Burgo did not see the thing in the same light, but he said no more. Grindley and Tom were soon after them, Tom doing his utmost to shake off the attorney. Pollock was coming on also; but the pace had been too much for him, and though the ground rode light his poor beast laboured and grunted sorely. The hounds were still veering somewhat to the left, and Burgo, jumping over a small fence into the same field with them, saw that there was a horseman ahead of him. This was George Vavasor, who was going well, without any symptom of distress.

Burgo said no more. Grindley and Tom were soon after them, the huntsman doing his utmost to shake off the attorney. Pollock was coming on also; but the pace had been too much for him, and his poor beast laboured and grunted sorely. The hounds were still veering to the left, and Burgo, jumping over a small fence into the same field with them, saw that there was a horseman ahead of him. This was George Vavasor, who was going well.


And now they were at Claydon's, having run over some seven miles of ground in about thirty-five minutes. To those who do not know what hunting is, this pace does not seem very extraordinary; but it had been quite quick enough, as was testified by the horses which had gone the distance. Our party entered Claydon's Park at back, through a gate in the park palings that was open on hunting days; but a much more numerous lot was there almost as soon as them, who had come in by the main entrance. This lot was headed by Sir William, and our friend Maxwell was with him.

And now they were at Claydon's, having run over some seven miles of ground in about thirty-five minutes. To those who do not hunt, this pace does not seem very extraordinary; but it had been quick enough. Our party entered Claydon's Park through a back gate, but many more, including Sir William and Maxwell, had come in by the main entrance.


"A jolly thing so far," said Burgo to Maxwell; "about the best we've had this year."

"A jolly thing so far," said Burgo to Maxwell.


"I didn't see a yard of it," said Maxwell. "I hadn't nerve to get off the first road, and I haven't been off it ever since." Maxwell was a man who never lied about his hunting, or had the slightest shame in riding roads. "Who's been with you?" said he.

"I didn't see a yard of it," said Maxwell. "I was on the road. Who's been with you?"


"There've been Tom and I;--and Calder Jones was there for a while. I think he killed himself somewhere. And there was Pollock, and your friend Grindley, and a chap whose name I don't know who dropped out of heaven about half-way in the run; and there was another man whose back I saw just now; there he is,--by heavens, it's Vavasor! I didn't know he was here."

"Tom; and Calder Jones was there for a while. I think he killed himself somewhere. And Pollock and Grindley, and a chap whose name I don't know who appeared about half-way; and another man - by heavens, it's Vavasor!"


They hung about the Claydon covers for ten minutes, and then their fox went off again,--their fox or another, as to which there was a great discussion afterwards; but he who would have suggested the idea of a new fox to Sir William would have been a bold man. A fox, however, went off, turning still to the left from Claydon's towards Roebury. Those ten minutes had brought up some fifty men; but it did not bring up Calder Jones nor Tufto Pearlings, nor some half-dozen others who had already come to serious misfortune; but Grindley was there, very triumphant in his own success, and already talking of Jones's sovereign. And Pollock was there also, thankful for the ten minutes' law, and trusting that wind might be given to his horse to finish the run triumphantly.

They hung about for ten minutes, and then their fox went off again, turning towards Roebury. Those ten minutes had brought up some fifty men, among them Grindley, very triumphant in his own success, and already talking of Jones's sovereign. And Pollock was there also, thankful for the ten minutes' wait.


But the pace on leaving Claydon's was better than ever. This may have come from the fact that the scent was keener, as they got out so close upon their game. But I think they must have changed their fox. Maxwell, who saw him go, swore that he was fresh and clean. Burgo said that he knew it to be the same fox, but gave no reason. "Same fox! in course it was; why shouldn't it be the same?" said Tom. The country gentleman who had dropped from heaven was quite sure that they had changed, and so were most of those who had ridden the road. Pollock confined himself to hoping that he might soon be killed, and that thus his triumph for the day might be assured.


On they went, and the pace soon became too good for the poor author. His horse at last refused a little hedge, and there was not another trot to be got out of him. That night Pollock turned up at Roebury about nine o'clock, very hungry,--and it was known that his animal was alive;--but the poor horse ate not a grain of oats that night, nor on the next morning. Vavasor had again taken a line to himself, on this occasion a little to the right of the meet; but Maxwell followed him and rode close with him to the end. Burgo for a while still led the body of the field, incurring at first much condemnation from Sir William,--nominally for hurrying on among the hounds, but in truth because he got before Sir William himself. During this latter part of the run Sir William stuck to the hounds in spite of his seventy odd years. Going down into Marham Bottom, some four or five were left behind, for they feared the soft ground near the river, and did not know the pass through it. But Sir William knew it, and those who remained close to him got over that trouble. Burgo, who would still lead, nearly foundered in the bog;--but he was light, and his horse pulled him through,--leaving a fore-shoe in the mud. After that Burgo was contented to give Sir William the lead.

 they went faster than ever, and the pace soon became too good for poor Pollock. His horse refused a little hedge, and there was not another trot to be got out of him. Vavasor had again taken his own route, this time to the right of the meet; but Maxwell followed him and rode close with him to the end. Burgo for a while led the body of the field, incurring condemnation from Sir William, who was behind him.
Going down into Marham Bottom, some four or five were left behind, for they feared the soft ground near the river, and did not know the way through it. But Sir William knew it, and those who remained close to him got over that trouble. Burgo nearly foundered in the bog; but he was light, and his horse pulled him through, leaving a shoe in the mud. After that Burgo was content to give Sir William the lead.


Then they came up by Marham Pits to Cleshey Small Wood, which they passed without hanging there a minute, and over the grass lands of Cleshey Farm. Here Vavasor and Maxwell joined the others, having gained some three hundred yards in distance by their course, but having been forced to jump the Marham Stream which Sir William had forded. The pace now was as good as the horses could make it,--and perhaps something better as regarded some of them. Sir William's servant had been with him, and he had got his second horse at Claydon's; Maxwell had been equally fortunate; Tom's second horse had not come up, and his beast was in great distress; Grindley had remained behind at Marham Bottom, being contented perhaps with having beaten Calder Jones,--from whom by-the-by I may here declare that he never got his sovereign. Burgo, Vavasor, and the country gentleman still held on; but it was devoutly desired by all of them that the fox might soon come to the end of his tether. Ah! that intense longing that the fox may fail, when the failings of the horse begin to make themselves known,--and the consciousness comes on that all that one has done will go for nothing unless the thing can be brought to a close in a field or two! So far you have triumphed, leaving scores of men behind; but of what good is all that, if you also are to be left behind at the last?

Then they came up by Marham Pits to Cleshey Small Wood, and over the grass lands of Cleshey Farm. Here Vavasor and Maxwell joined the others, having gained some three hundred yards, but having been forced to jump the Marham Stream. The pace now was as good as the horses could make it. Sir William's servant had been with him, and he had got his second horse at Claydon's; Maxwell had been equally fortunate. But Tom's second horse had not come up, and his beast was in great distress. Grindley had remained behind at Marham Bottom, being contented with having beaten Calder Jones (from whom, however, he never got his sovereign.)
Burgo, Vavasor, and the country gentleman still held on; but it was devoutly desired by all of them that the fox might soon come to the end of his tether. Ah! that intense longing that the fox may fail, when the horse is failing - and the knowledge that all the effort will go for nothing unless the thing ends soon! So far you have triumphed, leaving scores of men behind; but of what good is that, if you also are left behind at the last?


It was manifest now to all who knew the country that the fox was making for Thornden Deer Park, but Thornden Deer Park was still two miles ahead of them, and the hounds were so near to their game that the poor beast could hardly hope to live till he got there. He had tried a well-known drain near Cleshey Farm House; but it had been inhospitably, nay cruelly, closed against him. Soon after that he threw himself down in a ditch, and the eager hounds overran him, giving him a moment's law,--and giving also a moment's law to horses that wanted it as badly. "I'm about done for," said Burgo to Maxwell. "Luckily for you," said Maxwell, "the fox is much in the same way."

It was clear now that the fox was making for Thornden Deer Park, but that was still two miles ahead, and the hounds were so near to the poor beast that it could hardly hope to get there.
"I'm about done for," said Burgo to Maxwell.
"Luckily for you," said Maxwell, "the fox is much in the same way."


But the fox had still more power left in him than poor Burgo Fitzgerald's horse. He gained a minute's check and then he started again, being viewed away by Sir William himself. The country gentleman of whom mention has been made also viewed him, and holloa'd as he did so: "Yoicks, tally; gone away!" The unfortunate man! "What the d---- are you roaring at?" said Sir William. "Do you suppose I don't know where the fox is?" Whereupon the country gentleman retreated, and became less conspicuous than he had been.

