I could do, whatever the effect may be on her." Then he took up his newspaper. But before the day was over he had made many plans,--plans made almost unconsciously,--as to the benefit which might accrue to him from the offer which she had made of her money. And before night he had written that reply to her of which we have heard the contents; and had written also to his sister Kate a letter, of which Kate had kept the contents to herself.

After reading this letter George Vavasor threw it carelessly on to the breakfast table, as if taking pride in his carelessness, and began to munch his toast.
"Very well," said he; "so be it. It is probably the best thing that I could do." Then he took up his newspaper. But before the day was over he had made many plans about the use he could make of her money. And before night he had written his reply to her, and his letter to Kate.

Chapter 32: Containing an Answer to the Love Letter


"George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--"
"A man must shave,--even at Basle."
"But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?"

"George," said Kate as she approached them, "have you been preparing all your things for sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and gathering that something had occurred, she went on rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table-"
"A man must shave, even at Basle."
"But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and several combs and little glass bottles. I have packed them all; but now you are responsible for them. And I will not pack your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots?"


"When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it."
"Oh, yes; I shall like it."
"Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure.
"Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away."

"When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it."
"Oh, yes; I shall like it."
"Come along, then," said Kate. And so they moved away, Alice and Kate together, while George strolled behind, close to them, but not joining in their conversation - as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate was chattering to Alice to show that there was nothing serious on their minds. George followed them with his hands behind his back, looking down at the pavement.
"Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away


"Where do you want to run to?"
"Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it."
"But why run away just now?"
"I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here."

 - perhaps to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me - and I should have the waterfall."
"But why run away just now?"
"I won't.


"If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us."
"That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow."
"It's your own choice."
"No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!"

But I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going to Aunt Greenow."
"It's your own choice."
"No, it's not. I haven't any real choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but her!"


"I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman."
"She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?"
"No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural."
"He was thirty years older than herself."

"I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow seems to be a very good sort of woman."
"She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?"
"No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street after he died, but that was natural."
"He was thirty years older than her."


"But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death."
"No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees."

"But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and very rich. But according to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death."
"No; but she needn't be so outrageous in wearing her mourning, or so very careful that her widow's caps are becoming. Her eyes are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready to flutter her eyelids at any man she sees."


"Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?"
"Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her."
"Then you're as bad as she is."

"Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?"
"Because she's rich.


"Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?"
"Nothing, I should say."

It's the fault of the world. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' And what can I expect from her money?"
"Nothing, I should say."


"Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money."
"I should think no one."
"Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself."
"Why is it?"

"Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. As for me, nobody cares less for money. Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her?"
"Why?"


"Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house."
"And serve you right too after what had happened."

"Because it's possible that she may help George in his career. I do not need money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would turn me out of the house.


"I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you."

He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at swearing that he came and kissed me and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it to George as a contribution to the next election. Don't tell him that I told you."


Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing."
"I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world."
"I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned."
"I can't fancy anything else," said Alice.
"It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam."
"And so arrive there without your clothes," said George.

They stopped and leaned over the parapet of the bridge.
"Come here, George," said Kate, making room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there? The water looks so enticing."
"I can't say I should; unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world."
"I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate. "I can't imagine that I should be drowned."
"I can't imagine anything else," said Alice.
"It would be so pleasant to be carried away headlong to Rotterdam."
"And arrive there without your clothes," said George.


"They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose."
Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech.

"They would be brought after in a boat. The water looks so clear and bright in the moonlight, and the sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that, I suppose."
She went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and Yarmouth. Still they stood looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech.


At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said.
"No indeed."
"If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air."
"It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?"

At last Alice seemed to shiver.
"You are cold," said George.
"It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?"


"Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy."
"I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver."
"It's not because you have committed any murder then."
"No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose."

"Indeed I do - so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly."
"I don't mean important things," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it; perhaps a word that I ought not to have said ten years ago. The most ordinary little mistakes are always making me shiver."


"Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed."

"Ah! When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then I shiver - but inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We have to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed."


"Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move.
"Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five."
"I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?"
"I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George.
"Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate.
"Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed."


They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come.

They walked back to the hotel. On the stairs George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her.
"My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night."
She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though he had meant nothing; but she couldn't. She went to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms adjoined, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin came.


But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity."
"And bid her throw John Grey over!"
"Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer."
"Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement."

But Kate was with her brother.
"If you'll take my advice," said Kate to him, with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her to give you another chance. Do it tomorrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity."
"And bid her throw John Grey over!"
"Don't say anything about John Grey. Leave her to settle that herself. She has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer."
"Kate, you women never understand each other. She must find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement."


"She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes."
"Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion."
"But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?"
"Upon my word I don't know."

"She has found that out long ago, I am sure of it. But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?"
"Upon my word I don't know."


"Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again."
"Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone."
"Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful."
"Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?"
"But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes."
"I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it."

"Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd tell her never to see you again."
"Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone. Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?"
"But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his - as though he was always reminding himself not to wear out his clothes."
"I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it."


"If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her."
"Did and do are different things."
"Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me."
"Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed."

"If you're going to preach, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody, you loved her."
"Did and do are different things."
"Very well, George; I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me."
"Kate, I think you'd better go to bed."


"But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again."
"Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?"
"No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart."
"I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed."

"But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again."
"Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?"
"No. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but it's nothing to me if he breaks his heart."
"I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed."


With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing."
"You said we'd do it together."
"But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?"
"I don't think he ever will," said Alice.

With that she went away to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, with her head out through the lattice.
"Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing."
"You said we'd do it together."
"But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?"
"I don't think he ever will," said Alice.


"Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?"
"Never; nor yet wild."
"Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild."

"Don't you? Sometimes I think that the only thing needed to make him thoroughly good is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments when he is very wild; but he is never cruel or hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?"
"Never; nor wild."
"Oh, I'm quite sure he's never wild."


"When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him."
"No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before."
"I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?"

"When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him."
"No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild, wild in my sense. You know that."
"I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?"


"Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--"
"Ever since what?"
"Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen."
"And what's that?"

"Ah! I've never asked myself what sort of husband I would like. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since-"
"Ever since what?"
"Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end, unless one thing should happen."
"And what's that?"


"Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else."
"Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible."
"Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!"
"Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her.

"Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else."
"Kate, you shouldn't say such a thing. You know that it's impossible."
"Well, perhaps so. And it's all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world; literally nothing!"
"Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice embraced her.


"Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good.

"Go away," said Kate. "Oh, Alice, I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. But I'd give up everything to see you become George's wife. I know I'm not good.


I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall.
"Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way."
"Of course I shouldn't,--but I do."
"You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it."
"He does wish it."
"Not though I were under no other engagement."

Don't, Alice; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall.
"Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way."
"Of course I shouldn't - but I do."
"You know that I cannot marry your brother - even if he wished it."
"He does wish it."
"Not even if I were bound to no other engagement."


"And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?"
"You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate."

"And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "That engagement will end in misery. Do you think I can't see which of the two men you like best?"
"You are making me sorry, Kate, that I ventured to come here with your brother. It is not only unkind of you, it is indelicate."


"Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath."
"If you think ill of me like that--"

"Oh, indelicate! How I hate that word. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. If you love anyone better, marrying him is about the most indelicate thing you can do."
"If you think ill of me like that-"


"No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr."
"And which is the Satyr?"

"No; I don't think ill of you. It hasn't been your fault; it has been his. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. If Mr. Grey had come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival?"


"I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it."


To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career.

Alice made no answer. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have shown the excellence of her position as Mr. Grey's fiance, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had somehow acknowledged that the match was to be deplored. But she would hurry home and bid Mr. Grey name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her.


It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent.
About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg.

It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to pack, and about two when they got into bed. At six they were at the railway station. Half an hour later they were on their way to Strasbourg.


There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river.

There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or the bridge over the river.


Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men.

Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth.
"I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she told Alice when she visited. "And she is exacting in a way I can't describe. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went upstairs to try on some new clothes for the seaside, and I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor did George show himself. He said afterwards that he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse.


It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career.

It will be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was ten years younger than her brother John, but looked younger still. In early life she lived with relatives in a town in the north of England. Although she had the reputation of being a beauty, at thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that there was some truth in this.
Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to take their advice at various times.


There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man.

They were, indeed, quite troubled about her, when they heard the news that that she was going to be married to an old man.


She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that Mrs. Greenow was quite a pattern wife, and that Mr. Greenow considered himself to be the happiest old man in Lancashire. And now in her prosperity she quite forgave the former slights which had been put upon her by her relatives. She wrote to her dear niece Alice, and to her dearest niece Kate, and sent little presents to her father. On one occasion she took her husband to Vavasor Hall, and there was a regular renewal of all the old family feelings. Arabella's husband was an old man, and was very old for his age; but the whole thing was quite respectable, and there was, at any rate, no doubt about the money.

The marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily. The Vavasors were relieved from their trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her wifely duty well. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very well, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon reached Vavasor Hall that Mrs. Greenow was a model wife, and that Mr. Greenow considered himself to be the happiest old man in Lancashire.
On one occasion she took her husband to Vavasor Hall; he was very old for his age, but the marriage was quite respectable, and there was, at any rate, no doubt about the money.


Then Mr. Greenow died; and the widow, having proved the will, came up to London and claimed the commiseration of her nieces.
"Why not go to Yarmouth with her for a month?" George had said to Kate. "Of course it will be a bore. But an aunt with forty thousand pounds has a right to claim attention." Kate acknowledged the truth of the argument and agreed to go to Yarmouth for a month. "Your aunt Arabella has shown herself to be a very sensible woman," the old squire had written; "much more sensible than anybody thought her before her marriage. Of course you should go with her if she asks you." What aunt, uncle, or cousin, in the uncontrolled possession of forty thousand pounds was ever unpopular in the family?

Then Mr. Greenow died; and the widow came to London and claimed the commiseration of her nieces.
"Why not go to Yarmouth with her for a month?" George had said to Kate. "Of course it will be a bore. But an aunt with forty thousand pounds has a right to claim attention." The old squire had also written to her, telling her to go if asked. So Kate agreed to go to Yarmouth for a month.


Yarmouth is not a very prepossessing place to the eye. To my eye, at any rate, it is not so. There is an old town with which summer visitors have little or nothing to do; and there are the new houses down by the sea-side, to which, at any rate, belongs the full advantage of sea air. A kind of esplanade runs for nearly a mile along the sands, and there are built, or in the course of building, rows of houses appropriated to summer visitors all looking out upon the sea. There is no beauty unless the yellow sandy sea can be called beautiful. The coast is low and straight, and the east wind blows full upon it. But the place is healthy; and Mrs. Greenow was probably right in thinking that she might there revive some portion of the health which she had lost in watching beside the couch of her departing lord.

Yarmouth is not a very prepossessing place. There is an old town which summer visitors do not venture into; and there are the new houses down by the sea-side. A kind of esplanade runs for nearly a mile along the sands, and there are rows of new houses for summer visitors, all looking out upon the sea. There is no beauty unless the yellow sandy sea can be called beautiful. The coast is low and straight, and the east wind blows full upon it. But the place is healthy.


"Omnibus;--no, indeed. Jeannette, get me a fly." These were the first words Mrs. Greenow spoke as she put her foot upon the platform at the Yarmouth station. Her maid's name was Jenny; but Kate had already found, somewhat to her dismay, that orders had been issued before they left London that the girl was henceforth to be called Jeannette. Kate had also already found that her aunt could be imperious; but this taste for masterdom had not shown itself so plainly in London as it did from the moment that the train had left the station at Shoreditch. In London Mrs. Greenow had been among Londoners, and her career had hitherto been provincial. Her spirit, no doubt, had been somewhat cowed by the novelty of her position. But when she felt herself to be once beyond the stones as the saying used to be, she was herself again; and at Ipswich she had ordered Jeannette to get her a glass of sherry with an air which had created a good deal of attention among the guards and porters.
The fly was procured; and with considerable exertion all Mrs. Greenow's boxes, together with the more moderate belongings of her niece and maid, were stowed on the top of it, round upon the driver's body on the coach box, on the maid's lap, and I fear in Kate's also, and upon the vacant seat.
"The large house in Montpelier Parade," said Mrs. Greenow.

"Omnibus; no, indeed. Jeannette, get me a hackney cab." These were the first words Mrs. Greenow spoke as she put her foot upon the platform at Yarmouth station. Her maid's name was Jenny; but Kate had found, somewhat to her dismay, that the girl was to be called Jeannette.
Mrs. Greenow's taste for masterdom had not shown itself so plainly in London as it did now. As a provincial person among Londoners, her spirit had been somewhat cowed. But outside London she was herself again; and at Ipswich she had ordered Jeannette to get her a glass of sherry with an air which had created a good deal of attention among the porters.
The cab was found; and all Mrs. Greenow's boxes, together with the more moderate belongings of her niece and maid, were stowed on the top of it, around the driver, on the maid's lap, and Kate's also, and upon the vacant seat.
"The large house in Montpelier Parade," said Mrs. Greenow.


"They is all large, ma'am," said the driver.
"The largest," said Mrs. Greenow.
"They're much of a muchness," said the driver.
"Then Mrs. Jones's," said Mrs. Greenow. "But I was particularly told it was the largest in the row."
"I know Mrs. Jones's well," said the driver, and away they went.

"They is all large, ma'am," said the driver.
"The largest," said Mrs. Greenow. "Mrs. Jones's. I was told it was the largest in the row."
"I know Mrs. Jones's," said the driver, and away they went.


Mrs. Jones's house was handsome and comfortable; but I fear Mrs. Greenow's satisfaction in this respect was impaired by her disappointment in finding that it was not perceptibly bigger than those to the right and left of her. Her ambition in this and in other similar matters would have amused Kate greatly had she been a bystander, and not one of her aunt's party. Mrs. Greenow was good-natured, liberal, and not by nature selfish; but she was determined not to waste the good things which fortune had given, and desired that all the world should see that she had forty thousand pounds of her own. And in doing this she was repressed by no feeling of false shame. She never hesitated in her demands through bashfulness. She called aloud for such comfort and grandeur as Yarmouth could afford her, and was well pleased that all around should hear her calling. Joined to all this was her uncontrolled grief for her husband's death.

