"And I know it now, though she is not my daughter. I was only joking. As soon as I am certain,--finally certain,--that she can never become my wife, I will take back my money. You need not be afraid. The nature of the arrangement we have made shall then be explained to her."

"Then as soon as I am certain that she can never become my wife, I will take back my money."


In this way it was settled; and on the following morning the father informed the daughter that he had done her bidding, and that the money would be placed to her credit at the bankers' before the bills came due. On that Saturday, the day which her cousin had named in his letter, she trudged down to Drummonds', and was informed by a very courteous senior clerk in that establishment, that due preparation for the bills had been made.

So it was settled; and next morning the father informed the daughter that he had done her bidding, and that the money would be in the bank before the bills came due. On that Saturday which her cousin had named in his letter, she trudged down to Drummonds, and was informed by a very courteous senior clerk that due preparation for the bills had been made.

Chapter 61: The Bills Are Made All Right


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

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


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

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


George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and now, at the time of the beginning of my story, he was a year or two over thirty. He was and ever had been the heir to his grandfather's estate; but that estate was small, and when George first came to London his father was a strong man of forty, with as much promise of life in him as his son had. A profession had therefore been absolutely necessary to him; and he had, at his uncle John's instance, been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent. With this parliamentary land agent he had quarrelled to the knife, but not before he had by his talents made himself so useful that he had before him the prospects of a lucrative partnership in the business. George Vavasor had many faults, but idleness--absolute idleness--was not one of them. He would occasionally postpone his work to pleasure. He would be at Newmarket when he should have been at Whitehall. But it was not usual with him to be in bed when he should be at his desk, and when he was at his desk he did not whittle his ruler, or pick his teeth, or clip his nails. Upon the whole his friends were pleased with the first five years of his life in London--in spite of his having been found to be in debt on more than one occasion. But his debts had been paid; and all was going on swimmingly, when one day he knocked down the parliamentary agent with a blow between the eyes, and then there was an end of that. He himself was wont to say that he had known very well what he was about, that it had behoved him to knock down the man who was to have been his partner, and that he regretted nothing in the matter. At any rate the deed was looked upon with approving eyes by many men of good standing,--or, at any rate, sufficient standing to help George to another position; and within six weeks of the time of his leaving the office at Whitehall, he had become a partner in an established firm of wine merchants. A great-aunt had just then left him a couple of thousand pounds, which no doubt assisted him in his views with the wine merchants.

George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and was now just over thirty. He was the heir to his grandfather's estate; but that estate was small. He had therefore needed a profession; and with his uncle John's help, he had been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent. He had quarrelled with this land agent, but not before his talents had made him useful. George Vavasor had many faults, but idleness was not one of them. He would occasionally postpone his work for pleasure. He would be at Newmarket races when he should have been at Whitehall. But when he was at his desk he did not waste time.
Upon the whole his friends were pleased with the first five years of his life in London - in spite of the debts he ran up. But his debts were paid; and all was going on swimmingly, when one day he knocked down the parliamentary agent, and that was the end of that. However, he had friends who helped him to another position, as a partner in an established firm of wine merchants. A great-aunt had just then left him a couple of thousand pounds, which no doubt helped him in the wine merchants' eyes.


In this employment he remained for another period of five years, and was supposed by all his friends to be doing very well. And indeed he did not do badly, only that he did not do well enough to satisfy himself. He was ambitious of making the house to which he belonged the first house in the trade in London, and scared his partners by the boldness and extent of his views. He himself declared that if they would only have gone along with him he would have made them princes in the wine market. But they were men either of more prudence or of less audacity than he, and they declined to walk in his courses. At the end of the five years Vavasor left the house, not having knocked any one down on this occasion, and taking with him a very nice sum of money.

In this employment he remained for another five years, and did not do badly, but did not do well enough to satisfy himself. He was ambitious for the company, and scared his partners by the boldness of his views. So at the end of the five years George Vavasor left the wine house, not having knocked anyone down on this occasion, and taking with him a very nice sum of money.


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

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


He had also during the last two years quarrelled with his grandfather. He had wished to raise a sum of money on the Vavasor estate, which, as it was unentailed, he could only do with his grandfather's concurrence. The old gentleman would not hear of it,--would listen with no patience to the proposition. It was in vain that George attempted to make the squire understand that the wine business was going on very well, that he himself owed no man anything, that everything with him was flourishing;--but that his trade might be extended indefinitely by the use of a few thousand pounds at moderate interest. Old Mr. Vavasor was furious. No documents and no assurances could make him lay aside a belief that the wine merchants, and the business, and his grandson were all ruined and ruinous together. No one but a ruined man would attempt to raise money on the family estate! So they had quarrelled, and had never spoken or seen each other since. "He shall have the estate for his life," the squire said to his son John. "I don't think I have a right to leave it away from him. It never has been left away from the heir. But I'll tie it up so that he shan't cut a tree on it." John Vavasor perhaps thought that the old rule of primogeniture might under such circumstances have been judiciously abandoned--in this one instance, in his own favour. But he did not say so. Nor would he have said it had there been a chance of his doing so with success. He was a man from whom no very noble deed could be expected; but he was also one who would do no ignoble deed.

He had also quarrelled with his grandfather. He had wished to raise a sum of money on the Vavasor estate, which he could only do with his grandfather's agreement. The old gentleman would not hear of it. In vain George tried to make the squire understand that the wine business was flourishing, but that his trade might be greatly extended by the use of a few thousand pounds.
Old Mr. Vavasor was furious. He was convinced that the wine merchants and his grandson were all ruined. No one but a ruined man would attempt to raise money on the family estate! So they had quarrelled, and had never spoken or seen each other since.
"He shall have the estate once I'm gone," the squire said to his younger son John. "It never has been left away from the heir. But I'll tie it up so that he shan't cut a tree on it." John Vavasor perhaps thought that the old rule of primogeniture might have been judiciously abandoned in this case, in his own favour. But he did not say so.


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

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


And during these two years he had stood a contest for a seat in Parliament, having striven to represent the metropolitan borough of Chelsea, on the extremely Radical interest. It is true that he had failed, and that he had spent a considerable sum of money in the contest. "Where on earth does your nephew get his money?" men said to John Vavasor at his club. "Upon my word I don't know," said Vavasor. "He doesn't get it from me, and I'm sure he doesn't get it from my father." But George Vavasor, though he failed at Chelsea, did not spend his money altogether fruitlessly. He gained reputation by the struggle, and men came to speak of him as though he were one who would do something. He was a stockbroker, a thorough-going Radical, and yet he was the heir to a fine estate, which had come down from father to son for four hundred years! There was something captivating about his history and adventures, especially as just at the time of the election he became engaged to an heiress, who died a month before the marriage should have taken place. She died without a will, and her money all went to some third cousins.

And during these two years he had stood for a seat in Parliament, having striven to represent Chelsea as a Radical candidate. It is true that he had failed, after spending a large sum of money in the contest. But though he failed, he did not spend his money fruitlessly. Men began to speak of him as a man who would do something. He was a stockbroker, a Radical, and yet the heir to a fine old estate! There was something captivating about his history and adventures, especially as at the time of the election he became engaged to an heiress, who died a month before their marriage. She died without a will, and her money all went to some third cousins.


George Vavasor bore this last disappointment like a man, and it was at this time that he again became fully reconciled to his cousin. Previous to this they had met; and Alice, at her cousin Kate's instigation, had induced her father to meet him. But at first there had been no renewal of real friendship. Alice had given her cordial assent to her cousin's marriage with the heiress, Miss Grant, telling Kate that such an engagement was the very thing to put him thoroughly on his feet. And then she had been much pleased by his spirit at that Chelsea election. "It was grand of him, wasn't it?" said Kate, her eyes brimming full of tears. "It was very spirited," said Alice. "If you knew all, you would say so. They could get no one else to stand but that Mr. Travers, and he wouldn't come forward, unless they would guarantee all his expenses." "I hope it didn't cost George much," said Alice. "It did, though; nearly all he had got. But what matters? Money's nothing to him, except for its uses. My own little mite is my own now, and he shall have every farthing of it for the next election, even though I should go out as a housemaid the next day." There must have been something great about George Vavasor, or he would not have been so idolized by such a girl as his sister Kate.

George Vavasor bore this last disappointment like a man, and it was at this time that he again became fully reconciled with his cousin. Before this there had been no renewal of real friendship, although Alice had given her cordial assent to her cousin's marriage with the heiress, telling Kate that such an engagement was the very thing to put George on his feet. And she had been pleased by his spirit at the Chelsea election.
"It was grand of him, wasn't it?" said Kate, her eyes brimming with tears.
"It was very spirited," said Alice. "I hope it didn't cost him much."
"It did, though; nearly all he had got. But money's nothing to him, except for its uses. He shall have every farthing of my own money for the next election, even if I have go out as a housemaid." There must have been something great about George Vavasor, or he would not have been idolized by such a girl as his sister Kate.