But the fox had still more power left in him than poor Burgo Fitzgerald's horse. He started off again, and


Away they went again, off Cleshey and into Thornden parish, on the land of Sorrel Farm,--a spot well to be remembered by one or two ever afterwards. Here Sir William made for a gate which took him a little out of the line, but Maxwell and Burgo Fitzgerald, followed by Vavasor, went straight ahead. There was a huge ditch and boundary bank there which Sir William had known and had avoided. Maxwell, whose pluck had returned to him at last, took it well. His horse was comparatively fresh and made nothing of it. Then came poor Burgo! Oh, Burgo, hadst thou not have been a very child, thou shouldst have known that now, at this time of the day,--after all that thy gallant horse had done for thee,--it was impossible to thee or him. But when did Burgo Fitzgerald know anything? He rode at the bank as though it had been the first fence of the day, striking his poor beast with his spurs, as though muscle, strength, and new power could be imparted by their rowels. The animal rose at the bank and in some way got upon it, scrambling as he struck it with his chest, and then fell headlong into the ditch at the other side, a confused mass of head, limbs, and body. His career was at an end, and he had broken his heart! Poor noble beast, noble in vain! To his very last gasp he had done his best, and had deserved that he should have been in better hands. His master's ignorance had killed him. There are men who never know how little a horse can do,--or how much!

 away they went, onto the land of Sorrel Farm - a spot to be well remembered by one or two ever afterwards. Here Sir William made for a gate, but Maxwell and Burgo Fitzgerald, followed by Vavasor, went straight ahead. There was a huge ditch and boundary bank there which Sir William had known and avoided.
Maxwell took it well. His horse was comparatively fresh and made nothing of it. Then came poor Burgo! He rode at the bank as though it had been the first fence of the day. The animal somehow got upon the bank, and then fell headlong into the ditch at the other side, a confused mass of head, limbs, and body. Poor noble beast, he had broken his heart! To his very last gasp he had done his best, and deserved to have been in better hands. His master's ignorance had killed him.


There was to some extent a gap in the fence when Maxwell had first ridden it and Burgo had followed him; a gap, or break in the hedge at the top, indicating plainly the place at which a horse could best get over. To this spot Vavasor followed, and was on the bank at Burgo's heels before he knew what had happened. But the man had got away and only the horse lay there in the ditch. "Are you hurt?" said Vavasor; "can I do anything?" But he did not stop, "If you can find a chap just send him to me," said Burgo in a melancholy tone. Then he sat down, with his feet in the ditch, and looked at the carcase of his horse.

There was a small gap in the fence where Maxwell had first ridden it: to this spot Vavasor followed, and was on the bank at Burgo's heels before he knew what had happened. Burgo had dismounted and the horse lay there in the ditch.
"Are you hurt?" said Vavasor; "can I do anything?" But he did not stop.
"If you can find a chap just send him to me," said Burgo in a melancholy tone. Then he sat down, with his feet in the ditch, and looked at his dead horse.


There was no more need of jumping that day. The way was open into the next field,--a turnip field,--and there amidst the crisp breaking turnip-tops, with the breath of his enemies hot upon him, with their sharp teeth at his entrails, biting at them impotently in the agonies of his death struggle, poor Reynard finished his career. Maxwell was certainly the first there,--but Sir William and George Vavasor were close upon him. That taking of brushes of which we used to hear is a little out of fashion; but if such honour were due to any one it was due to Vavasor, for he and he only had ridden the hunt throughout. But he claimed no honour, and none was specially given to him. He and Maxwell rode homewards together, having sent assistance to poor Burgo Fitzgerald; and as they went along the road, saying but little to each other, Maxwell, in a very indifferent voice, asked him a question.

There was no more need of jumping that day. The way was open into the next field; and there amidst the crisp breaking turnip-tops, with the breath of his enemies hot upon him, the poor fox finished his career. Maxwell was the first there, but Sir William and George Vavasor were close behind him. If the taking of brushes were still in fashion, the honour would have been due to Vavasor. But he claimed no honour.
He and Maxwell rode home together, having sent assistance to Burgo Fitzgerald; and as they went along the road, Maxwell, in a very indifferent voice, asked:


"What do you want for that horse, Vavasor?"


"He's mine," said Maxwell. So the brown horse was sold for about half his value, because he had brought with him a bad character.

"Done," said Maxwell. So the brown horse was sold for half his value, because he had brought with him a bad character.


"You are in trouble, Mr. Fitzgerald, I fear," said Mr. Palliser, standing over Burgo as he lay upon the ground. They were now altogether beyond the gas-lights, and the evening was dark. Burgo, too, was lying with his face to the ground, expecting that the footsteps which he had heard would pass by him.

"You are in trouble, Mr. Fitzgerald, I fear," said Mr. Palliser, standing over Burgo as he lay upon the ground. They were now beyond the gas-lights, and the evening was dark.


"Who is that?" said he, turning round suddenly; but still he was not at once able to recognize Mr. Palliser, whose voice was hardly known to him.


"Perhaps I have been wrong in following you," said Mr. Palliser, "but I thought you were in distress, and that probably I might help you. My name is Palliser."

"Perhaps I have been wrong in following you," said Mr. Palliser, "but I thought you were in distress, and that I might help you. My name is Palliser."


"Plantagenet Palliser?" said Burgo, jumping up on to his legs and looking close into the other's face. "By heavens! it is Plantagenet Palliser! Well, Mr. Palliser, what do you want of me?"

"Plantagenet Palliser?" said Burgo, jumping to his feet and looking close into the other's face. "By heavens! it is Plantagenet Palliser! Well, Mr. Palliser, what do you want?"


"I want to be of some use to you, if I can. I and my wife saw you leave the gaming-table just now."


"Yes;--she is here. We are going home, but chance brought us up to the salon. She seemed to think that you are in distress, and that I could help you. I will, if you will let me."

"Yes. We are going home, but chance brought us up to the salon. She seemed to think that you are in distress, and that I could help you. I will, if you will let me."


Mr. Palliser, during the whole interview, felt that he could afford to be generous. He knew that he had no further cause for fear. He had no lingering dread of this poor creature who stood before him. All that feeling was over, though it was as yet hardly four months since he had been sent back by Mrs. Marsham to Lady Monk's house to save his wife, if saving her were yet possible.

Mr. Palliser felt that he could afford to be generous. He had no lingering dread of this poor creature who stood before him. All that feeling was over, though it was hardly four months since he had been sent back by Mrs. Marsham to Lady Monk's house to save his wife, if saving her were possible.


"So she is here, is she;--and saw me there when I staked my last chance? I should have had over twenty thousand francs now, if the cards had stood to me."

"So she saw me when I staked my last chance? I should have had over twenty thousand francs now, if the cards had stood to me."


"The cards never do stand to any one, Mr. Fitzgerald."


"Never;--never,--never!" said Burgo. "At any rate, they never did to me. Nothing ever does stand to me."

"Never!" said Burgo. "At any rate, they never did to me."


"If you want twenty thousand francs,--that's eight hundred pounds, I think--I can let you have it without any trouble."

"If you want twenty thousand francs - that's eight hundred pounds, I think - I can let you have it without any trouble."


"Oh, yes. As I am travelling with my family--" I wonder whether Mr. Palliser considered himself to be better entitled to talk of his family than he had been some three or four weeks back--"As I am travelling with my family, I have been obliged to carry large bills with me, and I can accommodate you without any trouble."

"Oh, yes. As I am travelling with my family, I have been obliged to carry large bills with me, and I can accommodate you without any difficulty."


There was something pleasant in this, which made Burgo Fitzgerald laugh. Mr. Palliser, the husband of Lady Glencora M'Cluskie, and the heir of the Duke of Omnium happening to have money with him! As if Mr. Palliser could not bring down showers of money in any quarter of the globe by simply holding up his hand. And then to talk of accommodating him,--Burgo Fitzgerald, as though it were simply a little matter of convenience,--as though Mr. Palliser would of course find the money at his bankers' when he next examined his book! Burgo could not but laugh.

There was something pleasant in this, which made Burgo Fitzgerald laugh. Mr. Palliser, the husband of Lady Glencora M'Cluskie, and the heir of the Duke of Omnium, happening to have money with him! As if Mr. Palliser could not bring down showers of money in any part of the globe by simply holding up his hand.


"I was not in the least doubting your ability to raise the money," said he; "but how would you propose to get it back again?"

"I do not doubt your ability to raise the money," said he; "but how would you propose to get it back again?"


"That would be at your convenience," said Mr. Palliser, who hardly knew how to put himself on a proper footing with his companion, so that he might offer to do something effectual for the man's aid.

"That would be at your convenience," said Mr. Palliser, who hardly knew how to put himself on a proper footing with his companion.


