Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps.

Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone, had kept himself hot with passion against Bellfield; and his heat had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his home. But early on the following morning he thought of Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered some of the hard things which she had said to him.
He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined to put them right. She had rebuked him for saying nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to talk so much about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he said to himself, "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling."
He was very far from feeling that the battle was lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship. He was, no doubt, becoming tired of courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up.
So he prepared himself for another attack, and took himself back to Norwich. On this occasion he dressed himself with considerable care, in knickerbockers, with tight, bright, leather gaiters round his legs, thinking his manly proportions might stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, and a wonderful waistcoat embroidered with foxes' heads. He completed his outfit with a round hat, dog-skin gloves, and a whip.
Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close with decisive steps,


"Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy.

pausing only at a pastrycook's where he had another glass of cherry-brandy.

Chapter 47: Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment


"Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question.


"Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel.

and in another second was in the presence of his angel.


"Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly.

"Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady.
He answered boldly.


"There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present."

"There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present."


"Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage."

"Well, thank you, I will sit down for a few minutes. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall go mad, and do somebody a damage."


"Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments.

"Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting soon, are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked at his clothes.


"No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?"

"No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going shooting.


"Not in the least, so long as he is decent."


"I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow."


"Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire."


"I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him."

I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy."


"I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me."

"I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since - since Greenow left me."


Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief.

This allusion to the departed one did not help Mr. Cheesacre. He felt that some decided method of proceeding was required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well earlier on; but now there must be more than little hints. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He was resolved to speak boldly; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He remained silent for a minute or two.


"Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July."

Then he jumped up before her.
"Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed, "dearest Mrs. Greenow; will you be my wife? There! I have said it, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. As for love; oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I'm about. I haven't really."


"And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?"

"Has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?"


"Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress."

"Upon my word it has. I can't move anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress."


"No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now."

"No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy - but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now."


"But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?"


"Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life."

"Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life."


"And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease.

"And why not? Look here, Arabella!" He rose from his chair, and went down on both knees so close to her that she could not escape. There could be no doubt about the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There was some little cracking and straining of his gaiters as he knelt. He did not notice this; but Mrs. Greenow was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease.


"Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she.


"Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!"


"Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise.

"Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. Don't take my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to stop."
He released her hand, but made no attempt to rise.


"I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over. There; don't you hear? There's somebody coming."

"I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over. Don't you hear? There's somebody coming."


But Cheesacre, whose senses were less acute than the lady's, did not hear. "I'll never get up," said he, "till you have bid me hope."

But Cheesacre did not hear. "I'll never get up," said he, "till you have bid me hope."


"Bid you play the fiddle. Get away from my knees, at any rate. There;--he'll be in the room now before--"

"Bid you play the fiddle. Get away from my knees. There; he'll be in the room now before-"


[Illustration: Mr. Cheesacre disturbed.]


Cheesacre now did hear a sound of steps, and the door was opened while he made his first futile attempt to get back to a standing position. The door was opened, and Captain Bellfield entered. "I beg ten thousand pardons," said he, "but as I did not see Jeannette, I ventured to come in. May I venture to congratulate my friend Cheesacre on his success?"

Cheesacre now did hear footsteps, and the door opened while he made his first futile attempt to get back to a standing position. Captain Bellfield entered.
"I beg ten thousand pardons," said he, "but as I did not see Jeannette, I ventured to come in. May I congratulate my friend Cheesacre on his success?"


In the meantime Cheesacre had risen; but he had done so slowly, and with evident difficulty. "I'll trouble you to leave the room, Captain Bellfield," said he. "I'm particularly engaged with Mrs. Greenow, as any gentleman might have seen."

In the meantime Cheesacre had risen, with difficulty. "I'll trouble you to leave the room, Captain Bellfield," said he.


"There wasn't the slightest difficulty in seeing it, old fellow," said the Captain. "Shall I wish you joy?"


"I'll trouble you to leave the room, sir," said Cheesacre, walking up to him.


"Certainly, if Mrs. Greenow will desire me to do so," said the Captain.

"Certainly, if Mrs. Greenow wishes me to do so," said the Captain.


Then Mrs. Greenow felt herself called upon to speak.


"Gentlemen, I must beg that you will not make my drawing-room a place for quarrelling. Captain Bellfield, lest there should be any misconception, I must beg you to understand that the position in which you found Mr. Cheesacre was one altogether of his own seeking. It was not with my consent that he was there."