Early in the present spring, before the arrangements for the Swiss journey were made, George Vavasor had spoken to Alice about that intended marriage which had been broken off by the lady's death. He was sitting one evening with his cousin in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, waiting for Kate, who was to join him there before going to some party. I wonder whether Kate had had a hint from her brother to be late! At any rate, the two were together for an hour, and the talk had been all about himself. He had congratulated her on her engagement with Mr. Grey, which had just become known to him, and had then spoken of his own last intended marriage.

Early in the spring, before the arrangements for the Swiss journey were made, George Vavasor had spoken to Alice about that intended marriage which had been broken off by the lady's death. They were sitting one evening in her drawing-room, waiting for Kate to join them. I wonder whether Kate had had a hint from her brother to be late! At any rate, the two were together for an hour, and the talk had been all about himself. He had congratulated her on her engagement with Mr. Grey, and had then spoken of his own intended marriage.


"I grieved for her," he said, "greatly."


"Yes, I did;--for her, herself. Of course the world has given me credit for lamenting the loss of her money. But the truth is, that as regards both herself and her money, it is much better for me that we were never married."

"Of course the world thinks I was lamenting the loss of her money. But the truth is, that as regards both herself and her money, it is much better for me that we were never married."


"Do you mean even though she should have lived?"


"And why so? If you liked her, her money was surely no drawback."

"Why? If you liked her, her money was surely no drawback."


"I did not love her as a man should love his wife, if you mean that. As for my liking her, I did like her. I liked her very much."

"I liked her very much. But I did not love her as a man should love his wife."


"I don't know. I don't find that task of loving so very easy. It might have been that I should have learned to hate her."

"I don't know. I don't find that task of loving very easy. I might have learned to hate her.


"If so, it is better for you, and better for her, that she has gone."


"It is better. I am sure of it. And yet I grieve for her, and in thinking of her I almost feel as though I were guilty of her death."

And yet I grieve for her, and feel almost guilty of her death."


"But she never suspected that you did not love her?"


"Oh no. But she was not given to think much of such things. She took all that for granted. Poor girl! she is at rest now, and her money has gone, where it should go, among her own relatives."

"Oh no. She took all that for granted. Poor girl! she is at rest now, and her money has gone, where it should go, among her own relatives.


"Yes; with such feelings as yours are about her, her money would have been a burden to you."


"I would not have taken it. I hope, at least, that I would not have taken it. Money is a sore temptation, especially to a poor man like me. It is well for me that the trial did not come in my way."

I would not have taken it - I hope so, at least. Money is a sore temptation."


"But you are not such a very poor man now, are you, George? I thought your business was a good one."

"But you are not a poor man, are you, George? I thought your business was a good one."


"It is, and I have no right to be a poor man. But a man will be poor who does such mad things as I do. I had three or four thousand pounds clear, and I spent every shilling of it on the Chelsea election. Goodness knows whether I shall have a shilling at all when another chance comes round; but if I have I shall certainly spend it, and if I have not, I shall go in debt wherever I can raise a hundred pounds."

"It is, and I have no right to be a poor man. I had three or four thousand pounds clear, but I spent every shilling on the Chelsea election. Goodness knows whether I shall have a shilling at all when another chance comes round; but if I have I shall certainly spend it, or else go in debt to raise the money."


"I hope you will be successful at last."


"I feel sure that I shall. But, in the mean time, I cannot but know that my career is perfectly reckless. No woman ought to join her lot to mine unless she has within her courage to be as reckless as I am. You know what men do when they toss up for shillings?"

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


"I am tossing up every day of my life for every shilling that I have."


"No. I have given that up altogether. I used to gamble, but I never do that now, and never shall again. What I mean is this,--that I hold myself in readiness to risk everything at any moment, in order to gain any object that may serve my turn. I am always ready to lead a forlorn hope. That's what I mean by tossing up every day for every shilling that I have."

I keep myself ready to risk everything at any moment, in order to gain any object that may serve my turn."


Alice did not quite understand him, and perhaps he did not intend that she should. Perhaps his object was to mystify her imagination. She did not understand him, but I fear that she admired the kind of courage which he professed. And he had not only professed it: in that matter of the past election he had certainly practised it.

Alice did not quite understand him, and perhaps he intended to mystify her. I fear that she admired the kind of courage which he professed.


In talking of beauty to his sister he had spoken of himself as being ugly. He would not generally have been called ugly by women, had not one side of his face been dreadfully scarred by a cicatrice, which in healing, had left a dark indented line down from his left eye to his lower jaw. That black ravine running through his cheek was certainly ugly. On some occasions, when he was angry or disappointed, it was very hideous; for he would so contort his face that the scar would, as it were, stretch itself out, revealing all its horrors, and his countenance would become all scar. "He looked at me like the devil himself--making the hole in his face gape at me," the old squire had said to John Vavasor in describing the interview in which the grandson had tried to bully his grandfather into assenting to his own views about the mortgage. But in other respects George's face was not ugly, and might have been thought handsome by many women. His hair was black, and was parted in the front. His forehead, though low, was broad. His eyes were dark and bright, and his eyebrows were very full, and perfectly black. At those periods of his anger, all his face which was not scar, was eye and eyebrow. He wore a thick black moustache, which covered his mouth, but no whiskers. People said of him that he was so proud of his wound that he would not grow a hair to cover it. The fact, however, was that no whisker could be made to come sufficiently forward to be of service, and therefore he wore none.

George described himself as ugly. One side of his face been dreadfully scarred, with a dark line running down from his left eye to his lower jaw. That black ravine through his cheek was certainly ugly, and sometimes, when his face was distorted by anger or disappointment, it was hideous; for it seemed to stretch itself out, and his countenance would become all scar.
But in other respects George was not ugly. His hair was black; his forehead, though low, was broad. His eyes were dark and bright, and his black eyebrows were very full. He wore a thick black moustache, but no sideburns. People said that he was so proud of his wound that he would not grow a hair to cover it. The fact, however, was that no whisker could be made to fully cover it, and therefore he wore none.


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

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


George Vavasor was rather low in stature, but well made, with small hands and feet, but broad in the chest and strong in the loins. He was a fine horseman and a hard rider; and men who had known him well said that he could fence and shoot with a pistol as few men care to do in these peaceable days. Since volunteering had come up, he had become a captain of Volunteers, and had won prizes with his rifle at Wimbledon.

George Vavasor was not tall, but well made, broad-chested and strong. He was a fine horseman, and could shoot and fence, it was said, better than most men.


Such had been the life of George Vavasor, and such was his character, and such his appearance. He had always lived alone in London, and did so at present; but just now his sister was much with him, as she was staying up in town with an aunt, another Vavasor by birth, with whom the reader will, if he persevere, become acquainted in course of time. I hope he will persevere a little, for of all the Vavasors Mrs. Greenow was perhaps the best worth knowing. But Kate Vavasor's home was understood to be in her grandfather's house in Westmoreland.

He had always lived alone in London; but just now his sister Kate was much with him, as she was staying up in town with an aunt - another Vavasor by birth, now called Mrs. Greenow. But Kate Vavasor's home was her grandfather's house in Westmorland.


On the evening before they started for Switzerland, George and Kate walked from Queen Anne Street, where they had been dining with Alice, to Mrs. Greenow's house. Everything had been settled about luggage, hours of starting, and routes as regarded their few first days; and the common purse had been made over to George. That portion of Mr. Grey's letter had been read which alluded to the Paynims and the glasses of water, and everything had passed in the best of good-humour. "I'll endeavour to get the cold water for you," George had said; "but as to the breakfasts, I can only hope you won't put me to severe trials by any very early hours. When people go out for pleasure it should be pleasure."

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


The brother and sister walked through two or three streets in silence, and then Kate asked a question.

Now the brother and sister walked in silence, before Kate asked


, "George, I wonder what your wishes really are about Alice?"


"That she shouldn't want her breakfast too early while we are away."


"That means that I'm to hold my tongue, of course."


"Then it means that you intend to hold yours."


"That I have no fixed wishes on the subject. Of course she'll marry this man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word about her."

"I have no wishes on the subject. Of course she'll marry this man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word about her."


"She will no doubt, if you don't interfere. Probably she will whether you interfere or not. But if you wish to interfere--"

"She will, no doubt, if you don't interfere. But if you wish to interfere-"


"She's got four hundred a year, and is not so good-looking as she was."


"Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more handsome now than ever she was. I know that you think so;--and that you love her and love no one else--unless you have a sneaking fondness for me."

"Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more handsome now than ever she was. I know that you think so; and that you love her and no-one else - unless you have a sneaking fondness for me."