"I never have any such convenience," said Burgo. "Who were those women whose tubs always had holes at the bottom of them? My tub always has such a hole."


"You mean the daughters of Danaus," said Mr. Palliser.


"I don't know whose daughters they were, but you might just as well lend them all eight hundred pounds apiece."


"There were so many of them," said Mr. Palliser, trying a little joke. "But as you are only one I shall be most happy, as I said before, to be of service."

"There were too many of them," said Mr. Palliser, trying a little joke. "But as you are only one I shall be most happy, as I said before, to be of service."


They were now walking slowly together up towards the hills, and near to them they heard a step. Upon this, Burgo turned round.

They were now walking slowly together up towards the hills, when they heard a step. Upon this, Burgo turned round.


"Do you see that fellow?" said he. Mr. Palliser, who was somewhat short-sighted, said that he did not see him. "I do, though. I don't know his name, but they have sent him out from the hotel with me, to see what I do with myself. I owe them six or seven hundred francs, and they want to turn me out of the house and not let me take my things with me."

"Do you see that fellow?" said he. "I don't know his name, but they have sent him out from the hotel with me, to see what I do. I owe them six or seven hundred francs, and they want to turn me out of the house without my things."


"That would be very uncomfortable," said Mr. Palliser.


"It would be uncomfortable, but I shall be too many for them. If they keep my traps they shall keep me. They think I'm going to blow my brains out. That's what they think. The man lets me go far enough off to do that,--so long as it's nowhere about the house."

"Yes, but if they keep my things they shall keep me. They think I'm going to blow my brains out. The man lets me go far enough off to do that - so long as it's nowhere near the hotel."


"I hope you're not thinking of such a thing?"


"As long as I can help it, Mr. Palliser, I never think of anything." The stranger was now standing near to them,--almost so near that he might hear their words. Burgo, perceiving this, walked up to him, and, speaking in bad French, desired him to leave them. "Don't you see that I have a friend with me?"

"As long as I can help it, Mr. Palliser, I never think of anything."
The stranger was now standing near to them, and Burgo walked up to him. In bad French, he asked him to leave. "Don't you see I have a friend with me?"


"Oh! a friend," said the man, answering in bad English. "Perhaps de friend can advance moneys?"

"Oh! a friend," said the man, in bad English. "Perhaps de friend can advance moneys?"


"Never mind what he can do," said Burgo. "You do as you are bid, and leave me."

"Never mind what he can do," said Burgo. "You leave me."


Then the gentleman from the hotel retreated down the hill, but Mr. Palliser, during the rest of the interview, frequently fancied that he heard the man's footfall at no great distance.

Then the gentleman from the hotel retreated, but Mr. Palliser, during the rest of the interview, fancied that he heard the man's footfall at no great distance.


They continued to walk on up the hill very slowly, and it was some time before Mr. Palliser knew how to repeat his offer.

They continued to walk on up the hill very slowly, and Mr. Palliser repeated his offer.


"So Lady Glencora is here?" Burgo said again.


"Yes, she is here. It was she who asked me to come to you," Mr. Palliser answered. Then they both walked on a few steps in silence, for neither of them knew how to address the other.

"Yes. It was she who asked me to come to you." They both walked on a few steps in silence.


"By George!--isn't it odd," said Burgo, at last, "that you and I, of all men in the world, should be walking together here at Baden? It's not only that you're the richest man in London, and that I'm the poorest, but--; there are other things, you know, which make it so funny."

"By George! isn't it odd," said Burgo, at last, "that you and I, of all men in the world, should be walking together here at Baden? It's not only that you're the richest man in London, and that I'm the poorest, but - there are other things, you know, which make it so funny."


"There have been things which make me and my wife very anxious to give you aid."


"And have you considered, Mr. Palliser, that those things make you the very man in the world,--indeed, for the matter of that, the only man in the world,--from whom I can't take aid. I would have taken it all if I could have got it,--and I tried hard."

"And have you considered, Mr. Palliser, that those things make you the very man in the world from whom I can't take aid? I would have taken it all if I could - and I tried hard."


"I know you have been disappointed, Mr. Fitzgerald."


"Disappointed! By G----! yes. Did you ever know any man who had so much right to be disappointed as I have? I did love her, Mr. Palliser. Nay, by heavens! I do love her. Out here I will dare to say as much even to you. I shall never try to see her again. All that is over, of course. I've been a fool about her as I have been about everything. But I did love her."

"Disappointed! By G---! yes. I did love her, Mr. Palliser. Nay, by heavens! I do love her. I dare to say it even to you. I shall never try to see her again. All that is over, of course. I've been a fool about her as I have been about everything. But I did love her."


"It was not altogether her money. But think what it would have been to me, Mr. Palliser. Think what a chance I had, and what a chance I lost. I should have been at the top of everything,--as now I am at the bottom. I should not have spent that. There would have been enough of it to have saved me. And then I might have done something good instead of crawling about almost in fear of that beast who is watching us."

"It was not altogether her money. But think what it would have been to me, Mr. Palliser. Think what a chance I had, and what a chance I lost. There would have been enough money to have saved me. And then I might have done something good instead of crawling about almost in fear of that beast who is watching us."


"It has been ordered otherwise," said Mr. Palliser, not knowing what to say.


"Yes; it has been ordered, with a vengeance! It seems to have been ordered that I'm to go to the devil; but I don't know who gave the orders, and I don't know why."

"Yes; it seems to have been ordered that I'm to go to the devil; but I don't know who gave the orders, and I don't know why."


Mr. Palliser had not time to explain to his friend that the orders had been given, in a very peremptory way, by himself, as he was anxious to bring back the conversation to his own point. He wished to give some serviceable, and, if possible, permanent aid to the poor ne'er-do-well; but he did not wish to talk more than could be helped about his own wife.

Mr. Palliser did not wish to talk more than could be helped about his own wife.


"There is an old saying, which you will remember well," said he, "that the way to good manners is never too late."


"That's nonsense," said Burgo. "It's too late when the man feels the knot round his neck at the Old Bailey."


"Perhaps not, even then. Indeed, we may say, certainly not, if the man be still able to take the right way. But I don't want to preach to you."


"But I do want to be of service to you. There is something of truth in what you say. You have been disappointed; and I, perhaps, of all men am the most bound to come to your assistance now that you are in need."

"There is something of truth in what you say. You have been disappointed," he said, "and I, perhaps, of all men am the most bound to come to your assistance."


"How can I take it from you?" said Burgo, almost crying.


"No;--that would be worse; twenty times worse. What! take her money, when she would not give me herself!"

"No; that would be twenty times worse. What! take her money, when she would not give me herself!"


"I do not see why you should not borrow her money,--or mine. You shall call it which you will."

"I do not see why you should not borrow her money."


"What will I do? Ah! That's the question. I don't know what I will do. I have the key of my bedroom in my pocket, and I will go to bed to-night. It's not very often that I look forward much beyond that."

"Ah! That's the question. I don't know."


"Will you let me call on you, to-morrow?"


"I don't see what good it will do? I shan't get up till late, for fear they should shut the room against me. I might as well have as much out of them as I can. I think I shall say I'm ill, and keep my bed."

"I don't see what good it will do. I shan't get up till late, for fear they should shut the room against me. I think I shall say I'm ill, and keep to my bed."


"No; not a rap. Not from you. You are the first man from whom I ever refused to borrow money, and I should say that you'll be about the last to offer to lend it me."

"No; not from you. You are the first man from whom I ever refused to borrow money."


"I don't know what else I can offer?" said Mr. Palliser.

"What else can I offer?" said Mr. Palliser.


"You can offer nothing. If you will say to your wife from me that I bade her adieu;--that is all you can do for me. Good night, Mr. Palliser; good night."

"You can offer nothing. Say to your wife from me that I bade her adieu; that is all you can do for me. Good night, Mr. Palliser."


[Illustration: "Good night, Mr. Palliser."]


Mr. Palliser left him and went his way, feeling that he had no further eloquence at his command. He shook Burgo's hand, and then walked quickly down the hill. As he did so he passed, or would have passed the man who had been dodging them.

Mr. Palliser shook Burgo's hand, and then walked quickly down the hill. As he did so he passed the man who had been dodging them.


"Misther, Misther!" said the man in a whisper.


"What do you want of me?" asked Mr. Palliser, in French.


Then the man spoke in French, also. "Has he got any money? Have you given him any money?"

The man replied in French. "Have you given him any money?"


"I have not given him any money," said Mr. Palliser, not quite knowing what he had better do or say under such circumstances.

"I have not," said Mr. Palliser, not quite knowing what he had better do or say.


"Then he will have a bad time with it," said the man. "And he might have carried away two thousand francs just now! Dear, dear, dear! Has he got any friends, sir?"