Mrs. Jones's house was handsome and comfortable; but I fear Mrs. Greenow was disappointed to find that it was not perceptibly bigger than those on either side. This ambition would have amused Kate greatly had she been a bystander, and not her aunt's companion. Mrs. Greenow was good-natured and generous; but she desired that all the world should see that she had forty thousand pounds. She had no bashfulness about this. She called aloud for such comfort and grandeur as Yarmouth could give her, and was well pleased that all around should hear her calling. Joined to all this was her uncontrolled grief for her husband's death.


"Dear Greenow! sweet lamb! Oh, Kate, if you'd only known that man!" When she said this she was sitting in the best of Mrs. Jones's sitting-rooms, waiting to have dinner announced. She had taken a drawing-room and dining-room, "because," as she had said, "she didn't see why people should be stuffy when they went to the seaside;--not if they had means to make themselves comfortable."
"Oh, Kate, I do wish you'd known him!"
"I wish I had," said Kate,--very untruly. "I was unfortunately away when he went to Vavasor Hall."

"Dear Greenow! sweet lamb! Oh, Kate, if you'd only known that man!" When she said this she was sitting in the best of Mrs. Jones's sitting-rooms, before dinner. "Oh, Kate, I do wish you'd known him!"
"I wish I had," said Kate, untruthfully. "I was away when he came to Vavasor Hall."


"Ah, yes; but it was at home, in the domestic circle, that Greenow should have been seen to be appreciated. I was a happy woman, Kate, while that lasted." And Kate was surprised to see that real tears--one or two on each side--were making their way down her aunt's cheeks. But they were soon checked with a handkerchief of the broadest hem and of the finest cambric.
"Dinner, ma'am," said Jeannette, opening the door.
"Jeannette, I told you always to say that dinner was served."
"Dinner's served then," said Jeannette in a tone of anger.

"Ah, yes; but it was at home that Greenow had to be seen to be appreciated. I was a happy woman, Kate." And Kate was surprised to see that real tears were making their way down her aunt's cheeks. But they were soon checked with a handkerchief of the finest cambric.
"Dinner, ma'am," said Jeannette, opening the door.
"Jeannette, I told you always to say that dinner was served."
"Dinner's served then," said Jeannette angrily.


"Come, Kate," said her aunt. "I've but little appetite myself, but there's no reason you shouldn't eat your dinner. I specially wrote to Mrs. Jones to have some sweetbread. I do hope she's got a decent cook. It's very little I eat myself, but I do like to see things nice."

"Come, Kate," said her aunt. "I've little appetite myself, but there's no reason you shouldn't eat your dinner. I do hope Mrs. Jones has got a decent cook."


The next day was Sunday; and it was beautiful to see how Mrs. Greenow went to church in all the glory of widowhood. There had been a great unpacking after that banquet on the sweetbread, and all her funereal millinery had been displayed before Kate's wondering eyes. The charm of the woman was in this,--that she was not in the least ashamed of anything that she did. She turned over all her wardrobe of mourning, showing the richness of each article, the stiffness of the crape, the fineness of the cambric, the breadth of the frills,--telling the price of each to a shilling, while she explained how the whole had been amassed without any consideration of expense. This she did with all the pride of a young bride when she shows the glories of her trousseau to the friend of her bosom. Jeannette stood by the while, removing one thing and exhibiting another. Now and again through the performance, Mrs. Greenow would rest a while from her employment, and address the shade of the departed one in terms of most endearing affection. In the midst of this Mrs. Jones came in; but the widow was not a whit abashed by the presence of the stranger. "Peace be to his manes!" she said at last, as she carefully folded up a huge black crape mantilla.

The next day was Sunday; and it was beautiful to see how Mrs. Greenow went to church in all the glory of widowhood. There had been a great unpacking after dinner, and all her funereal outfits had been displayed before Kate's wondering eyes. Mrs. Greenow had pointed out the richness of each garment, the fineness of the fabric, the breadth of the frills - telling the price of each to a shilling, while she explained how expense had been of no consideration. This she did with all the pride of a young bride showing off her trousseau. Now and again, Mrs. Greenow would pause and address the shade of the departed one with affectionate words. In the midst of this Mrs. Jones came in; but the widow was not at all abashed by her presence.


She made, however, but one syllable of the classical word, and Mrs. Jones thought that her lodger had addressed herself to the mortal "remains" of her deceased lord.
[Illustration: "Peace be to his manes."]
"He is left her uncommon well off, I suppose," said Mrs. Jones to Jeannette.
"You may say that, ma'am. It's more nor a hundred thousand of pounds!"
"No!"
"Pounds of sterling, ma'am! Indeed it is;--to my knowledge."
"Why don't she have a carriage?"

"He left her uncommon well off, I suppose," said Mrs. Jones to Jeannette afterwards.
"You may say that, ma'am. It's more nor a hundred thousand of pounds!"
"No!"
"Indeed it is."
"Why don't she have a carriage?"


"So she do;--but a lady can't bring her carriage down to the sea when she's only just buried her husband as one may say. What'd folks say if they saw her in her own carriage? But it ain't because she can't afford it, Mrs. Jones. And now we're talking of it you must order a fly for church to-morrow, that'll look private, you know. She said I was to get a man that had a livery coat and gloves."

"She do; but a lady can't bring her carriage down to the sea when she's only just buried her husband. What'd folks say? But it ain't because she can't afford it, Mrs. Jones. And now we're talking of it you must order a cab for church tomorrow. She said I was to get a man that had a livery coat and gloves."


The man with the coat and gloves was procured; and Mrs. Greenow's entry into church made quite a sensation. There was a thoughtfulness about her which alone showed that she was a woman of no ordinary power. She foresaw all necessities, and made provision for all emergencies. Another would not have secured an eligible sitting, and been at home in Yarmouth church, till half the period of her sojourn there was over. But Mrs. Greenow had done it all. She walked up the middle aisle with as much self-possession as though the chancel had belonged to her family for years; and the respectable pew-opener absolutely deserted two or three old ladies whom she was attending, to show Mrs. Greenow into her seat. When seated, she was the cynosure of all eyes. Kate Vavasor became immediately aware that a great sensation had been occasioned by their entrance, and equally aware that none of it was due to her. I regret to say that this feeling continued to show itself throughout the whole service. How many ladies of forty go to church without attracting the least attention!

The man with the coat and gloves was procured; and Mrs. Greenow's entry into church made quite a sensation. She walked up the middle aisle as though the chancel had belonged to her family for years; and the respectable pew-opener deserted two or three old ladies to show Mrs. Greenow into her seat. All eyes were on her.
I regret to say that this continued throughout the whole service.


But it is hardly too much to say that every person in that church had looked at Mrs. Greenow. I doubt if there was present there a single married lady who, on leaving the building, did not speak to her husband of the widow. There had prevailed during the whole two hours a general though unexpressed conviction that something worthy of remark had happened that morning. It had an effect even upon the curate's reading; and the incumbent, while preaching his sermon, could not keep his eyes off that wonderful bonnet and veil.
On the next morning, before eleven, Mrs. Greenow's name was put down at the Assembly Room. "I need hardly say that in my present condition I care nothing for these things. Of course I would sooner be alone. But, my dear Kate, I know what I owe to you."