"And as for me,--I only love two people in the world; her and you. If ever you mean to try, you should try now."

"As for me, I only love two people in the world; her and you. If ever you mean to try, you should try now."


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

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


"He must do as he likes," George said, sulkily.

"He must do as he likes," George said sulkily.


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

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


"But he had a right to act as he pleased," urged Kate.


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

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


The two men said very little to each other. They were never alone together except during that half-hour after dinner in which they were supposed to drink their wine. The old Squire always took three glasses of port during this period, and expected that his grandson would take three with him. But George would drink none at all. "I have given up drinking wine after dinner," said he, when his grandfather pushed the bottle over to him. "I suppose you mean that you drink nothing but claret," said the Squire, in a tone of voice that was certainly not conciliatory. "I mean simply what I say," said George--"that I have given up drinking wine after dinner." The old man could not openly quarrel with his heir on such a point as that. Even Mr. Vavasor could not tell his grandson that he was going to the dogs because he had become temperate. But, nevertheless, there was offence in it; and when George sat perfectly silent, looking at the fire, evidently determined to make no attempt at conversation, the offence grew, and became strong. "What the devil's the use of your sitting there if you neither drink nor talk?" said the old man. "No use in the world, that I can see," said George; "if, however, I were to leave you, you would abuse me for it." "I don't care how soon you leave me," said the Squire. From all which it may be seen that George Vavasor's visit to the hall of his ancestors was not satisfactory.

The two men said very little to each other. They were never alone together except during that half-hour after dinner in which they were supposed to drink their wine. The old Squire always took three glasses of port, but George would drink none at all.
"I have given up drinking wine after dinner," said he, when his grandfather pushed the bottle over to him. The old man could not openly quarrel with his heir on such a point. But, nevertheless, there was offence in it; and when George sat perfectly silent, looking at the fire, with no attempt at conversation, the offence grew, and became strong.
"What the devil's the use of your sitting there if you neither drink nor talk?" said the old man.
"No use in the world, that I can see," said George; "if, however, I were to leave you, you would abuse me for it."
"I don't care how soon you leave me," said the Squire. From all which it may be seen that George Vavasor's visit to his ancestral hall was not satisfactory.


On the fourth day, about noon, came Aunt Greenow's reply. "Dearest Kate," she said, "I am not going to do what you ask me,"--thus rushing instantly into the middle of her subject.

On the fourth day Aunt Greenow's reply came. It said:
Dearest Kate,
I am not going to do what you ask me.


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

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


Your friend C. is still waiting--waiting--waiting, patiently; but his patience may be exhausted.

Your friend C. is still waiting - waiting, patiently; but his patience may be exhausted.


"Of course she won't," said George, as he threw back the letter to his sister. "Why should she?"


"Why should she? What did I ever do for her? She is a sensible woman. Who is your friend C., and why is he waiting patiently?"


"He is a man who would be glad to marry her for her money, if she would take him."


"Then what does she mean by his patience being exhausted?"


"It is her folly. She chooses to pretend to think that the man is a lover of mine."

But she pretends to think that he is a lover of mine."


"His name is Cheesacre. But pray don't trouble yourself to talk about him."

"His name is Cheesacre. But don't talk about him."


"If he wants to marry you, and has plenty of money, why shouldn't you take him?"


"Good heavens, George! In the first place he does not want to marry me. In the next place all his heart is in his farmyard."


"And a very good place to have it," said George.


"Undoubtedly. But, really, you must not trouble yourself to talk about him."

"Undoubtedly. But, really, do not talk about him."


"Only this,--that I should be very glad to see you well married."

"I should be very glad to see you well married."


"Should you?" said she, thinking of her close attachment to himself.

"Should you?" said she, thinking of her close attachment to him.


"And now, about the money," said George. "You must write to Alice at once."--"Oh, George!"

"And now," said George, "you must write to Alice at once.


"Of course you must; you have promised. Indeed, it would have been much wiser if you had taken me at my word, and done it at once."--"I cannot do it."


Then the scar on his face opened itself, and his sister stood before him in fear and trembling. "Do you mean to tell me," said he, "that you will go back from your word, and deceive me;--that after having kept me here by this promise, you will not do what you have said you would do?"

Then the scar on his face opened itself, making her tremble.
"Do you mean to tell me," said he, "that you will go back from your word?"


"Take my money now, and pay me out of hers as soon as you are married. I will be the first to claim it from her,--and from you."

"Take my money now, and pay me out of hers as soon as you are married."


"Why should it be nonsense? Surely you need have no scruple with me. I should have none with you if I wanted assistance."


"Look here, Kate; I won't have it, and there's an end of it. All that you have in the world would not pull me through this election, and therefore such a loan would be worse than useless."

All that you have in the world would not pull me through this election, and such a loan would be worse than useless."


"And am I to ask her for more than two thousand pounds?"

"Am I to ask her for more than two thousand pounds?"


"You are to ask her simply for one thousand. That is what I want, and must have, at present. And she knows that I want it, and that she is to supply it; only she does not know that my need is so immediate. That you must explain to her."

"You are to ask her simply for one thousand. That is what I need at present. She knows that I want it, and that she is to supply it; only she does not know that my need is immediate. That you must explain to her."


"But burning your hand, unfortunately, won't do any good. Look here, Kate; I insist upon your doing this for me. If you do not, I shall do it, of course, myself; but I shall regard your refusal as an unjustifiable falsehood on your part, and shall certainly not see you afterwards. I do not wish, for reasons which you may well understand, to write to Alice myself on any subject at present. I now claim your promise to do so; and if you refuse, I shall know very well what to do."

"Look here, Kate; I insist. If you do not write, I shall; but I certainly shall not see you afterwards. I do not wish to write to Alice myself on any subject at present. If you refuse, I shall know very well what to do."


Of course she did not persist in her refusal. With a sorrowful heart, and with fingers that could hardly form the needful letters, she did write a letter to her cousin, which explained the fact--that George Vavasor immediately wanted a thousand pounds for his electioneering purposes. It was a stiff, uncomfortable letter, unnatural in its phraseology, telling its own tale of grief and shame. Alice understood very plainly all the circumstances under which it was written, but she sent back word to Kate at once, undertaking that the money should be forthcoming; and she wrote again before the end of January, saying that the sum named had been paid to George's credit at his own bankers.

With a sorrowful heart, she did write to her cousin, explaining that George Vavasor immediately wanted a thousand pounds for his electioneering. It was a stiff, uncomfortable letter, telling its own tale of grief and shame. Alice understood very plainly the circumstances under which it was written, but she sent back word to Kate at once, promising that the money should be forthcoming; and before the end of January she wrote to say that the sum named had been paid to George's credit at his bankers.


Kate had taken immense pride in the renewal of the match between her brother and her cousin, and had rejoiced in it greatly as being her own work. But all that pride and joy were now over. She could no longer write triumphant notes to Alice, speaking always of George as one who was to be their joint hero, foretelling great things of his career in Parliament, and saying little soft things of his enduring love. It was no longer possible to her now to write of George at all, and it was equally impossible to Alice. Indeed, no letters passed between them, when that monetary correspondence was over, up to the end of the winter. Kate remained down in Westmoreland, wretched and ill at ease, listening to hard words spoken by her grandfather against her brother, and feeling herself unable to take her brother's part as she had been wont to do in other times.

Kate had felt immense joy and pride in the renewal of the match between Alice and her brother. But all that pride and joy were now over. She could no longer write triumphant notes to Alice, speaking of George as their joint hero, and saying little soft things of his enduring love. It was no longer possible for her to write of George at all, and it was equally impossible to Alice.
Indeed, no letters passed between them after that, until the end of winter. Kate remained in Westmorland, wretched and ill at ease, listening to her grandfather's hard words about her brother, and feeling unable to take her brother's part as she used to do.


George returned to town at the end of those four days, and found that the thousand pounds was duly placed to his credit before the end of the month. It is hardly necessary to tell the reader that this money had come from the stores of Mr. Tombe, and that Mr. Tombe duly debited Mr. Grey with the amount. Alice, in accordance with her promise, had told her father that the money was needed, and her father, in accordance with his promise, had procured it without a word of remonstrance. "Surely I must sign some paper," Alice had said. But she had been contented when her father told her that the lawyers would manage all that.

George returned to town, and found the thousand pounds duly placed to his credit before the end of the month. It is hardly necessary to tell the reader that this money had come from Mr. Tombe, and that Mr. Tombe duly debited Mr. Grey with the amount. Alice, as she had promised to do, had told her father that the money was needed, and her father had procured it without a word of remonstrance.
"Surely I must sign some paper," Alice had said. But she had been content when her father told her that the lawyers would manage all that.


It was nearly the end of February when George Vavasor made his first payment to Mr. Scruby on behalf of the coming election; and when he called at Mr. Scruby's office with this object, he received some intelligence which surprised him not a little. "You haven't heard the news," said Scruby. "What news?" said George.