"Then he will have a bad time of it," said the man. "And he might have carried away two thousand francs just now! Dear, dear, dear! Has he got any friends, sir?"


"Yes, he has friends. I do not know that I can assist him, or you."


"Yes," said Mr. Palliser; "his name is Fitzgerald."


"Ah! There are so many Fitzgeralds in England. Mr. Fitzgerald, London;--he has no other address?"


"If he had, and I knew it, I should not give it you without his sanction."


"But what shall we do? How shall we act? Perhaps with his own hand he will himself kill. For five weeks his pension he owes; yes, for five weeks. And for wine, oh so much! There came through Baden a my lord, and then, I think he got money. But he went and played. That was of course. But; oh my G----! he might have carried away this night two thousand francs; yes, two thousand francs!"

"But what shall we do? Perhaps with his own hand he will kill himself. For five weeks he owes; and for wine, oh so much! There came through Baden a lord, and then I think he got money. But he went and played."


"His friend, sir; only his friend. That is, I am the head Commissionaire. I look after the gentlemen who sometimes are not all--not all--" exactly what they should be, the commissioner intended to explain; and Mr. Palliser understood him although the words were not quite spoken. The interview was ended by Mr. Palliser taking the name of the hotel, and promising to call before Mr. Fitzgerald should be up in the morning--a purposed visit, which we need not regard as requiring any very early energy on Mr. Palliser's part, when we remember Burgo's own programme for the following day.

"I am the head Commissionaire. I look after the gentlemen who sometimes are not all - not all-" exactly what they should be, he intended to explain; and Mr. Palliser understood him. The interview ended with Mr. Palliser taking the name of the hotel, and promising to call before Mr. Fitzgerald should be up in the morning.


Lady Glencora received her husband that night with infinite anxiety, and was by no means satisfied with what had been done. He described to her as accurately as he could the nature of his interview with Burgo, and he described to her also his other interview with the head commissioner.

Lady Glencora received her husband that night with infinite anxiety, and was by no means satisfied with what had been done. He described to her as accurately as he could his interview with Burgo, and also his other interview with the head commissioner.


"He will; he will," said Lady Glencora; when she heard from her husband the man's surmise that perhaps he might destroy himself. "He will; he will; and if he does, how can you expect that I shall bear it?" Mr. Palliser tried to soothe her by telling her of his promised visit to the landlord; and Lady Glencora, accepting this as something, strove to instigate her husband to some lavish expenditure on Burgo's behalf. "There can be no reason why he should not take it," said Glencora. "None the least. Had it not been promised to him? Had he not a right to it?" The subject was one which Mr. Palliser found it very hard to discuss. He could not tell his wife that Fitzgerald ought to accept his bounty; but he assured her that his money should be forthcoming, almost to any extent, if it could be made available.

"He will; he will," said Lady Glencora; when she heard the man's guess that Burgo might destroy himself. "And if he does, how shall I bear it?"
Mr. Palliser tried to soothe her by telling her of his promise to visit the landlord; and Lady Glencora, accepting this, strove to persuade her husband to spend lavishly on Burgo's behalf. He assured her that his money should be forthcoming, if possible.


On the following morning he went down to the hotel, and saw the real landlord. He found him to be a reasonable, tranquil, and very good-natured man,--who was possessed by a not irrational desire that his customers' bills should be paid; but who seemed to be much less eager on the subject than are English landlords in general. His chief anxiety seemed to arise from the great difficulty of doing anything with the gentleman who was now lying in his bed up-stairs. "Has he had any breakfast?" Mr. Palliser asked.

On the following morning he went down to the hotel, and saw the landlord. He found him to be a reasonable, tranquil, good-natured man, whose chief anxiety seemed to arise from the great difficulty of doing anything with the gentleman who was now lying in his bed upstairs.
"Has he had any breakfast?" Mr. Palliser asked.


"Breakfast! Oh yes;" and the landlord laughed. He had been very particular in the orders he had given. He had desired his cutlets to be dressed in a particular way,--with a great deal of cayenne pepper, and they had been so dressed. He had ordered a bottle of Sauterne; but the landlord had thought, or the head-waiter acting for him had thought, that a bottle of ordinary wine of the country would do as well. The bottle of ordinary wine of the country had just that moment been sent up-stairs.

"Oh yes;" and the landlord laughed. Burgo had desired his cutlets to be dressed in a particular way, with cayenne pepper, and had ordered a bottle of Sauterne; but the landlord had thought that an ordinary wine would do as well. It had just that moment been sent upstairs.


Then Mr. Palliser sat down in the landlord's little room, and had Burgo Fitzgerald's bill brought to him. "I think I might venture to pay it," said Mr. Palliser.

Then Mr. Palliser sat down in the landlord's little room, and had Burgo Fitzgerald's bill brought to him. "I think I might venture to pay it," he said.


"That was as monsieur pleased," said the landlord, with something like a sparkle in his eye.

"As monsieur pleases," said the landlord, but with a sparkle in his eye.


What was Mr. Palliser to do? He did not know whether, in accordance with the rules of the world in which he lived, he ought to pay it, or ought to leave it; and certainly the landlord could not tell him. Then he thought of his wife. He could not go back to his wife without having done something; so, as a first measure, he paid the bill. The landlord's eyes glittered, and he receipted it in the most becoming manner.

Mr. Palliser did not know whether, in the eyes of the world, he ought to pay it, or leave it. Then he thought of his wife. He could not go back to her without having done something; so he paid the bill.


"Should he now send up the bottle of Sauterne?"--but to this Mr. Palliser demurred.


"And to whom should the receipted bill be given?" Mr. Palliser thought that the landlord had better keep it himself for a while.

"And to whom should the receipt be given?" asked the landlord.
Mr. Palliser thought that the landlord had better keep it himself for a while.


"Perhaps there is some little difficulty?" suggested the landlord.


Mr. Palliser acknowledged that there was a little difficulty. He knew that he must do something more. He could not simply pay the bill and go away. That would not satisfy his wife. He knew that he must do something more; but how was he to do it? So at last he let the landlord into his confidence. He did not tell the whole of Burgo's past history. He did not tell that little episode in Burgo's life which referred to Lady Glencora. But he did make the landlord understand that he was willing to administer money to Mr. Fitzgerald, if only it could only be administered judiciously.

He knew that he must do something more. He could not simply pay the bill and go away. That would not satisfy his wife.
At last he let the landlord into his confidence. He did not tell the whole of Burgo's past history, or that part which referred to Lady Glencora. But he did make the landlord understand that he was willing to give money to Mr. Fitzgerald, if only it could be given judiciously.


"You can't keep him out of the gambling salon, you know, sir; that is, not if he has a franc in his pocket." As to that the landlord was very confident.

"You can't keep him out of the gambling salon, you know, sir, if he has a franc in his pocket," the landlord assured him.


It was at last arranged, that the landlord was to tell Burgo that his bill did not signify at present, and that the use of the hotel was to be at Burgo's command for the next three months. At the end of that time he was to have notice to quit. No money was to be advanced to him;--but the landlord, even in this respect, had a discretion.

It was at last arranged that the landlord was to tell Burgo that his bill did not signify at present, and that the use of the hotel was to be at his command for the next three months. At the end of that time he was to have notice to quit. No money was to be advanced to him; but the landlord, even in this respect, had discretion.


"When I get home, I will see what can be done with his relations there," said Mr. Palliser. Then he went home and told his wife.


"But he'll have no clothes," said Lady Glencora.


Mr. Palliser said that the judicious landlord would manage that also; and in that way Lady Glencora was appeased,--appeased, till something final could be done for the young man, on Mr. Palliser's return home.

Mr. Palliser said that the judicious landlord would manage that also; and in that way Lady Glencora was appeased, till something could be done for the young man on Mr. Palliser's return home.


Poor Burgo! He must now be made to end his career as far as these pages are concerned. He soon found that something had been done for him at the hotel, and no doubt he must have made some guess near the truth. The discreet landlord told him nothing,--would tell him nothing; but that his bill did not signify as yet. Burgo, thinking about it, resolved to write about it in an indignant strain to Mr. Palliser; but the letter did not get itself written. When in England, Mr. Palliser saw Sir Cosmo Monk, and with many apologies, told him what he had done.

Poor Burgo! He must now be made to end his career as far as these pages are concerned. The discreet landlord would tell him nothing but that his bill did not signify yet, but no doubt Burgo must have guessed the truth. He resolved to write an indignant letter to Mr. Palliser; but the letter did not get written.
When in England, Mr. Palliser saw Sir Cosmo Monk, and with many apologies, told him what he had done.