Every person in that church looked at Mrs. Greenow. There was a general conviction that something remarkable had happened that morning. Even the minister, while preaching his sermon, could not keep his eyes off that wonderful bonnet and veil.
Next morning Mrs. Greenow's name was put down at the Assembly Room. "I need hardly say that in my present condition I care nothing for these things. But, my dear Kate, I know what I owe to you."


Kate, with less intelligence than might have been expected from one so clever, began to assure her aunt that she required no society; and that, coming thus with her to the seaside in the early days of her widowhood, she had been well aware that they would live retired. But Mrs. Greenow soon put her down, and did so without the slightest feeling of shame or annoyance on her own part. "My dear," she said, "in this matter you must let me do what I know to be right. I should consider myself to be very selfish if I allowed my grief to interfere with your amusements."
"But, aunt, I don't care for such amusements."
"That's nonsense, my dear. You ought to care for them. How are you to settle yourself in life if you don't care for them?"
"My dear aunt, I am settled."

Kate, with less intelligence than might have been expected from one so clever, began to assure her aunt that she needed no society, and was expecting a quiet time. But Mrs. Greenow soon corrected her, without any sign of annoyance.
"My dear," she said, " you must let me do what I know to be right. I should be very selfish if I allowed my grief to interfere with your amusements."
"But, aunt, I don't care for such amusements."
"That's nonsense, my dear. You ought to care for them. How are you to settle yourself in life if you don't care for them?"
"My dear aunt, I am settled."


"Settled!" said Mrs. Greenow, astounded, as though there must have been some hidden marriage of which she had not heard. "But that's nonsense. Of course you're not settled; and how are you to be, if I allow you to shut yourself up in such a place as this,--just where a girl has a chance?"

"Settled!" said Mrs. Greenow, astounded, as though there must have been some hidden marriage of which she had not heard. "But that's nonsense. Of course you're not settled; and how are you to be, if I allow you to shut yourself up?"


It was in vain that Kate tried to stop her. It was not easy to stop Mrs. Greenow when she was supported by the full assurance of being mistress of the place and of the occasion. "No, my dear; I know very well what I owe to you, and I shall do my duty. As I said before, society can have no charms now for such a one as I am. All that social intercourse could ever do for me lies buried in my darling's grave. My heart is desolate, and must remain so. But I'm not going to immolate you on the altars of my grief. I shall force myself to go out for your sake, Kate."
"But, dear aunt, the world will think it so odd, just at present."

It was in vain that Kate tried to stop her.
"No, my dear; I shall do my duty by you. Although my heart is desolate, I'm not going to immolate you on the altars of my grief. I shall force myself to go out for your sake, Kate."
"But, dear aunt, the world will think it so odd."


"I don't care twopence for the world. What can the world do to me? I'm not dependent on the world,--thanks to the care of that sainted lamb. I can hold my own; and as long as I can do that the world won't hurt me. No, Kate, if I think a thing's right I shall do it. I mean to make the place pleasant for you if I can, and the world may object if it likes."

"I don't care twopence for the world. What can the world do to me? I'm not dependent on the world - thanks to that sainted lamb. No, Kate; I mean to make the place pleasant for you if I can, and the world may object if it likes."


Mrs. Greenow was probably right in her appreciation of the value of her independence. Remarks may perhaps have been made by the world of Yarmouth as to her early return to society. People, no doubt, did remind each other that old Greenow was hardly yet four months buried. Mrs. Jones and Jeannette probably had their little jokes down-stairs. But this did not hurt Mrs. Greenow. What was said, was not said in her hearing, Mrs. Jones's bills were paid every Saturday with admirable punctuality; and as long as this was done everybody about the house treated the lady with that deference which was due to the respectability of her possessions. When a recently bereaved widow attempts to enjoy her freedom without money, then it behoves the world to speak aloud;--and the world does its duty.

The people of Yarmouth no doubt did remind each other that old Greenow was hardly yet four months buried. Mrs. Jones and Jeannette probably had their little jokes downstairs. But this did not hurt Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Jones's bills were paid punctually; and everybody in the house treated the lady with due deference.


Numerous people came to call at Montpelier Parade, and Kate was astonished to find that her aunt had so many friends. She was indeed so bewildered by these strangers that she could hardly ascertain whom her aunt had really known before, and whom she now saw for the first time. Somebody had known somebody who had known somebody else, and that was allowed to be a sufficient introduction,--always presuming that the existing somebody was backed by some known advantages of money or position. Mrs. Greenow could smile from beneath her widow's cap in a most bewitching way. "Upon my word then she is really handsome," Kate wrote one day to Alice. But she could also frown, and knew well how to put aside, or, if need be, to reprobate any attempt at familiarity from those whose worldly circumstances were supposed to be disadvantageous.
"My dear aunt," said Kate one morning after their walk upon the pier, "how you did snub that Captain Bellfield!"

Numerous people came to call at Montpelier Parade, and Kate was astonished to find that her aunt had so many friends. She was indeed so bewildered by these strangers that she could hardly work out whom her aunt had known before, and whom she met for the first time. Somebody had known somebody who had known somebody else, and that was sufficient introduction. Mrs. Greenow could smile from beneath her widow's cap in a most bewitching way, and look most handsome. But she could also frown, and knew how to quell any attempt at familiarity from unsuitable people.
"My dear aunt," said Kate one morning after their walk upon the pier, "how you did snub that Captain Bellfield!"


"Captain Bellfield, indeed! I don't believe he's a captain at all. At any rate he has sold out, and the tradesmen have had a scramble for the money. He was only a lieutenant when the 97th were in Manchester, and I'm sure he's never had a shilling to purchase since that."
"But everybody here seems to know him."
"Perhaps they do not know so much of him as I do. The idea of his having the impudence to tell me I was looking very well! Nothing can be so mean as men who go about in that way when they haven't money enough in their pockets to pay their washerwomen."
"But how do you know, aunt, that Captain Bellfield hasn't paid his washerwoman?"

"Captain Bellfield, indeed! I don't believe he's a captain at all. At any rate he has sold out, and the tradesmen have scrambled for the money. He was only a lieutenant when the 97th were in Manchester."
"But everybody here seems to know him."
"Perhaps they do not know so much of him as I do. His impudence in telling me I was looking very well! Nothing can be so mean as men who go about in that way when they haven't enough money in their pockets to pay their washerwomen."
"But, aunt, how do you know that Captain Bellfield hasn't paid his washerwoman?"


"I know more than you think, my dear. It's my business. How could I tell whose attentions you should receive and whose you shouldn't, if I didn't inquire into these things?"


It was in vain that Kate rebelled, or attempted to rebel against this more than maternal care. She told her aunt that she was now nearly thirty, and that she had managed her own affairs, at any rate with safety, for the last ten years;--but it was to no purpose. Kate would get angry; but Mrs. Greenow never became angry. Kate would be quite in earnest; but Mrs. Greenow would push aside all that her niece said as though it were worth nothing. Kate was an unmarried woman with a very small fortune, and therefore, of course, was desirous of being married with as little delay as possible. It was natural that she should deny that it was so, especially at this early date in their mutual acquaintance. When the niece came to know her aunt more intimately, there might be confidence between them, and then they would do better. But Mrs. Greenow would spare neither herself nor her purse on Kate's behalf, and she would be a dragon of watchfulness in protecting her from the evil desires of such useless men as Captain Bellfield.