It was nearly the end of February when George Vavasor made his first payment to Mr. Scruby for the coming election; and when he called at Mr. Scruby's office, he received some news.


"The Marquis is as nearly off the hooks as a man can be." Mr. Scruby, as he communicated the tidings, showed clearly by his face and voice that they were supposed to be of very great importance; but Vavasor did not at first seem to be as much interested in the fate of "the Marquis" as Scruby had intended.

"The Marquis is as nearly dead as a man can be," said Mr. Scruby, as if the matter were of very great importance.


"I'm very sorry for him," said George. "Who is the Marquis? There'll be sure to come another, so it don't much signify."

"I'm very sorry for him," said George. "Who is the Marquis?"


"There will come another, and that's just it. It's the Marquis of Bunratty; and if he drops, our young Member will go into the Upper House."

"It's the Marquis of Bunratty; and if he drops, our young Member will go into the House of Lords."


"What, immediately; before the end of the Session?" George, of course, knew well enough that such would be the case, but the effect which this event would have upon himself now struck him suddenly.

"What, immediately?" George now realised that there would be a by-election, sooner than expected.


"To be sure," said Scruby. "The writ would be out immediately. I should be glad enough of it, only that I know that Travers's people have heard of it before us, and that they are ready to be up with their posters directly the breath is out of the Marquis's body. We must go to work immediately; that's all."

"To be sure," said Scruby. "Unfortunately Travers's people heard of it before us, and are ready to be up with their posters directly the breath is out of the Marquis's body. We must go to work immediately; that's all."


"It will only be for part of a Session," said George.


"And then there'll be the cost of another election."


"That's true," said Mr. Scruby; "but in such cases we do manage to make it come a little cheaper. If you lick Travers now, it may be that you'll have a walk-over for the next."

"That's true," said Mr. Scruby; "but in such cases we do manage to make it a little cheaper. If you beat Travers now, maybe you'll have a walk-over for the next."


"Yes, I have; the blackguard! He is going to open his house on Travers's side. He came to me as bold as brass, and told me so, saying that he never liked gentlemen who kept him waiting for his odd money. What angers me is that he ever got it."

"Yes, I have; the blackguard! He is going to open his public house on Travers's side. He came to me as bold as brass, saying that he never liked gentlemen who kept him waiting for money."


"We have not managed it very well, certainly," said Vavasor, looking nastily at the attorney.


"We can't help those little accidents, Mr. Vavasor. There are worse accidents than that turn up almost daily in my business. You may think yourself almost lucky that I haven't gone over to Travers myself. He is a Liberal, you know; and it hasn't been for want of an offer, I can tell you."

"We can't help those little accidents, Mr. Vavasor. You may think yourself lucky that I haven't gone over to Travers myself. He is a Liberal, you know; and it hasn't been for want of an offer, I can tell you."


Vavasor was inclined to doubt the extent of his luck in this respect, and was almost disposed to repent of his Parliamentary ambition. He would now be called upon to spend certainly not less than three thousand pounds of his cousin's money on the chance of being able to sit in Parliament for a few months. And then, after what a fashion would he be compelled to negotiate that loan! He might, to be sure, allow the remainder of this Session to run, and stand, as he had intended, at the general election; but he knew that if he now allowed a Liberal to win the seat, the holder of the seat would be almost sure of subsequent success. He must either fight now, or give up the fight altogether; and he was a man who did not love to abandon any contest in which he had been engaged.

Vavasor almost repented of his Parliamentary ambition. He would now have to spend at least three thousand pounds of his cousin's money on the chance of being able to sit in Parliament for a few months. He might, to be sure, wait for the general election; but if he allowed a Liberal to win the seat now, that holder of the seat would be almost sure to win it again. He must either fight now, or give up the fight altogether.


"Well, Squire," said Scruby, "how is it to be?" And Vavasor felt that he detected in the man's voice some diminution of that respect with which he had hitherto been treated as a paying candidate for a metropolitan borough.

"Well, Squire," said Scruby, "how is it to be?" And Vavasor felt that he detected in the man's voice some lessening of respect.


"This lord is not dead yet," said Vavasor.


"No; he's not dead yet, that we have heard; but it won't do for us to wait. We want every minute of time that we can get. There isn't any hope for him, I'm told. It's gout in the stomach, or dropsy at the heart, or some of those things that make a fellow safe to go."

"No; but we can't wait. We need every minute we can get. There isn't any hope for him, I'm told."


"It won't do to wait for the next election?"


"If you ask me, I should say certainly not. Indeed, I shouldn't wish to have to conduct it under such circumstances. I hate a fight when there's no chance of success. I grudge spending a man's money in such a case; I do indeed, Mr. Vavasor."


"I suppose Grimes's going over won't make much difference?"

"Will Grimes's going over make much difference?"


"The blackguard! He'll take a hundred and fifty votes, I suppose; perhaps more. But that is not much in such a constituency as the Chelsea districts. You see, Travers played mean at the last election, and that will be against him."

"He'll take a hundred and fifty votes, I suppose. But that is not much in Chelsea."


"But the Conservatives will have a candidate."


"There's no knowing; but I don't think they will. They'll try one at the general, no doubt; but if the two sitting Members can pull together, they won't have much of a chance."

"I don't think they will, not until the general election."


Vavasor found himself compelled to say that he would stand; and Scruby undertook to give the initiatory orders at once, not waiting even till the Marquis should be dead. "We should have our houses open as soon as theirs," said he. "There's a deal in that." So George Vavasor gave his orders. "If the worst comes to the worst," he said to himself, "I can always cut my throat."

Vavasor found himself compelled to say that he would stand; and Scruby undertook to give orders at once, not waiting even till the Marquis should be dead.
George Vavasor, as he left the attorney's office, said to himself, "If the worst comes to the worst, I can always cut my throat."


As he walked from the attorney's office to his club he bethought himself that that might not unprobably be the necessary termination of his career. Everything was going wrong with him. His grandfather, who was eighty years of age, would not die,--appeared to have no symptoms of dying;--whereas this Marquis, who was not yet much over fifty, was rushing headlong out of the world, simply because he was the one man whose continued life at the present moment would be serviceable to George Vavasor. As he thought of his grandfather he almost broke his umbrella by the vehemence with which he struck it against the pavement. What right could an ignorant old fool like that have to live for ever, keeping the possession of a property which he could not use, and ruining those who were to come after him? If now, at this moment, that wretched place down in Westmoreland could become his, he might yet ride triumphantly over his difficulties, and refrain from sullying his hands with more of his cousin's money till she should become his wife.

Everything was going wrong with him. His grandfather, who was eighty, would not die; whereas this Marquis, who was not much over fifty, was rushing headlong out of the world, simply to inconvenience George Vavasor. As he thought of his grandfather he almost broke his umbrella by vehemently striking it against the pavement. What right could an ignorant old fool like that have to live for ever? If that wretched place in Westmorland could become his now, he might yet ride triumphantly over his difficulties, and refrain from sullying his hands with more of his cousin's money till she should become his wife.


Even that thousand pounds had not passed through his hands without giving him much bitter suffering. As is always the case in such matters, the thing done was worse than the doing of it. He had taught himself to look at it lightly whilst it was yet unaccomplished; but he could not think of it lightly now. Kate had been right. It would have been better for him to take her money. Any money would have been better than that upon which he had laid his sacrilegious hands. If he could have cut a purse, after the old fashion, the stain of the deed would hardly have been so deep. In these days,--for more than a month, indeed, after his return from Westmoreland,--he did not go near Queen Anne Street, trying to persuade himself that he stayed away because of her coldness to him. But, in truth, he was afraid of seeing her without speaking of her money, and afraid to see her if he were to speak of it.

Even that thousand pounds had given him much bitter suffering. He had taught himself to look at it lightly before it was done; but he could not think of it lightly now. Kate had been right. It would have been better for him to take her money. In these days, he did not go near Queen Anne Street, trying to persuade himself that he stayed away because of Alice's coldness to him. But, in truth, he was afraid of seeing her without speaking of her money, and afraid to see her if he were to speak of it.


"You have seen the _Globe_?" someone said to him as he entered the club.

"Have you seen the papers?" someone said to him as he entered the club.


"Bunratty died in Ireland this morning. I suppose you'll be up for the Chelsea districts?"

"Bunratty died in Ireland this morning. I suppose you'll be up for election in the Chelsea districts?"


It was not till they had been for a day or two together at Lucerne that Mr. Grey told Mr. Palliser the story of George Vavasor's visit to him in Suffolk Street. Having begun the history of his connection with Alice, he found himself obliged to go with it to the end, and as he described the way in which the man had vanished from the sight of all who had known him,--that he had in truth gone, so as no longer to be a cause of dread, he could not without dissimulation, keep back the story of that last scene. "And he tried to murder you!" said Mr. Palliser. "He should be caught and,--and--" Mr. Palliser hesitated, not liking to say boldly that the first cousin of the lady who was now living with him ought to be hung.