"I regret it," said Sir Cosmo, in anger. "I regret it; not for the money's sake, but I regret it." The amount expended, was however repaid to Mr. Palliser, and an arrangement was made for remitting a weekly sum of fifteen pounds to Burgo, through a member of the diplomatic corps, as long as he should remain at a certain small German town which was indicated, and in which there was no public gambling-table. Lady Glencora expressed herself satisfied for the present; but I must doubt whether poor Burgo lived long in comfort on the allowance made to him.

"I regret it," said Sir Cosmo, in anger at Burgo. The amount expended was, however, repaid to Mr. Palliser, and an arrangement was made for sending a weekly sum of fifteen pounds to Burgo, as long as he should remain at a certain small German town in which there was no gambling-table.
Here we must say farewell to poor Burgo Fitzgerald; although I doubt whether he lived long in comfort on his allowance.


Here we must say farewell to Burgo Fitzgerald.


March came, and still the Chancellor of the Exchequer held his position. In the early days of March there was given in the House a certain parliamentary explanation on the subject, which, however, did not explain very much to any person. A statement was made which was declared by the persons making it to be altogether satisfactory, but nobody else seemed to find any satisfaction in it. The big wigs of the Cabinet had made an arrangement which, from the language used by them on this occasion, they must be supposed to have regarded as hardly less permanent than the stars; but everybody else protested that the Government was going to pieces; and Mr. Bott was heard to declare in clubs and lobbies, and wherever he could get a semi-public, political hearing, that this kind of thing wouldn't do. Lord Brock must either blow hot or cold. If he chose to lean upon Mr. Palliser, he might lean upon him, and Mr. Palliser would not be found wanting. In such case no opposition could touch Lord Brock or the Government. That was Mr. Bott's opinion. But if Lord Brock did not so choose, why, in that case, he must expect that Mr. Palliser, and Mr. Palliser's friends, would--. Mr. Bott did not say what they would do; but he was supposed by those who understood the matter to hint at an Opposition lobby, and adverse divisions, and to threaten Lord Brock with the open enmity of Mr. Palliser,--and of Mr. Palliser's great follower.

March came, and still the Chancellor of the Exchequer held his position. In early March there was given in the House a parliamentary explanation on the subject, which, however, did not explain very much. Everybody but the Cabinet protested that the Government was going to pieces; and Mr. Bott declared that this kind of thing wouldn't do. Lord Brock must decide. If he chose Mr. Palliser, Mr. Palliser would not be found wanting. But if Lord Brock did not so choose, he must expect that Mr. Palliser and his friends, would - Mr. Bott did not say what they would do; but he was assumed to hint at divisions, and to threaten Lord Brock with the open enmity of Mr. Palliser - and of Mr. Bott himself.

Chapter 44: The Election for the Chelsea Districts


"This kind of thing won't do long, you know," repeated Mr. Bott for the second or third time, as he stood upon the rug before the fire at his club, with one or two of his young friends around him.

"This kind of thing won't do long, you know," repeated Mr. Bott, as he stood before the fire at his club, with one or two of his young friends around him.


"I suppose not," said Calder Jones, the hunting Member of Parliament whom we once met at Roebury. "Planty Pall won't stand it, I should say."

"I suppose not," said Calder Jones, the hunting Member of Parliament whom we met at Roebury. "Planty Pall won't stand it, I should say."


"What can he do?" asked another, an unfledged Member who was not as yet quite settled as to the leadership under which he intended to work.

"What can he do?" asked another, an unfledged Member who was not quite sure whom he should follow.


"What can he do?" said Mr. Bott, who on such an occasion as this could be very great,--who, for a moment, could almost feel that he might become a leader of a party for himself, and some day institute a Bott Ministry. "What can he do? You will very shortly see what he can do. He can make himself the master of the occasion. If Lord Brock doesn't look about him, he'll find that Mr. Palliser will be in the Cabinet without his help."

"What can he do?" said Mr. Bott - who, for a moment, could almost feel that he might become a leader of a party himself. "You will very shortly see what he can do. If Lord Brock doesn't look about him, he'll find that Mr. Palliser will be in the Cabinet without his help."


"You don't mean to say that the Queen will send for Planty Pall!" said the young Member.


"I mean to say that the Queen will send for any one that the House of Commons may direct her to call upon," said Mr. Bott, who conceived himself to have gauged the very depths of our glorious Constitution. "How hard it is to make any one understand that the Queen has really nothing to do with it!"

"The Queen will send for anyone that the House of Commons may direct her to call upon," said Mr. Bott. "The Queen has really nothing to do with it."


"Come, Bott, draw it mild," said Calder Jones, whose loyalty was shocked by the utter Manchesterialism of his political friend.

"Come, Bott, tone it down," said Calder Jones, whose loyalty was shocked.


"Not if I know it," said Mr. Bott, with something of grandeur in his tone and countenance. "I never drew it mild yet, and I shan't begin now. All our political offences against civilization have come from men drawing it mild, as you call it. Why is it that Englishmen can't read and write as Americans do? Why can't they vote as they do even in Imperial France? Why are they serfs, less free than those whose chains were broken the other day in Russia? Why is the Spaniard more happy, and the Italian more contented? Because men in power have been drawing it mild!" And Mr. Bott made an action with his hand as though he were drawing up beer from a patent tap.

"I shan't," said Mr. Bott grandly. "All our political offences against civilization have come from that. Why can't Englishmen read and write as Americans do? Why can't they vote as they do even in Imperial France? Why are they less free than serfs in Russia? Because men in power have been toning it down!"


"But you can't set aside Her Majesty like that, you know," said the young Member, who had been presented, and whose mother's old-world notions about the throne still clung to him.

"But you can't set aside Her Majesty like that, you know," said the young Member.


"I should be very sorry," said Mr. Bott; "I'm no republican." With all his constitutional love, Mr. Bott did not know what the word republican meant. "I mean no disrespect to the throne. The throne in its place is very well. But the power of governing this great nation does not rest with the throne. It is contained within the four walls of the House of Commons. That is the great truth which all young Members should learn, and take to their hearts."

"I'm no republican," said Mr. Bott, although he did not know what the word meant. "I mean no disrespect to the throne. But the power of governing this great nation does not rest with the throne. It is contained within the four walls of the House of Commons."


"And you think Planty Pall will become Prime Minister?" said Calder Jones.


"I haven't said that; but there are more unlikely things. Among young men I know no man more likely. But I certainly think this,--that if Lord Brock doesn't take him into the Cabinet, Lord Brock won't long remain there himself."

"I haven't said that; but there are more unlikely things. But I certainly think that if Lord Brock doesn't take him into the Cabinet, Lord Brock won't remain there long himself."


In the meantime the election came on in the Chelsea districts, and the whole of the south-western part of the metropolis was covered with posters bearing George Vavasor's name. "Vote for Vavasor and the River Bank." That was the cry with which he went to the electors; and though it must be presumed that it was understood by some portion of the Chelsea electors, it was perfectly unintelligible to the majority of those who read it. His special acquaintances and his general enemies called him Viscount Riverbank, and he was pestered on all sides by questions as to Father Thames. It was Mr. Scruby who invented the legend, and who gave George Vavasor an infinity of trouble by the invention. There was a question in those days as to embanking the river from the Houses of Parliament up to the remote desolations of further Pimlico, and Mr. Scruby recommended the coming Member to pledge himself that he would have the work carried on even to Battersea Bridge. "You must have a subject," pleaded Mr. Scruby. "No young Member can do anything without a subject. And it should be local;--that is to say, if you have anything of a constituency. Such a subject as that, if it's well worked, may save you thousands of pounds--thousands of pounds at future elections."

In the meantime the election came on in the Chelsea districts, and south-western London was covered with posters bearing George Vavasor's name.
"Vote for Vavasor and the River Bank." That was the cry with which he went to the electors; and it was perfectly unintelligible to most of those who read it. He was called Viscount Riverbank by all sides, and was pestered by questions about Father Thames.
It was Mr. Scruby who invented the slogan. There was a call in those days to embank the river from the Houses of Parliament up to Pimlico, and Mr. Scruby recommended Vavasor to pledge that he would have the work carried out.
"You must have a subject," pleaded Mr. Scruby; "and it should be local. It may save you thousands of pounds at future elections."


"It won't save me anything at this one, I take it."


"But it may secure the seat, Mr. Vavasor, and afterwards make you the most popular metropolitan Member in the House; that is, with your own constituency. Only look at the money that would be spent in the districts if that were done! It would come to millions, sir!"

"But it may secure the seat, Mr. Vavasor, and make you the most popular metropolitan Member in the House. Only look at the money that would be spent in the districts if the embankment were done! It would be millions, sir!"


"What matters that?" and Mr. Scruby almost became eloquent as he explained the nature of a good parliamentary subject. "You should work it up, so as to be able to discuss it at all points. Get the figures by heart, and then, as nobody else will do so, nobody can put you down. Of course it won't be done. If it were done, that would be an end of it, and your bread would be taken out of your mouth. But you can always promise it at the hustings, and can always demand it in the House. I've known men who've walked into as much as two thousand a year, permanent place, on the strength of a worse subject than that!"