It was in vain that Kate attempted to rebel against this care. She told her aunt that she was now nearly thirty, and that she had managed her own affairs for the last ten years; but it was to no purpose. Mrs. Greenow would push aside all that her niece said as though it were unimportant. Kate was an unmarried woman with a very small fortune, and therefore, of course, wished to get married as soon as possible. It was natural that she should deny this, although when she came to know her aunt more intimately, she might admit it. But Mrs. Greenow would spare neither herself nor her purse on Kate's behalf, and she would be a dragon of watchfulness in protecting her from such useless men as Captain Bellfield.


"I declare, Kate, I don't understand you," she said one morning to her niece as they sat together over a late breakfast. They had fallen into luxurious habits, and I am afraid it was past eleven o'clock, although the breakfast things were still on the table. Kate would usually bathe before breakfast, but Mrs. Greenow was never out of her room till half-past ten. "I like the morning for contemplation," she once said. "When a woman has gone through all that I have suffered she has a great deal to think of." "And it is so much more comfortable to be a-thinking when one's in bed," said Jeannette, who was present at the time. "Child, hold your tongue," said the widow. "Yes, ma'am," said Jeannette. But we'll return to the scene at the breakfast-table.
"What don't you understand, aunt?"

"I declare, Kate, I don't understand you," she said one morning over a late breakfast. They had fallen into luxurious habits, and I am afraid it was past eleven o'clock.
"What don't you understand, aunt?"


"You only danced twice last night, and once you stood up with Captain Bellfield."
"On purpose to ask after that poor woman who washes his clothes without getting paid for it."
"Nonsense, Kate; you didn't ask him anything of the kind, I'm sure. It's very provoking. It is indeed."
"But what harm can Captain Bellfield do me?"
"What good can he do you? That's the question. You see, my dear, years will go by. I don't mean to say you ain't quite as young as ever you were, and nothing can be nicer and fresher than you are;--especially since you took to bathing."

"You only danced twice last night, and once with Captain Bellfield."
"On purpose to ask after his poor washerwoman who doesn't get paid."
"Nonsense, Kate; you didn't ask him anything of the kind. It's very provoking."
"But what harm can Captain Bellfield do me?"
"What good can he do you? That's the question.


"Oh, aunt, don't!"
"My dear, the truth must be spoken. I declare I don't think I ever saw a young woman so improvident as you are. When are you to begin to think about getting married if you don't do it now?"
"I shall never begin to think about it, till I buy my wedding clothes."
"That's nonsense,--sheer nonsense. How are you to get wedding clothes if you have never thought about getting a husband? Didn't I see Mr. Cheesacre ask you for a dance last night?"
"Yes, he did; while you were talking to Captain Bellfield yourself, aunt."

I don't think I ever saw a young woman so improvident as you are. When are you to begin to think about getting married if you don't do it now?"
"I shall never begin to think about it."
"That's nonsense. Didn't Mr. Cheesacre ask you for a dance last night?"
"Yes, he did; while you were talking to Captain Bellfield yourself, aunt."


"Captain Bellfield can't hurt me, my dear. And why didn't you dance with Mr. Cheesacre?"
"He's a fat Norfolk farmer, with not an idea beyond the virtues of stall-feeding."
"My dear, every acre of it is his own land,--every acre! And he bought another farm for thirteen thousand pounds only last autumn. They're better than the squires,--some of those gentlemen farmers; they are indeed. And of all men in the world they're the easiest managed."
"That's a recommendation, no doubt."
"Of course it is;--a great recommendation."

"Captain Bellfield can't hurt me, my dear. And why didn't you dance with Mr. Cheesacre?"
"He's a fat Norfolk farmer, with not an idea beyond the virtues of stall-feeding."
"My dear, every acre of it is his own land! And he bought another farm for thirteen thousand pounds only last autumn. They're better than the squires, some of those gentlemen farmers; they are indeed. And of all men in the world they're the easiest managed."
"That's a recommendation, no doubt."
"Of course it is.


Mrs. Greenow had no idea of joking when her mind was intent on serious things. "He's to take us to the picnic to-morrow, and I do hope you'll manage to let him sit beside you. It'll be the place of honour, because he gives all the wine. He's picked up with that man Bellfield, and he's to be there; but if you allow your name to be once mixed up with his, it will be all over with you as far as Yarmouth is concerned."
"I don't at all want to be mixed up with Captain Bellfield, as you call it," said Kate. Then she subsided into her novel, while Mrs. Greenow busied herself about the good things for the picnic. In truth, the aunt did not understand the niece. Whatsoever might be the faults of Kate Vavasor, an unmaidenly desire of catching a husband for herself was certainly not one of them.

He's to take us to the picnic tomorrow, and I do hope you'll let him sit beside you. It'll be the place of honour, because he provides the wine. That man Bellfield is to be there; but if you allow your name to be mixed up with his, it will be all over with you as far as Yarmouth is concerned."
"I don't want to be mixed up with Captain Bellfield," said Kate. In truth, the aunt did not understand her niece. Whatever Kate's faults were, an unmaidenly desire of catching a husband was certainly not one of them.


George Vavasor's feeling of triumph was not unjustifiable. It is something to have sat in the House of Commons, though it has been but for one session! There is on the left-hand side of our great national hall,--on the left-hand side as one enters it, and opposite to the doors leading to the Law Courts,--a pair of gilded lamps, with a door between them, near to which a privileged old dame sells her apples and her oranges solely, as I presume, for the accommodation of the Members of the House and of the great policeman who guards the pass. Between those lamps is the entrance to the House of Commons, and none but Members may go that way! It is the only gate before which I have ever stood filled with envy,--sorrowing to think that my steps might never pass under it. There are many portals forbidden to me, as there are many forbidden to all men; and forbidden fruit, they say, is sweet; but my lips have watered after no other fruit but that which grows so high, within the sweep of that great policeman's truncheon.
Ah, my male friend and reader, who earnest thy bread, perhaps, as a country vicar; or sittest, may-be, at some weary desk in Somerset House; or who, perhaps, rulest the yard behind the Cheapside counter, hast thou never stood there and longed,--hast thou never confessed, when standing there, that Fate has been unkind to thee in denying thee the one thing that thou hast wanted? I have done so; and as my slow steps have led me up that more than royal staircase, to those passages and halls which require the hallowing breath of centuries to give them the glory in British eyes which they shall one day possess, I have told myself, in anger and in grief, that to die and not to have won that right of way, though but for a session,--not to have passed by the narrow entrance through those lamps,--is to die and not to have done that which it most becomes an Englishman to have achieved.