It was not till they had been together for a day or two at Lucerne that Mr. Grey told Mr. Palliser the story of George Vavasor's visit to him. Having begun the history of his connection with Alice, he found himself obliged to go on with it to the end.
"And he tried to murder you!" said Mr. Palliser. "He should be caught and - and-"

Chapter 73: In Which Come Tidings of Great Moment to All Pallisers


"He actually walked into your rooms in the day time, and fired a pistol at you as you were sitting at your breakfast! He did that in London, and then walked off and went abroad, as though he had nothing to fear!"

"He actually walked into your rooms and fired a pistol as you were sitting at your breakfast!"


Mr. Palliser began to think that something ought to be done to make life more secure in the metropolis of the world. Had he not known Mr. Grey, or been accustomed to see the other man in Parliament, he would not have thought so much about it. But it was almost too much for him when he reflected that one man whom he now called his friend, had been nearly murdered in daylight, in the heart of his own part of London, by another man whom he had reckoned among his Parliamentary supporters. "And he has got your money too!" said Palliser, putting all the circumstances of the case together. In answer to this Mr. Grey said that he hoped the loss might eventually be his own; but that he was bound to regard the money which had been taken as part of Miss Vavasor's fortune. "He is simply the greatest miscreant of whom I ever heard in my life," said Mr. Palliser. "The wonder is that Miss Vavasor should ever have brought herself to--to like him." Then Mr. Grey apologized for Alice, explaining that her love for her cousin had come from her early years; that the man himself was clever and capable of assuming pleasant ways, and that he had not been wholly bad till ruin had come upon him. "He attempted public life and made himself miserable by failing, as most men do who make that attempt," said Grey. This was a statement which Mr. Palliser could not allow to pass without notice. Whereupon the two men got away from George Vavasor and their own individual interests, and went on seriously discussing the merits and demerits of public life. "The end of it all is," said Grey at last, "that public men in England should be rich like you, and not poor like that miserable wretch, who has now lost everything that the Fates had given him."

Mr. Palliser began to think that something ought to be done to make life safer in the metropolis of the world. "And he has got your money too!" he said. "He is simply the greatest criminal I ever heard of. The wonder is that Miss Vavasor should ever have brought herself to - to like him."
Then Mr. Grey apologized for Alice, explaining that her love for her cousin had come from her early years; that the man himself was clever and could assume pleasant ways, and had not been wholly bad till ruin had come upon him. "He attempted public life and made himself miserable by failing, as most men do who make the attempt," he said.
Mr. Palliser could not allow that statement to pass without comment. Whereupon the two men got away from George Vavasor, and went on seriously discussing the merits of public life as a parliamentarian.
"The end of it all is," said Grey at last, "that public men in England should be rich like you, and not poor like that miserable wretch, who has now lost everything."


They continued to live at Lucerne in this way for a fortnight. Mr. Grey, though he was not unfrequently alone with Alice, did not plead his suit in direct words; but continued to live with her on terms of close and easy friendship. He had told her that her cousin had left England,--that he had gone to America immediately after his disappointment in regard to the seat in Parliament, and that he would probably not return. "Poor George!" Alice had said; "he is a man very much to be pitied." "He is a man very much to be pitied," Grey had replied. After that, nothing more was said between them about George Vavasor. From Lady Glencora Alice did hear something; but Lady Glencora herself had not heard the whole story. "I believe he misbehaved himself, my dear," Lady Glencora said; "but then, you know, he always does that. I believe that he saw Mr. Grey and insulted him. Perhaps you had better not ask anything about it till by-and-by. You'll be able to get anything out of him then." In answer to this Alice made her usual protest, and Lady Glencora, as was customary, told her that she was a fool.

They continued to live at Lucerne in this way for a fortnight. Mr. Grey, though he was often alone with Alice, did not plead his suit, but continued to live with her on terms of close and easy friendship. He had told her that her cousin had gone to America immediately after his disappointment over the seat in Parliament, and that he would probably not return.
"Poor George!" Alice had said; "he is very much to be pitied."
"He is," Grey had replied. And nothing more was said between them about George Vavasor.
From Lady Glencora Alice did hear something; but Lady Glencora herself had not heard the whole story.
"I believe he misbehaved himself, my dear," Lady Glencora said; "I believe that he saw Mr. Grey and insulted him. Perhaps you had better not ask anything about it till by-and-by. You'll be able to get anything out of him then." In answer to this Alice made her usual protest, and Lady Glencora told her that she was a fool.


I am inclined to think that Mr. Grey knew what he was about. Lady Glencora once scolded him very vehemently for not bringing the affair to an end. "We shall be going on to Italy before it's settled," she said; "and I don't suppose you can go with us, unless it is settled." Mr. Grey protested that he had no intention of going to Italy in either case.

I am inclined to think that Mr. Grey knew what he was doing, although Lady Glencora once scolded him for not bringing the affair to a conclusion.
"We shall be going to Italy before it's settled," she said to him; "and if you don't settle it,


"Then it will be put off for another year or two, and you are both of you as old as Adam and Eve already."

it will be put off for another year or two, and you are both as old as Adam and Eve already."


"We ancient people are never impatient," said Grey, laughing.


"If I were you I would go to her and tell her, roundly, that she should marry me, and then I would shake her. If you were to scold her, till she did not know whether she stood on her head or her heels, she would come to reason."

"If you were to scold her, she would come to reason."


"I can't. It's she that always scolds me,--as you will her, when she's your wife. You and Mr. Palliser are very much alike. You're both of you so very virtuous that no woman would have a chance of picking a hole in your coats."

"I can't. It's she that always scolds me, as you will scold her when she's your wife."


But Lady Glencora was wrong. Alice would, no doubt, have submitted herself patiently to her lover's rebukes, and would have confessed her own sins towards him with any amount of self-accusation that he might have required; but she would not, on that account, have been more willing to obey him in that one point, as to which he now required present obedience. He understood that she must be taught to forgive herself for the evil she had done,--to forgive herself, at any rate in part,--before she could be induced to return to her old allegiance to him. Thus they went on together at Lucerne, passing quiet, idle days,--with some pretence of reading, with a considerable amount of letter-writing, with boat excursions and pony excursions,--till the pony excursions came to a sudden end by means of a violent edict, as to which, and the cause of it, a word or two must be said just now. During these days of the boats and the ponies, the carriage which Lady Glencora hated so vehemently was shut up in limbo, and things went very pleasantly with her. Mr. Palliser received political letters from England, which made his mouth water sadly, and was often very fidgety. Parliament was not now sitting, and the Government would, of course, remain intact till next February. Might it not be possible that when the rent came in the Cabinet, he might yet be present at the darning? He was a constant man, and had once declared his intention of being absent for a year. He continued to speak to Grey of his coming travels, as though it was impossible that they should be over until after the next Easter. But he was sighing for Westminster, and regretting the blue books which were accumulating themselves at Matching;--till on a sudden, there came to him tidings which upset all his plans, which routed the ponies, which made everything impossible, which made the Alps impassable and the railways dangerous, which drove Burgo Fitzgerald out of Mr. Palliser's head, and so confused him that he could no longer calculate the blunders of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer. All the Palliser world was about to be moved from its lowest depths, to the summits of its highest mountains. Lady Glencora had whispered into her husband's ear that she thought it probable--; she wasn't sure;--she didn't know. And then she burst out into tears on his bosom as he sat by her on her bedside.

But Lady Glencora was wrong. Alice would, no doubt, have submitted patiently to her lover's rebukes, and would have confessed her own sins towards him; but she would not, on that account, have been more willing to obey him in that one point of marriage. He understood that she must be taught to forgive herself before she could be induced to return to her old allegiance to him.
Thus they passed quiet, idle days at Lucerne, with some pretence of reading, a considerable amount of letter-writing, and with boat and pony excursions, till the pony excursions came to a sudden end because of a violent edict.
During these days of the boats and the ponies, Mr. Palliser received political letters from England which made him very fidgety. Parliament was not sitting, and the Government would remain intact till next February. Might it not be possible that when a gap came in the Cabinet, he might yet be present at its filling?
Although he continued to plan travelling till Easter, he was sighing for Westminster - till suddenly there came tidings which upset all his plans, which made the Alps impassable and the railways dangerous, which drove Burgo Fitzgerald out of Mr. Palliser's head, and so confused him that he could no longer calculate the blunders of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer. All the Palliser world was about to be moved from its lowest depths, to the summits of its highest mountains. Lady Glencora had whispered into her husband's ear that she thought it probable; - she wasn't sure; - she didn't know. And then she burst into tears.