"What does that matter?" said Mr. Scruby. "Get the figures by heart, and as nobody else will do so, nobody can argue with you. Of course it won't be done. But you can always promise it at the hustings, and can demand it in the House."


Vavasor allowed Mr. Scruby to manage the matter for him, and took up the subject of the River Bank. "Vavasor and the River Bank" was carried about by an army of men with iron shoulder-straps, and huge pasteboard placards six feet high on the top of them. You would think, as you saw the long rows, that the men were being marshalled to their several routes; but they always kept together--four-and-twenty at the heels of each other. "One placard at a time would strike the eye," said Mr. Vavasor, counting the expense up to himself. "There's no doubt of it," said Mr. Scruby in reply. "One placard will do that, if it's big enough; but it takes four-and-twenty to touch the imagination." And then sides of houses were covered with that shibboleth--"Vavasor and the River Bank"--the same words repeated in columns down the whole sides of houses. Vavasor himself declared that he was ashamed to walk among his future constituents, so conspicuous had his name become. Grimes saw it, and was dismayed. At first, Grimes ridiculed the cry with all his publican's wit. "Unless he mean to drown hisself in the Reach, it's hard to say what he do mean by all that gammon about the River Bank," said Grimes, as he canvassed for the other Liberal candidate. But, after a while, Grimes was driven to confess that Mr. Scruby knew what he was about. "He is a sharp 'un, that he is," said Grimes in the inside bar of the "Handsome Man;" and he almost regretted that he had left the leadership of Mr. Scruby, although he knew that on this occasion he would not have gotten his odd money.

So Vavasor allowed Mr. Scruby to manage the matter for him, and huge placards saying "Vavasor and the River Bank" were carried about by an army of men. And sides of houses were covered with "Vavasor and the River Bank", until Vavasor declared that he was ashamed to walk down the streets, so conspicuous had his name become.
Grimes the publican ridiculed the cry at first, when he canvassed for the other Liberal candidate. But, after a while, he admitted that Mr. Scruby knew what he was doing.
"He's a sharp 'un, he is," said Grimes; and he almost regretted that he had left the leadership of Mr. Scruby.


George Vavasor, with much labour, actually did get up the subject of the River Bank. He got himself introduced to men belonging to the Metropolitan Board, and went manfully into the matter of pounds, shillings, and pence. He was able even to work himself into an apparent heat when he was told that the thing was out of the question; and soon found that he had disciples who really believed in him. If he could have brought himself to believe in the thing,--if he could have been induced himself to care whether Chelsea was to be embanked or no, the work would not have been so difficult to him. In that case it would have done good to him, if to no one else. But such belief was beyond him. He had gone too far in life to be capable of believing in, or of caring for, such things. He was ambitious of having a hand in the government of his country, but he was not capable of caring even for that.

George Vavasor actually did study the subject of the River Bank. He got himself introduced to men on the Metropolitan Board, and went manfully into the figures. He was able even to work himself into an apparent heat when told that the thing was out of the question; and soon found that he had disciples who really believed in him. If he could have brought himself to care about the matter, the work would not have been difficult to him. But that was beyond him. He had gone too far in life to be capable of believing in, or of caring for, such things. He was ambitious of having a hand in the government of his country, but he was not capable of caring even for that.


But he worked. He worked hard, and spoke vehemently, and promised the men of Chelsea, Pimlico, and Brompton that the path of London westwards had hardly commenced as yet. Sloane Street should be the new Cheapside. Squares should arise around the Chelsea barracks, with sides open to the water, for which Belgravia would be deserted. There should be palaces there for the rich, because the rich spend their riches; but no rich man's palace should interfere with the poor man's right to the River Bank. Three millions and a half should be spent on the noble street to be constructed, the grandest pathway that the world should ever yet have seen; three millions and a half to be drawn from,--to be drawn from anywhere except from Chelsea;--from the bloated money-bags of the City Corporation, Vavasor once ventured to declare, amidst the encouraging shouts of the men of Chelsea. Mr. Scruby was forced to own that his pupil worked the subject well. "Upon my word, that was uncommon good," he said, almost patting Vavasor on the back, after a speech in which he had vehemently asserted that his ambition to represent the Chelsea districts had all come of his long-fixed idea that the glory of future London would be brought about by the embankment of the river at Chelsea.

But he worked hard, and spoke vehemently, and promised the men of Chelsea that the path of London westwards had hardly commenced as yet. Squares should arise around the Chelsea barracks, while Belgravia would be deserted. Three and a half million should be spent on the noble street to be constructed; the money to be drawn from - anywhere except Chelsea.
Mr. Scruby was forced to own that his pupil worked the subject well.
"Upon my word, that was uncommon good," he said, almost patting Vavasor on the back after one speech about the future glory of the embankment.


But armies of men carrying big boards, and public-houses open at every corner, and placards in which the letters are three feet long, cost money. Those few modest hundreds which Mr. Scruby had already received before the work began, had been paid on the supposition that the election would not take place till September. Mr. Scruby made an early request, a very early request, that a further sum of fifteen hundred pounds should be placed in his hands; and he did this in a tone which clearly signified that not a man would be sent about through the streets, or a poster put upon a wall, till this request had been conceded. Mr. Scruby was in possession of two very distinct manners of address. In his jovial moods, when he was instigating his clients to fight their battles well, it might almost be thought that he was doing it really for the love of the thing; and some clients, so thinking, had believed for a few hours that Scruby, in his jolly, passionate eagerness, would pour out his own money like dust, trusting implicitly to future days for its return. But such clients had soon encountered Mr. Scruby's other manner, and had perceived that they were mistaken.

But armies of men carrying placards cost money. Mr. Scruby asked for a further fifteen hundred pounds; and his tone clearly signified that not a placard would be sent through the streets, or a poster put upon a wall, till he had the money. His joviality was absent.


The thing had come so suddenly upon George Vavasor that there was not time for him to carry on his further operations through his sister. Had he written to Kate,--let him have written in what language he would,--she would have first rejoined by a negative, and there would have been a correspondence before he had induced her to comply. He thought of sending for her by telegram, but even in that there would have been too much delay. He resolved, therefore, to make his application to Alice himself, and he wrote to her, explaining his condition. The election had come upon him quite suddenly, as she knew, he said. He wanted two thousand pounds instantly, and felt little scruple in asking her for it, as he was aware that the old Squire would be only too glad to saddle the property with a legacy to Alice for the repayment of this money, though he would not have advanced a shilling himself for the purpose of the election. Then he said a word or two as to his prolonged absence from Queen Anne Street. He had not been there because he had felt, from her manner when they last met, that she would for a while prefer to be left free from the unavoidable excitement of such interviews. But should he be triumphant in his present contest, he should go to her to share his triumph with her; or, should he fail, he should go to her to console him in his failure.

The request came so suddenly that there was no time for George to communicate with Alice through his sister. He resolved, therefore, to apply to Alice himself, and he wrote to her, explaining matters.
The election had come upon him quite suddenly, as she knew, he said. He wanted two thousand pounds instantly, and felt little scruple in asking her for it, as he was aware that the old Squire would readily leave her a legacy for the repayment of this money.
Then he said a word or two about his long absence from Queen Anne Street. He had not visited because he had felt that she would prefer to be left free from the excitement of such interviews. But if he should he be triumphant in the election, he should go to her to share his triumph; or, should he fail, he would go to her to console him in his failure.


Within three days he heard from her, saying that the money would be at once placed to his credit. She sent him also her candid good wishes for success in his enterprise, but beyond this her letter said nothing. There was no word of love,--no word of welcome,--no expression of a desire to see him. Vavasor, as he perceived all this in the reading of her note, felt a triumph in the possession of her money. She was ill-using him by her coldness, and there was comfort in revenge. "It serves her right," he said to himself. "She should have married me at once when she said she would do so, and then it would have been my own."

Within three days he heard from her, saying that the money would be at once placed to his credit. She sent him also her candid good wishes for success, but beyond this her letter said nothing. There was no word of love or welcome, no expression of a desire to see him. Vavasor, as he perceived this, felt a triumph in the possession of her money. She was ill-using him by her coldness, and there was comfort in revenge.
"It serves her right," he said to himself. "She should have married me at once, and then the money would have been mine."


When Mr. Tombe had communicated with John Grey on the matter of this increased demand,--this demand which Mr. Tombe began to regard as carrying a love-affair rather too far,--Grey had telegraphed back that Vavasor's demand for money, if made through Mr. John Vavasor, was to be honoured to the extent of five thousand pounds. Mr. Tombe raised his eyebrows, and reflected that some men were very foolish. But John Grey's money matters were of such a nature as to make Mr. Tombe know that he must do as he was bidden; and the money was paid to George Vavasor's account.