George Vavasor's feeling of triumph was justifiable. It is something to have sat in the House of Commons.
As one enters our great national hall, on the left-hand side are a pair of gilded lamps with a door between them. Between those lamps is the entrance to the House of Commons, and none but Members may go that way! It is the only gate before which I have ever stood filled with envy, sorrowing to think that my steps might never pass under it.
For as my slow steps have led me up that more than royal staircase, to those hallowed passages and halls, I have told myself, in anger and in grief, that to die and not to have won that right of way - not to have passed by the narrow entrance through those lamps - is not to have done that which it most becomes an Englishman to have achieved.

Chapter 45: George Vavasor Takes His Seat


There are, doubtless, some who come out by that road, the loss of whose society is not to be regretted. England does not choose her six hundred and fifty-four best men. One comforts one's self, sometimes, with remembering that. The George Vavasors, the Calder Joneses, and the Botts are admitted. Dishonesty, ignorance, and vulgarity do not close the gate of that heaven against aspirants; and it is a consolation to the ambition of the poor to know that the ambition of the rich can attain that glory by the strength of its riches alone. But though England does not send thither none but her best men, the best of her Commoners do find their way there. It is the highest and most legitimate pride of an Englishman to have the letters M.P. written after his name. No selection from the alphabet, no doctorship, no fellowship, be it of ever so learned or royal a society, no knightship,--not though it be of the Garter,--confers so fair an honour. Mr. Bott was right when he declared that this country is governed from between the walls of that House, though the truth was almost defiled by the lips which uttered it.

Doubtless, England does not always choose her six hundred and fifty-four best men. The George Vavasors, the Calder Joneses, and the Botts are admitted. Dishonesty, ignorance, and vulgarity do not close the gate of that heaven, though riches open it.
Yet the best of England's Commoners do find their way there. It is the highest pride of an Englishman to have the letters M.P. written after his name. No other membership confers so fair an honour. From within the walls of that House


He might have added that from thence flow the waters of the world's progress,--the fullest fountain of advancing civilization.
George Vavasor, as he went in by the lamps and the apple-stall, under the guardianship of Mr. Bott, felt all the pride of which I have been speaking. He was a man quite capable of feeling such pride as it should be felt,--capable, in certain dreamy moments, of looking at the thing with pure and almost noble eyes; of understanding the ambition of serving with truth so great a nation as that which fate had made his own. Nature, I think, had so fashioned George Vavasor, that he might have been a good, and perhaps a great man; whereas Mr. Bott had been born small. Vavasor had educated himself to badness with his eyes open. He had known what was wrong, and had done it, having taught himself to think that bad things were best. But poor Mr. Bott had meant to do well, and thought that he had done very well indeed. He was a tuft-hunter and a toady, but he did not know that he was doing amiss in seeking to rise by tuft-hunting and toadying. He was both mean and vain, both a bully and a coward, and in politics, I fear, quite unscrupulous in spite of his grand dogmas; but he believed that he was progressing in public life by the proper and usual means, and was troubled by no idea that he did wrong.

 flow the waters of the world's advancing civilization.
George Vavasor, as he went in by the lamps under the guardianship of Mr. Bott, felt all due pride. He was capable, in dreamy moments, of looking at the thing with pure and almost noble eyes; of understanding the ambition of serving faithfully so great a nation.
George Vavasor, I think, might have been a good, and perhaps a great man; whereas Mr. Bott had been born small. Vavasor had educated himself to badness knowingly. He had known what was wrong, and had done it. But poor Mr. Bott had meant to do well, and thought that he had done very well indeed. He was a flatterer and a toady, but he did not know this was wrong. He was both mean and vain, both a bully and a coward, and in politics, I fear, quite unscrupulous; but he believed that he was progressing by the proper means.


Vavasor, in those dreamy moments of which I have spoken, would sometimes feel tempted to cut his throat and put an end to himself, because he knew that he had taught himself amiss. Again he would sadly ask himself whether it was yet too late; always, however, answering himself that it was too late. Even now, at this moment, as he went in between the lamps, and felt much of the honest pride of which I have spoken, he told himself that it was too late. What could he do now, hampered by such a debt as that which he owed to his cousin, and with the knowledge that it must be almost indefinitely increased, unless he meant to give up this seat in Parliament, which had cost him so dearly, almost before he had begun to enjoy it? But his courage was good, and he was able to resolve that he would go on with the business that he had in hand, and play out his game to the end. He had achieved his seat in the House of Commons, and was so far successful. Men who had ever been gracious to him were now more gracious than ever, and they who had not hitherto treated him with courtesy, now began to smile and to be very civil. It was, no doubt, a great thing to have the privilege of that entrance between the lamps.

Vavasor, in his dreamy moments, would sometimes feel tempted to cut his throat and put an end to himself, because he knew that he had taught himself wrongly. He would sadly ask himself whether it was still too late; and he always answered that it was. Even now, at this moment, as he went in between the lamps with honest pride, he told himself it was too late. What could he do now, hampered by the debt he owed his cousin, and with the knowledge that it must be hugely increased, unless he meant to give up this seat in Parliament almost before he had begun to enjoy it?
But his courage was good, and he resolved to play out his game to the end. He had achieved his seat in the House of Commons. Men were gracious to him now, and those who had not treated him with courtesy began to be very civil. It was a great thing to have the privilege of that entrance between the lamps.


Mr. Bott had the new Member now in hand, not because there had been any old friendship between them, but Mr. Bott was on the look-out for followers, and Vavasor was on the look-out for a party. A man gets no great thanks for attaching himself to existing power. Our friend might have enrolled himself among the general supporters of the Government without attracting much attention. He would in such case have been at the bottom of a long list. But Mr. Palliser was a rising man, round whom, almost without wish of his own, a party was forming itself. If he came into power,--as come he must, according to Mr. Bott and many others,--then they who had acknowledged the new light before its brightness had been declared, might expect their reward.

Mr. Bott had the new Member in hand, not because there was any old friendship between them, but because Mr. Bott was on the look-out for followers, and Vavasor was on the look-out for a party.


Vavasor, as he passed through the lobby to the door of the House, leaning on Mr. Bott's arm, was very silent. He had spoken but little since they had left their cab in Palace Yard, and was not very well pleased by the garrulity of his companion. He was going to sit among the first men of his nation, and to take his chance of making himself one of them. He believed in his own ability; he believed thoroughly in his own courage; but he did not believe in his own conduct. He feared that he had done,--feared still more strongly that he would be driven to do,--that which would shut men's ears against his words, and would banish him from high places. No man believes in himself who knows himself to be a rascal, however great may be his talent, or however high his pluck.
"Of course you have heard a debate?" said Mr. Bott.
"Yes," answered Vavasor, who wished to remain silent.
"Many, probably?"

Vavasor, as he passed through the lobby to the door of the House with Mr. Bott, was very silent. He was not very well pleased by the garrulity of his companion. He believed in his own ability and his own courage; but he did not believe in his own conduct. He feared that he had done - and would in future be driven to do - that which would shut men's ears against his words, and would banish him from high places. No man believes in himself who knows himself to be a rascal.
"Of course you have heard a debate?" said Mr. Bott.
"Yes," answered Vavasor.