He was beside himself when he left her, which he did with the primary intention of telegraphing to London for half a dozen leading physicians. He went out by the lake side, and walked there alone for ten minutes in a state of almost unconscious exaltation. He did not quite remember where he was, or what he was doing. The one thing in the world which he had lacked; the one joy which he had wanted so much, and which is so common among men, was coming to him also. In a few minutes it was to him as though each hand already rested on the fair head of a little male Palliser, of whom one should rule in the halls at Gatherum, and the other be eloquent among the Commons of England. Hitherto,--for the last eight or nine months, since his first hopes had begun to fade,--he had been a man degraded in his own sight amidst all his honours. What good was all the world to him if he had nothing of his own to come after him? We must give him his due, too, when we speak of this. He had not had wit enough to hide his grief from his wife; his knowledge of women and of men in social life had not been sufficient to teach him how this should be done; but he had wished to do it. He had never willingly rebuked her for his disappointment, either by a glance of his eye, or a tone of his voice; and now he had already forgiven everything. Burgo Fitzgerald was a myth. Mrs. Marsham should never again come near her. Mr. Bott was, of course, a thing abolished;--he had not even had the sense to keep his seat in Parliament. Dandy and Flirt should feed on gilded corn, and there should be an artificial moon always ready in the ruins. If only those d----able saddle-ponies of Lucerne had not come across his wife's path! He went at once into the yard and ordered that the ponies should be abolished;--sent away, one and all, to the furthest confines of the canton; and then he himself inspected the cushions of the carriage. Were they dry? As it was August in those days, and August in Lucerne is a warm month, it may be presumed that they were dry.

He was beside himself when he left her, meaning to telegraph to London for half a dozen leading physicians. He went out by the lake side, and walked there alone for ten minutes in a state of almost unconscious exaltation. He did not quite remember where he was, or what he was doing. The one thing in the world which he had lacked - the one joy which he had wanted so much, and which is so common among men - was coming to him also. In a few minutes it was to him as though each hand already rested on the fair head of a little male Palliser, of whom one should rule in the halls at Gatherum, and the other be eloquent among the Commons of England.
He had not had wit enough to hide his grief from his wife; but he had wished to do it. He had never rebuked her for his disappointment; and now he had already forgiven everything. Burgo Fitzgerald was a myth. Mrs. Marsham should never again come near her. If only those saddle-ponies of Lucerne had not come across his wife's path! He went at once into the yard and ordered that the ponies should be abolished.


He then remembered that he had promised to send Alice up to his wife, and he hurried back into the house. She was alone in the breakfast-room, waiting for him and for his wife. In these days, Mr. Grey would usually join them at dinner; but he seldom saw them before eleven or twelve o'clock in the day. Then he would saunter in and join Mr. Palliser, and they would all be together till the evening. When the expectant father of embryo dukes entered the room, Alice perceived at once that some matter was astir. His manner was altogether changed, and he showed by his eye that he was eager and moved beyond his wont. "Alice," he said, "would you mind going up to Glencora's room? She wishes to speak to you." He had never called her Alice before, and as soon as the word was spoken, he remembered himself and blushed.

He then remembered that he had promised to send Alice up to his wife, and he hurried back into the house. She was alone in the breakfast-room, for Mr. Grey seldom saw them before eleven or twelve o'clock. When the expectant father of embryo dukes entered the room, Alice perceived at once that something was astir. His manner was altogether changed, and he was unusually eager.
"Alice," he said, "would you mind going up to Glencora's room? She wishes to speak to you." He had never called her Alice before, and as soon as he said it, he blushed.


"No;--she isn't ill. At least I think she had better not get up quite yet. Don't let her excite herself, if you can help it."

"No; she isn't ill. At least I think she had better not get up quite yet. Don't let her excite herself, if you can help it."


"I'll go to her at once," said Alice rising.


"I'm so much obliged to you;--but, Miss Vavasor--"

"I'm so much obliged to you;- but, Miss Vavasor-"


"You called me Alice just now, Mr. Palliser, and I took it as a great compliment."


He blushed again. "Did I? Very well. Then I'll do it again--if you'll let me. But, if you please, do be as calm with her as you can. She is so easily excited, you know. Of course, if there's anything she fancies, we'll take care to get it for her; but she must be kept quiet." Upon this Alice left him, having had no moment of time to guess what had happened, or was about to happen; and he was again alone, contemplating the future glories of his house. Had he a thought for his poor cousin Jeffrey, whose nose was now so terribly out of joint? No, indeed. His thoughts were all of himself, and the good things that were coming to him,--of the new world of interest that was being opened for him. It would be better to him, this, than being Chancellor of the Exchequer. He would rather have it in store for him to be father of the next Duke of Omnium, than make half a dozen consecutive annual speeches in Parliament as to the ways and means, and expenditure of the British nation! Could it be possible that this foreign tour had produced for him this good fortune? If so, how luckily had things turned out! He would remember even that ball at Lady Monk's with gratitude. Perhaps a residence abroad would be best for Lady Glencora at this particular period of her life. If so, abroad she should certainly live. Before resolving, however, on anything permanently on this head, he thought that he might judiciously consult those six first-rate London physicians, whom, in the first moment of his excitement, he had been desirous of summoning to Lucerne.

He blushed again. "Did I? Very well. But, if you please, do be as calm with her as you can. She is so easily excited, you know. Of course, if there's anything she fancies, we'll take care to get it for her; but she must be kept quiet."
Alice left him with his thoughts, which were all of himself, and the good things that were coming to him - of the new world of interest that was being opened for him. Could it be possible that this foreign tour had produced this good fortune? If so, how luckily had things turned out! He would remember even that ball at Lady Monk's with gratitude. Perhaps residence abroad would be best for Lady Glencora at this particular period of her life. Before resolving, however, on anything, he thought that he might consult those six first-rate London physicians.


In the meantime Alice had gone up to the bedroom of the lady who was now to be the subject of so much anxious thought. When she entered the room, her friend was up and in her dressing-gown, lying on a sofa which stood at the foot of the bed. "Oh, Alice, I'm so glad you've come," said Lady Glencora. "I do so want to hear your voice." Then Alice knelt beside her, and asked her if she were ill.

In the meantime Alice had gone up to Glencora's bedroom.
"Oh, Alice, I'm so glad you've come," said Lady Glencora. "I do so want to hear your voice." Then Alice knelt beside her, and asked her if she were ill.


"He hasn't told you? But of course he wouldn't. How could he? But, Alice, how did he look? Did you observe anything about him? Was he pleased?"

"He hasn't told you? But of course he wouldn't. How could he? But, Alice, how did he look? Was he pleased?"


"I did observe something, and I think he was pleased. But what is it? He called me Alice. And seemed to be quite unlike himself. But what is it? He told me that I was to come to you instantly."

"I think he was pleased. But what is it? He called me Alice. And seemed to be quite unlike himself. What is it? He told me that I was to come to you instantly."


"Oh, Alice, can't you guess?" Then suddenly Alice did guess the secret, and whispered her guess into Lady Glencora's ear. "I suppose it is so," said Lady Glencora. "I know what they'll do. They'll kill me by fussing over me. If I could go about my work like a washerwoman, I should be all right."

"Oh, Alice, can't you guess?" Then suddenly Alice did guess the secret, and whispered into Lady Glencora's ear.
"I suppose so," said Lady Glencora. "I know what they'll do. They'll fuss over me so. If I could go about my work like a washerwoman, I should be all right."


"I am so happy," she said, some two or three hours afterwards. "I won't deny that I am very happy. It seemed as though I were destined to bring nothing but misery to everybody, and I used to wish myself dead so often. I shan't wish myself dead now."

"I am so happy," she said, some two or three hours afterwards. "I won't deny that I am very happy. I used to wish myself dead so often. I shan't wish myself dead now."


"We shall all have to go home, I suppose?" said Alice.


"He says so;--but he seems to think that I oughtn't to travel above a mile and a half a day. When I talked of going down the Rhine in one of the steamers, I thought he would have gone into a fit. When I asked him why, he gave me such a look. I know he'll make a goose of himself;--and he'll make geese of us, too; which is worse."

"He says so; but he seems to think that I oughtn't to travel more than a mile and a half a day. When I talked of going down the Rhine in one of the steamers, I thought he would have gone into a fit."


On that afternoon, as they were walking together, Mr. Palliser told the important secret to his new friend, Mr. Grey. He could not deny himself the pleasure of talking about this great event. "It is a matter, you see, of such immense importance to me," Mr. Palliser said.

On that afternoon, as they were walking together, Mr. Palliser told the important secret to his new friend, Mr. Grey. He could not deny himself the pleasure of talking about it.
"It is a matter, you see, of such immense importance to me," Mr. Palliser said.