When Mr. Tombe had communicated with John Grey about this increased demand - which Mr. Tombe regarded as going too far - Grey had telegraphed back that Vavasor's demand, if made through Mr. John Vavasor, was to be honoured to the extent of five thousand pounds. Mr. Tombe raised his eyebrows, and reflected that some men were very foolish. But he did as he was asked; and the money was paid to George Vavasor's account.


He told Kate nothing of this. Why should he trouble himself to do so? Indeed, at this time he wrote no letters to his sister, though she twice sent to him, knowing what his exigencies would be, and made further tenders of her own money. He could not reply to these offers without telling her that money had been forthcoming from that other quarter, and so he left them unanswered.

George told Kate nothing of this. Why should he? He wrote no letters to his sister, though she twice wrote to him offering her own money. He could not reply to these offers without telling her that money had been obtained from Alice, and so he left them unanswered.


In the meantime the battle went on gloriously. Mr. Travers, the other Liberal candidate, spent his money freely,--or else some other person did so on his behalf. When Mr. Scruby mentioned this last alternative to George Vavasor, George cursed his own luck in that he had never found such backers. "I don't call a man half a Member when he's brought in like that," said Mr. Scruby, comforting him. "He can't do what he likes with his vote. He ain't independent. You never hear of those fellows getting anything good. Pay for the article yourself, Mr. Vavasor, and then it's your own. That's what I always say."

In the meantime the battle went on gloriously. Mr. Travers, the other Liberal candidate, spent his money freely, and George cursed his own luck in having no rich backers.
"I don't call a man a Member when he's elected like that," said Mr. Scruby, comforting him. "He can't do what he likes with his vote. He ain't independent. Pay for it yourself, Mr. Vavasor, and then it's your own. That's what I say."


Mr. Grimes went to work strenuously, almost fiercely, in the opposite interest, telling all that he knew, and perhaps more than he knew, of Vavasor's circumstances. He was at work morning, noon, and night, not only in his own neighbourhood, but among those men on the river bank of whom he had spoken so much in his interview with Vavasor in Cecil Street. The entire Vavasorian army with its placards was entirely upset on more than one occasion, and was once absolutely driven ignominiously into the river mud. And all this was done under the direction of Mr. Grimes. Vavasor himself was pelted with offal from the sinking tide, so that the very name of the River Bank became odious to him. He was a man who did not like to have his person touched, and when they hustled him he became angry. "Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby, "that's nothing! I've had a candidate so mauled,--it was in the Hamlets, I think,--that there wasn't a spot on him that wasn't painted with rotten eggs. The smell was something quite awful. But I brought him in, through it all."

Mr. Grimes went to work strenuously in the opposite interest, telling all that he knew, and perhaps more, of Vavasor's circumstances. He was at work not only in his own neighbourhood, but among the men on the river bank. The entire Vavasorian army with its placards was entirely upset on more than one occasion, and was once driven into the river mud under the direction of Mr. Grimes. Vavasor himself was pelted with dirt from the sinking tide, and he became angry.
"Lord love you, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby, "that's nothing! I've had a candidate covered with rotten eggs. The smell was something awful. But I brought him in."


And Mr. Scruby at last did as much for George Vavasor as he had done for the hero of the Hamlets. At the close of the poll Vavasor's name stood at the head by a considerable majority, and Scruby comforted him by saying that Travers certainly wouldn't stand the expense of a petition, as the seat was to be held only for a few months.

And Mr. Scruby at last did as much for George. At the close of the poll, Vavasor's name stood at the head by a considerable majority.


"And you've done it very cheap, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby, "considering that the seat is metropolitan. I do say that you have done it cheap. Another thousand, or twelve hundred, will cover everything--say thirteen, perhaps, at the outside. And when you shall have fought the battle once again, you'll have paid your footing, and the fellows will let you in almost for nothing after that."

"You've done it very cheap, Mr. Vavasor," said Scruby. "Another thousand, or twelve hundred, will cover everything - say thirteen, perhaps. And when you've fought the battle once again, you'll have paid your footing, and the fellows will let you in almost for nothing after that."


A further sum of thirteen hundred pounds was wanted at once, and then the whole thing was to be repeated over again in six months' time! This was not consolatory. But, nevertheless, there was a triumph in the thing itself which George Vavasor was man enough to enjoy. It would be something to have sat in the House of Commons, though it should only have been for half a session.

A further thirteen hundred pounds was wanted at once, and then the whole thing was to be repeated in six months' time! This was not a comfort. But, nevertheless, it was a triumph which George Vavasor was man enough to enjoy. It would be something to have sat in the House of Commons, even if only for half a session.


We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London during this summer, so that the reader may understand Mr. Grey's position when he reached Lucerne. He had undergone another quarrel with George Vavasor, and something of the circumstances of that quarrel must be told.

We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London during the summer, before Mr. Grey went to Lucerne. He had another quarrel with George Vavasor.

Chapter 71: Showing How George Vavasor Received a Visit


It has been already said that George Vavasor lost his election for the Chelsea Districts, after all the money which he had spent,--money which he had been so ill able to spend, and on which he had laid his hands in a manner so disreputable! He had received two thousand pounds from the bills which Alice had executed on his behalf,--or rather, had received the full value of three out of the four bills, and a part of the value of the fourth, on which he had been driven to raise what immediate money he had wanted by means of a Jew bill-discounter. One thousand pounds he had paid over at once into the hands of Mr. Scruby, his Parliamentary election agent, towards the expenses of his election; and when the day of polling arrived had exactly in his hands the sum of five hundred pounds. Where he was to get more when this was gone he did not know. If he were successful,--if the enlightened constituents of the Chelsea Districts, contented with his efforts on behalf of the River Bank, should again send him to Parliament, he thought that he might still carry on the war. A sum of ready money he would have in hand; and, as to his debts, he would be grandly indifferent to any consideration of them. Then there might be pickings in the way of a Member of Parliament of his calibre. Companies,--mercantile companies,--would be glad to have him as a director, paying him a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour's attendance. Railways in want of vice-chairmen might bid for his services; and in the City he might turn that "M.P." which belonged to him to good account in various ways. With such a knowledge of the City world as he possessed, he thought that he could pick up a living in London, if only he could retain his seat in Parliament.

Vavasor lost his election for the Chelsea Districts despite all the money he had spent. Out of the bills which Alice had signed, he had paid one thousand pounds at once to Mr. Scruby, towards the expenses of his election; and when the polling day arrived he had in his hands five hundred pounds. Where he was to get more when this was gone, he did not know. If he were successful, then he would be grandly indifferent to any debts. There might be pickings in the way of a Member of Parliament of his calibre. Companies would be glad to have him as a director, paying a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour's attendance; and in the City he might turn that "M.P." to good account in various ways.


But what was he to do if he could not retain it? No sooner had Mr. Scruby got the thousand pounds into his clutches than he pressed for still more money. George Vavasor, with some show of justice on his side, pointed out to this all-devouring agent that the sum demanded had already been paid. This Mr. Scruby admitted, declaring that he was quite prepared to go on without any further immediate remittance, although by doing so might subject himself to considerable risk. But another five hundred pounds, paid at once, would add greatly to the safety of the seat; whereas eight hundred judiciously thrown in at the present moment would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasor swore to himself that he would not part with another shilling. Never had he felt such love for money as he did for that five hundred pounds which he now held in his pocket. "It's no use," he said to Mr. Scruby. "I have done what you asked, and would have done more had you asked for more at that time. As it is, I cannot make another payment before the election." Mr. Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and said that he would do his best. But George Vavasor soon knew that the man was not doing his best,--that the man had, in truth, abandoned his cause. The landlord of the "Handsome Man" jeered him when he went there canvassing. "Laws, Mr. Vavasor!" said the landlord of the "Handsome Man," "you're not at all the fellow for us chaps along the river,--you ain't. You're afraid to come down with the stumpy,--that's what you are." George put his hand upon his purse, and acknowledged to himself that he had been afraid to come down with the stumpy.