"But you have heard debates from the gallery. Now you'll hear them from the body of the House, and you'll find how very different it is. There's no man can know what Parliament is who has never had a seat. Indeed no one can thoroughly understand the British Constitution without it. I felt, very early in life, that that should be my line; and though it's hard work and no pay, I mean to stick to it. How do, Thompson? You know Vavasor? He's just returned for the Chelsea Districts, and I'm taking him up. We shan't divide to-night; shall we? Look!

"But you have heard debates from the gallery. Now you'll hear them from the body of the House, and you'll find how very different it is. No man can know what Parliament is who has never had a seat. I felt, very early in life, that that should be my line; and though it's hard work and no pay, I mean to stick to it. How do, Thompson? You know Vavasor? He's just returned for the Chelsea Districts, and I'm taking him up. We shan't divide tonight, shall we? Look!


there's Farringcourt just coming out; he's listened to better than any man in the House now, but he'll borrow half-a-crown from you if you'll lend him one. How d'ye do, my lord? I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you well?" and Bott bowed low to a lord who was hurrying through the lobby as fast as his shuffling feet would carry him. "Of course you know him?"
Vavasor, however, did not know the lord in question, and was obliged to say so.
"I thought you were up to all these things?" said Bott.
"Taking the peerage generally, I am not up to it," said Vavasor, with a curl on his lip.

there's Farringcourt just coming out; he's listened to better than any man in the House, but he'll borrow half-a-crown from you if you'll lend him one. How d'ye do, my lord? I hope you are well?" and Bott bowed low to a lord who was shuffling through the lobby. "Of course you know him?"
Vavasor was obliged to say he did not.


"But you ought to have known him. That was Viscount Middlesex; he has got something on to-night about the Irish Church. His father is past ninety, and he's over sixty. We'll go in now; but let me give you one bit of advice, my dear fellow--don't think of speaking this session. A Member can do no good at that work till he has learned something of the forms of the House. The forms of the House are everything; upon my word they are. This is Mr. Vavasor, the new Member for the Chelsea Districts."
Our friend was thus introduced to the doorkeeper, who smiled familiarly, and seemed to wink his eye. Then George Vavasor passed through into the House itself, under the wing of Mr. Bott.

"That was Viscount Middlesex; he has got something on tonight about the Irish Church. We'll go in now; but let me give you one bit of advice, my dear fellow - don't think of speaking this session. A Member can do no good by speaking till he has learned the forms of the House. This is Mr. Vavasor, the new Member for the Chelsea Districts."
Our friend was thus introduced to the doorkeeper, who smiled familiarly, and seemed to wink. Then George Vavasor passed through into the House itself.


Vavasor, as he walked up the House to the Clerk's table and took the oath and then walked down again, felt himself to be almost taken aback by the little notice which was accorded to him. It was not that he had expected to create a sensation, or that he had for a moment thought on the subject, but the thing which he was doing was so great to him, that the total indifference of those around him was a surprise to him. After he had taken his seat, a few men came up by degrees and shook hands with him; but it seemed, as they did so, merely because they were passing that way. He was anxious not to sit next to Mr. Bott, but he found himself unable to avoid this contiguity. That gentleman stuck to him pertinaciously, giving him directions which, at the spur of the moment, he hardly knew how not to obey. So he found himself sitting behind Mr. Palliser, a little to the right, while Mr. Bott occupied the ear of the rising man.

Vavasor, as he walked up to the Clerk's table and took the oath and then walked down again, was almost taken aback by the little notice which was taken of him. It was not that he had expected to create a sensation, but the thing which he was doing was so great to him that the total indifference of those around him came as a surprise. After he had taken his seat, a few men came up and shook hands with him; but merely, it seemed, because they were passing that way. He was anxious not to sit next to Mr. Bott, but he was unable to avoid it. So he found himself sitting behind Mr. Palliser, a little to the right, while Mr. Bott occupied the ear of the rising man.


There was a debate in progress, but it seemed to Vavasor, as soon as he was able to become critical, to be but a dull affair, and yet the Chancellor of the Exchequer was on his legs, and Mr. Palliser was watching him as a cat watches a mouse. The speaker was full of figures, as becomes a Chancellor of the Exchequer; and as every new budget of them fell from him, Mr. Bott, with audible whispers, poured into the ear of his chief certain calculations of his own, most of which went to prove that the financier in office was altogether wrong. Vavasor thought that he could see that Mr. Palliser was receiving more of his assistance than was palatable to him. He would listen, if he did listen, without making any sign that he heard, and would occasionally shake his head with symptoms of impatience. But Mr. Bott was a man not to be repressed by a trifle. When Mr. Palliser shook his head he became more assiduous than ever, and when Mr. Palliser slightly moved himself to the left, he boldly followed him.

There was a debate in progress. It seemed to Vavasor that it was a dull affair. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was on his legs, and Mr. Palliser was watching him as a cat watches a mouse. The speaker was full of figures; and Mr. Bott, with audible whispers, poured into the ear of his chief his own calculations, most of which went to prove that the Chancellor was altogether wrong. Vavasor thought that Mr. Palliser received more of this assistance than he liked. He would listen, if he did listen, without making any sign that he heard, and would occasionally shake his head impatiently.
But Mr. Bott was not to be repressed. When Mr. Palliser shook his head he became more assiduous than ever, and when Mr. Palliser slightly moved himself to the left, he boldly followed him.


No general debate arose on the subject which the Minister had in hand, and when he sat down, Mr. Palliser would not get up, though Mr. Bott counselled him to do so. The matter was over for the night, and the time had arrived for Lord Middlesex. That nobleman got upon his feet, with a roll of papers in his hand, and was proceeding to address the House on certain matters of church reform, with great energy; but, alas, for him and for his feelings! before his energy had got itself into full swing, the Members were swarming away through the doors like a flock of sheep. Mr. Palliser got up and went, and was followed at once by Mr. Bott, who succeeded in getting hold of his arm in the lobby. Had not Mr. Palliser been an even-tempered, calculating man, with a mind and spirit well under his command, he must have learned to hate Mr. Bott before this time. Away streamed the Members, but still the noble lord went on speaking, struggling hard to keep up his fire as though no such exodus were in process. There was but little to console him. He knew that the papers would not report one sentence in twenty of those he uttered. He knew that no one would listen to him willingly.

No general debate arose on the subject, and when the Chancellor sat down, Mr. Palliser would not get up, though Mr. Bott counselled him to do so. The matter was over for the night, and the time had arrived for Lord Middlesex. That nobleman got upon his feet, with a roll of papers in his hand, and was proceeding to address the House on matters of church reform, with great energy; but, alas, for him! before he had got into full swing, the Members were swarming away through the doors like a flock of sheep.
Mr. Palliser got up and went, and was followed at once by Mr. Bott, who succeeded in getting hold of his arm in the lobby. Had not Mr. Palliser been an even-tempered man, with a mind and spirit well under his command, he must have learned to hate Mr. Bott by now.
Away streamed the Members, but still the noble lord went on speaking as though no such exodus were in process. He knew that the newspapers would not report one sentence in twenty of his speech.