"Indeed, it is," said Grey. "Every man feels that when a child is about to be born to him." But this did not at all satisfy Mr. Palliser.

"Indeed, it is," said Grey. "Every man feels that when a child is to be born to him." But this did not satisfy Mr. Palliser.


"Yes," said he. "That's of course. It is an important thing to everybody;--very important, no doubt. But, when a man--. You see, Grey, I don't think a man is a bit better because he is rich, or because he has a title; nor do I think he is likely to be in any degree the happier. I am quite sure that he has no right to be in the slightest degree proud of that which he has had no hand in doing for himself."

"Yes," said he. "Naturally. It is an important thing to everybody, no doubt. But, when a man has a title - he's no better or happier


"Men usually are very proud of such advantages," said Grey.


"I don't think that I am; I don't, indeed. I am proud of some things. Whenever I can manage to carry a point in the House, I feel very proud of it. I don't think I ever knocked under to any one, and I am proud of that." Perhaps, Mr. Palliser was thinking of a certain time when his uncle the Duke had threatened him, and he had not given way to the Duke's threats. "But I don't think I'm proud because chance has made me my uncle's heir."


"But I do feel that a son to me is of more importance than it is to most men. A strong anxiety on the subject, is, I think, more excusable in me than it might be in another. I don't know whether I quite make myself understood?"

a son is of more importance than it is to most men.


"Oh, yes! When there's a dukedom and heaven knows how many thousands a year to be disposed of, the question of their future ownership does become important."


"This property is so much more interesting to one, if one feels that all one does to it is done for one's own son."

One feels that all one does is done for one's own son."


"And yet," said Grey, "of all the great plunderers of property throughout Europe, the Popes have been the most greedy."


"Perhaps it's different, when a man can't have a wife," said Mr. Palliser.


From all this it may be seen that Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey had become very intimate. Had chance brought them together in London they might have met a score of times before Mr. Palliser would have thought of doing more than bowing to such an acquaintance. Mr. Grey might have spent weeks at Matching, without having achieved anything like intimacy with its noble owner. But things of that kind progress more quickly abroad than they do at home. The deck of an ocean steamer is perhaps the most prolific hotbed of the growth of sudden friendships; but an hotel by the side of a Swiss lake does almost as well.

It may be seen that Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey had become good friends. Had chance brought them together in London they might have met a score of times before Mr. Palliser would have thought of doing more than bowing. But things of that kind progress more quickly abroad than they do at home.


For some time after this Lady Glencora's conduct was frequently so indiscreet as to drive her husband almost to frenzy. On the very day after the news had been communicated to him, she proposed a picnic, and made the proposition not only in the presence of Alice, but in that of Mr. Grey also! Mr. Palliser, on such an occasion, could not express all that he thought; but he looked it.

For some time after this Lady Glencora's conduct was frequently so indiscreet as to drive her husband almost to frenzy. On the very day after he learnt the news, she proposed a picnic!


"What is the matter, now, Plantagenet?" said his wife.

"What is the matter, now, Plantagenet?" said she.


"Nothing," said he;--"nothing. Never mind."

"Nothing," said he; "nothing. Never mind."


"And shall we make this party up to the chapel?"


The chapel in question was Tell's chapel--ever so far up the lake. A journey in a steam-boat would have been necessary.

The chapel was far up the lake; a journey in a steam-boat would have been necessary.


"No!" said he, shouting out his refusal at her. "We will not."

"No!" said he, shouting his refusal. "We will not."


"You needn't be angry about it," said she;--as though he could have failed to be stirred by such a proposition at such a time. On another occasion she returned from an evening walk, showing on her face some sign of the exercise she had taken.

"You needn't be angry about it," said she.
On another occasion she returned from an evening walk, appearing a little tired.


"Good G----! Glencora," said he, "do you mean to kill yourself?"

"Good G---! Glencora," said he, "do you mean to kill yourself?"


He wanted her to eat six or seven times a day; and always told her that she was eating too much, remembering some ancient proverb about little and often. He watched her now as closely as Mrs. Marsham and Mr. Bott had watched her before; and she always knew that he was doing so. She made the matter worse by continually proposing to do things which she knew he would not permit, in order that she might enjoy the fun of seeing his agony and amazement. But this, though it was fun to her at the moment, produced anything but fun, as its general result.

He wanted her to eat six or seven times a day; and always told her that she was eating too much, remembering some ancient proverb about little and often. He watched her closely; and she knew that he was doing so. She continually proposed to do things which she knew he would not permit, in order to enjoy the fun of seeing his agony and amazement. But though this was fun to her at the moment, it produced anything but fun as its general result.


"Upon my word, Alice, I think this will kill me," she said. "I am not to stir out of the house now, unless I go in the carriage, or he is with me."


"I don't know what you call long. As for walking with him, it's out of the question. He goes about a mile an hour. And then he makes me look so much like a fool. I had no idea that he would be such an old coddle."

"I don't know what you call long. As for walking with him, it's out of the question. He goes about a mile an hour. I had no idea that he would be such an old coddle."


"The coddling will all be given to some one else, very soon."

"The coddling will all be given to someone else, very soon."


"No baby could possibly live through it, if you mean that. If there is a baby--"


"I suppose there will be one, by-and-by," said Alice.


"Don't be a fool! But, if there is, I shall take that matter into my own hands. He can do what he pleases with me, and I can't help myself; but I shan't let him or anybody do what they please with my baby. I know what I'm about in such matters a great deal better than he does. I've no doubt he's a very clever man in Parliament; but he doesn't seem to me to understand anything else."

I shall take that matter into my own hands. He can do what he pleases with me; but I shan't let him or anybody else do what they please with my baby. I know what I'm about in such matters a great deal better than he does. I've no doubt he's a very clever man in Parliament; but he doesn't seem to me to understand anything else.


Alice was making some very wise speech in answer to this, when Lady Glencora interrupted her.


"Mr. Grey wouldn't make himself so troublesome, I'm quite sure." Then Alice held her tongue.

Mr. Grey wouldn't make himself so troublesome, I'm quite sure."
Alice held her tongue.


When the first consternation arising from the news had somewhat subsided,--say in a fortnight from the day in which Mr. Palliser was made so triumphant,--and when tidings had been duly sent to the Duke, and an answer from his Grace had come, arrangements were made for the return of the party to England. The Duke's reply was very short:--

About a fortnight after the first consternation of the news, arrangements were made for their return to England. Mr. Palliser had written to the Duke of Omnium, and had this short reply:


MY DEAR PLANTAGENET,--Give my kind love to Glencora. If it's a boy, of course I will be one of the godfathers. The Prince, who is very kind, will perhaps oblige me by being the other. I should advise you to return as soon as convenient.

My dear Plantagenet,
Give my kind love to Glencora. If it's a boy, of course I will be one of the godfathers. The Prince, who is very kind, will perhaps oblige me by being the other. I should advise you to return as soon as convenient.


That was the letter; and short as it was, it was probably the longest that Mr. Palliser had ever received from the Duke.

Short as it was, it was probably the longest letter that Mr. Palliser had ever received from the Duke.


There was great trouble about the mode of their return.


"Oh, what nonsense," said Glencora. "Let us get into an express train, and go right through to London." Mr. Palliser looked at her with a countenance full of rebuke and sorrow. He was always so looking at her now. "If you mean, Plantagenet, that we are to be dragged all across the Continent in that horrible carriage, and be a thousand days on the road, I for one won't submit to it." "I wish I had never told him a word about it," she said afterwards to Alice. "He would never have found it out himself, till this thing was all over."

"Oh, what nonsense," said Glencora. "Let us get an express train, and go right through to London." Mr. Palliser looked at her with a countenance full of rebuke and sorrow. He was always so looking at her now. "If you mean, Plantagenet, that we are to be dragged all across the Continent in that horrible carriage, and be a thousand days on the road, I for one won't submit to it."


Mr. Palliser did at last consent to take the joint opinion of a Swiss doctor and an English one who was settled at Berne; and who, on the occasion, was summoned to Lucerne. They suggested the railway; and as letters arrived for Mr. Palliser,--medical letters,--in which the same opinion was broached, it was agreed, at last, that they should return by railway; but they were to make various halts on the road, stopping at each halting-place for a day. The first was, of course, Basle, and from Basle they were to go on to Baden.

Mr. Palliser did at last consent to take the joint opinion of a Swiss doctor and an English one at Berne. They suggested the railway; and it was agreed, at last, that thus they should return, but stopping at various halting-places for a day. The first was Basle, and from Basle they were to go on to Baden.


"I particularly want to see Baden again," Lady Glencora said; "and perhaps I may be able to get back my napoleon."