But what was he to do if he lost the election? No sooner had Mr. Scruby got the thousand pounds than he pressed for still more money, insisting that eight hundred would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasor swore to himself that he would not part with another shilling.
"It's no use," he said to Mr. Scruby. "I cannot make another payment before the election." Mr. Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and said that he would do his best. But George Vavasor soon knew that the man was not doing his best - that the man had, in truth, abandoned his cause. The landlord of the Handsome Man jeered when he went there canvassing, and


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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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


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


But suddenly there was a change upon his face, as he stood there all alone, and his eyes became fierce, and the cicatrice that marred his countenance grew to be red and ghastly, and he grinned with his teeth, and he clenched his fists as he still held them within his pockets. "Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and for ever!" He had broken down in his calmness, when he thought of that old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at his death. "May all the evils which the dead can feel cling to him for ever and ever!" His laughter was all gone, and his assumed tranquillity had deserted him. Walking across the room, he struck his foot against a chair; upon this, he took the chair in his hands, and threw it across the room. But he hardly arrested the torrent of his maledictions as he did so. What good was it that he should lie to himself by that mock tranquillity, or that false laughter? He lied to himself no longer, but uttered a song of despair that was true enough. What should he do? Where should he go? From what fountain should he attempt to draw such small draughts of the water of comfort as might support him at the present moment? Unless a man have some such fountain to which he can turn, the burden of life cannot be borne. For the moment, Vavasor tried to find such fountain in a bottle of brandy which stood near him. He half filled a tumbler, and then, dashing some water on it, swallowed it greedily. "By ----!" he said, "I believe it is the best thing a man can do."

But suddenly there was a change, and his eyes became fierce, and the scar that marred his face grew red and ghastly. He showed his teeth and clenched his fists within his pockets.
"Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and for ever!" He was thinking of that old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at his death. His assumed tranquillity deserted him. He kicked a chair; then he took the chair in his hands, and threw it across the room. What should he do? Where should he go? From where might he find comfort to support him?
Vavasor turned to a bottle of brandy which stood near, half filled a tumbler, and swallowed it greedily. "By --!" he said, "I believe it is the best thing a man can do."


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

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


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

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


The woman heard him, but she made no sign of having heard him. She simply remained standing where she was till something further should be done within. She knew the man well, and knew that she must bide his time. She was very patient,--and for the time was meek, though it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor, when he had heard her voice, and knew who was there, had again thrown himself on the sofa. There flashed across his mind another thought or two as to his future career,--another idea about the pistol, which still lay upon the table. Why should he let the intruder in, and undergo the nuisance of a disagreeable interview, if the end of all things might come in time to save him from such trouble? There he lay for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard again. He jumped upon his feet, and his eyes were full of fire. He knew that it was useless to bid her go and leave him. She would sit there, if it were through the whole night. Should he open the door and strangle her, and pass out over her with the pistol in his hand, so that he might make that other reckoning which he desired to accomplish, and then never come back any more?

The woman heard him, but she simply remained standing where she was. She knew the man well, and knew that she must wait. She was very patient - and for the time was meek, though it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor, lying on the sofa, had another idea flash across his mind about the pistol. Why should he let the intruder in, and have a disagreeable interview, if the end of all things might save him from such trouble?
There he lay for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard again. He jumped to his feet, with his eyes full of fire. He knew that it was useless to bid her go. She would sit there all night. Should he open the door and strangle her, and go out with the pistol and never come back any more?


He took a turn through the room, and then walked gently up to the door, and undid the lock. He did not open the door, nor did he bid his visitor enter, but having made the way easy for her if she chose to come in, he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again. As he did so, he passed his hand across the table so as to bring the pistol near to himself at the place where he would be lying. She paused a moment after she had heard the sound of the key, and then she made her way into the room. He did not at first speak to her. She closed the door very gently, and then, looking around, came up to the foot of the sofa. She paused a moment, waiting for him to address her; but as he said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she was the first to speak. "George," she said, "what am I to do?"

He walked gently up to the door, and undid the lock. Then he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again. As he did so, he passed his hand across the table to pull the pistol nearer.
The woman paused a moment, and then she made her way into the room. He did not speak. She closed the door very gently, and came up to the foot of the sofa. As he still said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she was the first to speak.
"George," she said, "what am I to do?"


She was a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed poorly, in old garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at feminine prettiness. There were flowers in the bonnet on her head, though the bonnet had that unmistakable look of age which is quite as distressing to bonnets as it is to women, and the flowers themselves were battered and faded. She had long black ringlets on each cheek, hanging down much below her face, and brought forward so as to hide in some degree the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness, but now they left on those who looked at her cursorily no special impression as to their colour. They had been blue,--that dark violet blue, which is so rare, but is sometimes so lovely. Her forehead was narrow, her mouth was small, and her lips were thin; but her nose was perfect in its shape, and, by the delicacy of its modelling, had given a peculiar grace to her face in the days when things had gone well with her, when her cheeks had been full with youth and good living, and had been dimpled by the softness of love and mirth. There were no dimples there now, and all the softness which still remained was that softness which sorrow and continual melancholy give to suffering women. On her shoulders she wore a light shawl, which was fastened to her bosom with a large clasp brooch. Her faded dress was supported by a wide crinoline, but the under garment had lost all the grace of its ancient shape, and now told that woman's tale of poverty and taste for dress which is to be read in the outward garb of so many of Eve's daughters. The whole story was told so that those who ran might read it. When she had left her home this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that something of the charm of apparel might be left to her; but she had known of her own failure at every twist that she had given to her gown, and at every jerk with which she had settled her shawl. She had despaired at every push she had given to her old flowers, vainly striving to bring them back to their old forms; but still she had persevered. With long tedious care she had mended the old gloves which would hardly hold her fingers. She had carefully hidden the rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a separate grief to her that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists;--and yet she knew that no cuffs could have availed her anything. Nothing could avail her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come forth anxiously, and would have waited there throughout the whole night had access to his room been debarred to her. "George," she said, standing at the bottom of the sofa, "what am I to do?"

She was a woman of about thirty, dressed poorly in old garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at prettiness. There were faded flowers in her bonnet. She had long black ringlets on each cheek, which to some degree hid the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness, and her face was delicate; and in the days when things had gone well with her, she had possessed a soft and mirthful grace. All the softness which remained was that softness which continual sadness gives to suffering women.
She wore a light shawl over her shabby dress. When she had left her home this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that some charm might be left to her; but she had known her own failure at every point. With long tedious care she had mended her old gloves. She had carefully hidden the rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a grief to her that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists; and yet she knew that cuffs could not have helped her. Nothing could help her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come forth anxiously.
"George," she said, "what am I to do?"


As he lay there with his face turned towards her, the windows were at her back, and he could see her very plainly. He saw and appreciated the little struggles she had made to create by her appearance some reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel, the price of which would now have been important to him. He saw it all, and lay there for a while, silently reading it.

As he lay there, he saw and appreciated the little struggles she had made to create some reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel. He saw it all and lay there for a while, silently reading it.


"Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."


"I don't want you to stand there," he said.


"That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to stand here. I know you don't want to see me ever again."

"I know that. I know you don't want to see me ever again."


"I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"

"Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"


"That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink, and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all."

"I would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and drink, and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all."


"It was only for your sake,--because you liked it."

"It was only for your sake - because you liked it."


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

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


"Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. I shall give you nothing;--not a penny. You know very well that we've had all that out before. When I put you into business I told you that we were to see no more of each other."

"I don't want you to find me. I shall not give you a penny. When I put you into business I told you that we were to see no more of each other."


"Business!" she said. "I never could make enough out of the shop to feed a bird."

"Business!" she said. "I could never make enough out of the shop to feed a bird."


"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to take the place."

"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to it."


"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my other home away from me."

"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my home away from me."


"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you;--and more than most men would have done, when all things are considered." Then he got up from the sofa, and stood himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the fireplace. "At any rate, you may be sure of this, Jane;--that I shall do nothing more. You have come here to torment me, but you shall get nothing by it."

"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you; and more than most men would have done." Then he got up from the sofa, and stood on the hearthrug. "At any rate, Jane, I shall do nothing more. You shall get nothing by coming here."


"I have come here because I am starving."


"I have nothing for you. Now go;" and he pointed to the door. Nevertheless, for more than three years of his life this woman had been his closest companion, his nearest friend, the being with whom he was most familiar. He had loved her according to his fashion of loving, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he said repeating the word very angrily. "Do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for you."

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


"No;--I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to me here, and I will not pay for you coming."


"Then I will not go;" and the woman sat down upon a chair at the foot of the table. "I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. You may put me out of the room if you can, but I will lie at the door of the stairs. And if you get me out of the house, I will sit upon the door-step."

"Then I will not go." She down upon a chair. "I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. If you put me out of the room, I will lie at the top of the stairs. And if you put me out of the house, I will sit upon the door-step."


"If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you."


"Let them. It has come to that with me, that I care for nothing. Out of this I will not go till you give me money--unless I am put out."

"Let them. I care nothing for that. I will not go till you give me money."


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

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


"Jane," he said, looking at her again with that assumed tranquillity of which I have spoken, "you talk of starving and of being ruined,--"

"Jane," he said, with that assumed tranquillity, "you talk of starving and of being ruined."


"I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world."