He knew that he had worked for weeks and months to get up his facts, and he was beginning to know that he had worked in vain. As he summoned courage to look round, he began to fear that some enemy would count the House, and that all would be over. He had given heart and soul to this affair. His cry was not as Vavasor's cry about the River Bank. He believed in his own subject with a great faith, thinking that he could make men happier and better, and bring them nearer to their God. I said that he had worked for weeks and months. I might have said that he had been all his life at this work. Though he shuffled with his feet when he walked, and knocked his words together when he talked, he was an earnest man, meaning to do well, seeking no other reward for his work than the appreciation of those whom he desired to serve. But this was never to be his. For him there was in store nothing but disappointment.

He knew that he had worked for weeks and months to get up his facts, and realised that he had worked in vain. He had given heart and soul to this affair. He believed in his own subject with a great faith, thinking that he could bring men nearer to their God. Though he shuffled when he walked, and knocked his words together when he talked, he was an earnest man, meaning to do well, seeking no reward other than appreciation. But this was never to be his.


And yet he will work on to the end, either in this House or in the other, labouring wearily, without visible wages of any kind, and, one may say, very sadly. But when he has been taken to his long rest, men will acknowledge that he has done something, and there will be left on the minds of those who shall remember him a conviction that he served a good cause diligently, and not altogether inefficiently. Invisible are his wages, yet in some coin are they paid. Invisible is the thing he does, and yet it is done. Let us hope that some sense of this tardy appreciation may soothe his spirit beyond the grave. On the present occasion there was nothing to soothe his spirit. The Speaker sat, urbane and courteous, with his eyes turned towards the unfortunate orator; but no other ears in the House seemed to listen to him. The corps of reporters had dwindled down to two, and they used their pens very listlessly, taking down here a sentence and there a sentence, knowing that their work was naught. Vavasor sat it out to the last, as it taught him a lesson in those forms of the House which Mr. Bott had truly told him it would be well that he should learn. And at last he did learn the form of a "count-out."

And yet he will work on to the end, either in this House or in the other, labouring wearily, without visible wages of any kind, and, one may say, very sadly. But when he has been taken to his long rest, men will remember that he served a good cause diligently, and not altogether inefficiently. Invisible is the thing he does, and yet it is done.
But on the present occasion there was nothing to soothe his spirit. The Speaker sat, urbane and courteous, with his eyes turned towards the unfortunate orator; but no other ears in the House seemed to listen to him. Vavasor sat it out to the last, as it taught him those forms of the House which Mr. Bott had told him he needed to learn. And at last he did learn the form of a "count-out."


Some one from a back seat muttered something, which the Speaker understood; and that high officer, having had his attention called to a fact of which he would never have taken cognizance without such calling, did count the House, and finding that it contained but twenty-three Members, he put an end to his own labours and to those of poor Lord Middlesex. With what feelings that noble lord must have taken himself home, and sat himself down in his study, vainly opening a book before his eyes, can we not all imagine? A man he was with ample means, with children who would do honour to his name; one whose wife believed in him, if no one else would do so; a man, let us say, with a clear conscience, to whom all good things had been given. But of whom now was he thinking with envy? Early on that same day Farringcourt had spoken in the House,--a man to whom no one would lend a shilling, whom the privilege of that House kept out of gaol, whose word no man believed; who was wifeless, childless, and unloved. But three hundred men had hung listening upon his words. When he laughed in his speech, they laughed; when he was indignant against the Minister, they sat breathless, as the Spaniard sits in the critical moment of the bull-killing. Whichever way he turned himself, he carried them with him. Crowds of Members flocked into the House from libraries and smoking-rooms when it was known that this ne'er-do-well was on his legs. The Strangers' Gallery was filled to overflowing.

Some one from a back seat muttered something, and the Speaker heard and counted the Members in the House. Finding only twenty-three Members, he put an end to the labours of poor Lord Middlesex.
And yet earlier on that same day Farringcourt had spoken in the House - a man to whom no one would lend a shilling, and whose word no one believed; but three hundred men had hung upon his words. When he laughed in his speech, they laughed; when he was indignant, they sat breathless. Whichever way he turned, he carried them with him. Crowds of Members flocked into the House from libraries and smoking-rooms when it was known that this ne'er-do-well was speaking.


The reporters turned their rapid pages, working their fingers wearily till the sweat drops stood upon their brows. And as the Premier was attacked with some special impetus of redoubled irony, men declared that he would be driven to enrol the speaker among his colleagues, in spite of dishonoured bills and evil reports. A man who could shake the thunderbolts like that must be paid to shake them on the right side. It was of this man, and of his success, that Lord Middlesex was envious, as he sat, wretched and respectable, in his solitary study!

The reporters filled their pages. And as the Premier was attacked with irony, men declared that he would have to enrol the speaker among his colleagues. A man who could shake the thunderbolts like that must be paid to shake them on the right side. It was this man that Lord Middlesex envied!


Mr. Bott had left the House with Mr. Palliser; and Vavasor, after the count-out, was able to walk home by himself, and think of the position which he had achieved. He told himself over and over again that he had done a great thing in obtaining that which he now possessed, and he endeavoured to teach himself that the price he was paying for it was not too dear. But already there had come upon him something of that feeling,--that terribly human feeling,--which deprives every prize that is gained of half its value. The mere having it robs the diamond of its purity, and mixes vile alloy with the gold. Lord Middlesex, as he had floundered on into terrible disaster, had not been a subject to envy. There had been nothing of brilliance in the debate, and the Members had loomed no larger than ordinary men at ordinary clubs. The very doorkeepers had hardly treated them with respect. The great men with whose names the papers are filled had sat silent, gloomy, and apparently idle. As soon as a fair opportunity was given them they escaped out of the House, as boys might escape from school. Everybody had rejoiced in the break-up of the evening, except that one poor old lord who had worked so hard.

Mr. Bott had left the House with Mr. Palliser; and after the count-out Vavasor walked home by himself, thinking of the position which he had achieved. He told himself over and over again that he had won a great thing, and tried to persuade himself that the price was not too dear.
But already there had come upon him some feeling of anti-climax and disappointment. There had been no brilliance in the debate, and the Members had loomed no larger than ordinary men at ordinary clubs. The great men named in the papers had sat silent, gloomy, and apparently idle; as soon as they could, they escaped from the House, as boys might escape from school.


Vavasor had spent everything that he had to become a Member of that House, and now, as he went alone to his lodgings, he could not but ask himself whether the thing purchased was worth the purchase-money.
But his courage was still high. Though he was gloomy, and almost sad, he knew that he could trust himself to fight out the battle to the last. On the morrow he would go to Queen Anne Street, and would demand sympathy there from her who had professed to sympathize with him so strongly in his political desires. With her, at any rate, the glory of his Membership would not be dimmed by any untoward knowledge of the realities. She had only seen the play acted from the boxes; and to her eyes the dresses would still be of silk velvet, and the swords of bright steel.

Vavasor had spent everything that he had to become a Member of that House, and now, as he went alone to his lodgings, he could not help asking himself whether it was worth the purchase-money.
But his courage was still high. Though he was gloomy, and almost sad, he knew that he would fight the battle to the last. In the morrow he would go to Queen Anne Street, and would demand sympathy from Alice. With her, at any rate, the glory of his Membership would not be dimmed by any knowledge of the realities. She had only seen the play acted from the boxes; and to her eyes the dresses would still be of silk velvet, and the swords of bright steel.