Burgo Fitzgerald, of whose hunting experiences something has been told in the last chapter, was a young man born in the purple of the English aristocracy. He was related to half the dukes in the kingdom, and had three countesses for his aunts. When he came of age he was master of a sufficient fortune to make it quite out of the question that he should be asked to earn his bread; and though that, and other windfalls that had come to him, had long since been spent, no one had ever made to him so ridiculous a proposition as that. He was now thirty, and for some years past had been known to be much worse than penniless; but still he lived on in the same circles, still slept softly and drank of the best, and went about with his valet and his groom and his horses, and fared sumptuously every day. Some people said the countesses did it for him, and some said that it was the dukes;--while others, again, declared that the Jews were his most generous friends. At any rate he still seemed to live as he had always lived, setting tradesmen at defiance, and laughing to scorn all the rules which regulate the lives of other men.

Burgo Fitzgerald, of whom something has been told in the last chapter, was a young man born into the English aristocracy. He was related to half the dukes in the kingdom, and had three countesses for aunts. When he came of age he had a large enough fortune to make it out of the question that he should be asked to earn his bread; and though the fortune had long since been spent, no one had ever made to him so ridiculous a suggestion as that.
He was now thirty, and worse than penniless; but still he lived in the same circles, drank of the best, went about with his valet and his groom and his horses, and dined sumptuously every day. Some people said the countesses did it for him, and some said the dukes; while others declared that the money-lenders were his most generous friends. At any rate he still seemed to live as he had always lived.

Chapter 18: Alice Vavasor's Great Relations


About eighteen months before the time of which I am now speaking, a great chance had come in this young man's way, and he had almost succeeded in making himself one of the richest men in England. There had been then a great heiress in the land, on whom the properties of half-a-dozen ancient families had concentrated; and Burgo, who in spite of his iniquities still kept his position in the drawing-rooms of the great, had almost succeeded in obtaining the hand and the wealth,--as people still said that he had obtained the heart,--of the Lady Glencora M'Cluskie. But sundry mighty magnates, driven almost to despair at the prospect of such a sacrifice, had sagaciously put their heads together, and the result had been that the Lady Glencora had heard reason. She had listened,--with many haughty tossings indeed of her proud little head, with many throbbings of her passionate young heart; but in the end she listened and heard reason. She saw Burgo, for the last time, and told him that she was the promised bride of Plantagenet Palliser, nephew and heir of the Duke of Omnium.

About eighteen months before the time of which I am writing, a great opportunity had come in this young man's way, and he had almost succeeded in making himself one of the richest men in England. There had been a great heiress, on whom the properties of half-a-dozen ancient families had concentrated; and Burgo had almost succeeded in obtaining the hand and the wealth - and people still said the heart - of the Lady Glencora M'Cluskie.
But various mighty magnates, aghast at the prospect of such a marriage, had put their heads together to make Lady Glencora hear reason. She had listened with many haughty tossings of her proud little head, with many throbbings of her passionate young heart; but she listened and heard reason. She saw Burgo for the last time, and told him that she was the promised bride of Plantagenet Palliser, nephew and heir of the Duke of Omnium.


He had borne it like a man,--never having groaned openly, or quivered once before any comrade at the name of the Lady Glencora. She had married Mr. Palliser at St. George's Square, and on the morning of the marriage he had hung about his club door in Pall Mall, listening to the bells, and saying a word or two about the wedding, with admirable courage. It had been for him a great chance,--and he had lost it. Who can say, too, that his only regret was for the money? He had spoken once of it to a married sister of his, in whose house he had first met Lady Glencora. "I shall never marry now,--that is all," he said--and then he went about, living his old reckless life, with the same recklessness as ever. He was one of those young men with dark hair and blue eyes,--who wear no beard, and are certainly among the handsomest of all God's creatures. No more handsome man than Burgo Fitzgerald lived in his days; and this merit at any rate was his,--that he thought nothing of his own beauty. But he lived ever without conscience, without purpose,--with no idea that it behoved him as a man to do anything but eat and drink,--or ride well to hounds till some poor brute, much nobler than himself, perished beneath him.

Burgo had borne it like a man. Lady Glencora had married Mr. Palliser at St. George's Square, and on the morning of the marriage Burgo had hung about his club door in Pall Mall, listening to the bells, and speaking about the wedding with admirable courage. He spoke once of it to a married sister, in whose house he had first met Lady Glencora.
"I shall never marry now," he said - and then he went on living his old life, as recklessly as ever. No more handsome man than Burgo Fitzgerald lived; and he had the merit of thinking nothing of his own beauty. But he lived without conscience and without purpose - feeling no need to do anything but eat and drink - or ride to hounds till some poor brute, much nobler than himself, perished beneath him.


He chiefly concerns our story at this present time because the Lady Glencora who had loved him,--and would have married him had not those sagacious heads prevented it,--was a cousin of Alice Vavasor's. She was among those very great relations with whom Alice was connected by her mother's side,--being indeed so near to Lady Macleod, that she was first cousin to that lady, only once removed. Lady Midlothian was aunt to the Lady Glencora, and our Alice might have called cousins, and not been forbidden, with the old Lord of the Isles, Lady Glencora's father,--who was dead, however, some time previous to that affair with Burgo,--and with the Marquis of Auld Reekie, who was Lady Glencora's uncle, and had been her guardian. But Alice had kept herself aloof from her grand relations on her mother's side, choosing rather to hold herself as belonging to those who were her father's kindred. With Lady Glencora, however, she had for a short time--for some week or ten days,--been on terms of almost affectionate intimacy. It had been then, when the wayward heiress with the bright waving locks had been most strongly minded to give herself and her wealth to Burgo Fitzgerald. Burgo had had money dealings with George Vavasor, and knew him,--knew him intimately, and had learned the fact of his cousinship between the heiress and his friend's cousin. Whereupon in the agony of those weeks in which the sagacious heads were resisting her love, Lady Glencora came to her cousin in Queen Anne Street, and told Alice all that tale. "Was Alice," she asked, "afraid of the marquises and the countesses, or of all the rank and all the money which they boasted?" Alice answered that she was not at all afraid of them. "Then would she permit Lady Glencora and Burgo to see each other in the drawing-room at Queen Anne Street, just once!" Just once,--so that they might arrange that little plan of an elopement. But Alice could not do that for her newly found cousin. She endeavoured to explain that it was not the dignity of the sagacious heads which stood in her way, but her woman's feeling of what was right and wrong in such a matter.

He concerns our story because the Lady Glencora who had loved him was a cousin of Alice Vavasor's. She was among those very great relations with whom Alice was connected through her mother - being indeed first cousin, once removed, to Lady Macleod. Lady Midlothian was aunt to Lady Glencora, and the Marquis of Auld Reekie was her uncle.
Alice had kept herself aloof from these grand relations. With Lady Glencora, however, she had for a short time - a week or ten days - been on terms of almost affectionate intimacy. It had been when the wayward heiress had been most strongly minded to give herself to Burgo Fitzgerald. She came to her cousin in Queen Anne Street, and told Alice all the tale.
"Would Alice," she asked, "permit Lady Glencora and Burgo to see each other in the drawing-room at Queen Anne Street, just once?" Just once - so that they might arrange a little plan of an elopement. But Alice could not do that for her cousin. She tried to explain that she felt it was wrong.


"Why should I not marry him?" said Lady Glencora, with her eyes flashing. "He is my equal."


Alice explained that she had no word to say against such a marriage. She counselled her cousin to be true to her love if her love was in itself true. But she, an unmarried woman, who had hitherto not known her cousin, might not give such help as that! "If you will not help me, I am helpless!" said the Lady Glencora, and then she kneeled at Alice's knees and threw her wavy locks abroad on Alice's lap. "How shall I bribe you?" said Lady Glencora. "Next to him I will love you better than all the world." But Alice, though she kissed the fair forehead and owned that such reward would be worth much to her, could not take any bribe for such a cause. Then Lady Glencora had been angry with her, calling her heartless, and threatening her that she too might have sorrow of her own and want assistance. Alice told nothing of her own tale,--how she had loved her cousin and had been forced to give him up, but said what kind words she could, and she of the waving hair and light blue eyes had been pacified. Then she had come again,--had come daily while the sagacious heads were at work,--and Alice in her trouble had been a comfort to her.

Alice explained that she had no word to say against such a marriage. But she could not help in that way.
"If you will not help me, I am helpless!" said the Lady Glencora, and she kneeled at Alice's chair with her wavy hair on Alice's lap. "Next to him I will love you better than all the world." But Alice, though she kissed the fair forehead, could not take any bribe for such a cause.
Then Lady Glencora had been angry with her, calling her heartless, and threatening her that she too might have sorrow and want help. Alice told nothing of her own tale - how she had loved her cousin and had been forced to give him up, but said what kind words she could, and Lady Glencora had been pacified. Then she had come again, had come daily - and Alice had been a comfort to her.