"Captain Bellfield, I must beg you to understand that the position in which you found Mr. Cheesacre was one altogether of his own seeking. It was not with my consent that he was there."


"I can easily believe that, Mrs. Greenow," said the Captain.


"Who cares what you believe, sir?" said Mr. Cheesacre.


"Gentlemen! gentlemen! this is really unkind. Captain Bellfield, I think I had better ask you to withdraw."


"As it is absolutely necessary that I should give Mr. Cheesacre a definite answer after what has occurred--"

"As it is absolutely necessary that I should give Mr. Cheesacre a definite answer-"


"Of course," said Captain Bellfield, preparing to go. "I'll take another opportunity of paying my respects to you. Perhaps I might be allowed to come this evening?"

"Of course," said Captain Bellfield, preparing to go. "Perhaps I might be allowed to come this evening?"


To this Mrs. Greenow half assented with an uncertain nod, and then the Captain went. As soon as the door was closed behind his back, Mr. Cheesacre again prepared to throw himself into his former position, but to this Mrs. Greenow decidedly objected. If he were allowed to go down again, there was no knowing what force might be necessary to raise him. "Mr. Cheesacre," she said, "let there be an end to this little farce between us."

To this Mrs. Greenow half assented with a nod, and the Captain went. As soon as the door was closed, Mr. Cheesacre again prepared to throw himself into his former position, but Mrs. Greenow promptly said, "Mr. Cheesacre, let there be an end to this little farce."


"Farce!" said he, standing with his hand on his heart, and his legs and knickerbockers well displayed.

"Farce!" said he, standing with his hand on his heart.


"It is certainly either a farce or a mistake. If the latter,--and I have been at all to blame,--I ask your pardon most sincerely."

"It is certainly either a farce or a mistake. If I have been at all to blame, I ask your pardon most sincerely."


"But you'll be Mrs. Cheesacre; won't you?"


"No, Mr. Cheesacre; no. One husband is enough for any woman, and mine lies buried at Birmingham."


"Oh, damn it!" said he, in utter disgust at this further reference to Mr. Greenow. The expression, at such a moment, militated against courtesy; but even Mrs. Greenow herself felt that the poor man had been subjected to provocation.

"Oh, damn it!" said he, in utter disgust. It was not courteous; but even Mrs. Greenow herself felt that the poor man had been provoked.


"Let us part friends," said she, offering him her hand.


But he turned his back upon her, for there was something in his eye that he wanted to hide. I believe that he really did love her, and that at this moment he would have taken her, even though he had learned that her fortune was gone.

But he turned his back upon her, for there was something in his eye that he wanted to hide. I believe that he really did love her.


"Will you not give me your hand," said she, "in token that there is no anger between us?"

"Will you not give me your hand," said she, "to show that there is no anger between us?"


"Do think about it again--do!" said he. "If there's anything you like to have changed, I'll change it at once. I'll give up Oileymead altogether, if you don't like being so near the farm-yard. I'll give up anything; so I will. Mrs. Greenow, if you only knew how I've set my heart upon it!" And now, though his back was turned, the whimpering of his voice told plainly that tears were in his eyes.

"Do think again! If there's anything you like to have changed, I'll change it at once. I'll give up Oileymead altogether, if you don't like being so near the farm-yard. Mrs. Greenow, if you only knew how I've set my heart upon it!" And now, though his back was turned, the whimpering of his voice told plainly that tears were in his eyes.


She was a little touched. No woman would feel disposed to marry a man simply because he cried, and perhaps few women would be less likely to give way to such tenderness than Mrs. Greenow. She understood men and women too well, and had seen too much both of the world's rough side and of its smooth side to fall into such a blunder as that; but she was touched. "My friend," she said, putting her hand upon his arm, "think no more of it."

She was a little touched. No woman would feel disposed to marry a man simply because he cried, and Mrs. Greenow had seen too much of the world to fall into such a blunder as that; but she was touched.
"My friend," she said, putting her hand upon his arm, "think no more of it."


"But I can't help thinking of it," said he, almost blubbering in his earnestness.

"But I can't help thinking of it," said he, almost blubbering.


"No, no, no," said she, still touching him with her hand. "Why, Mr. Cheesacre, how can you bring yourself to care for an old woman like me, when so many pretty young ladies would give their eyes to get a kind word from you?"

"No, no, no," said she. "Why, Mr. Cheesacre, how can you care for an old woman like me, when so many pretty young ladies would give their eyes to get a kind word from you?"


"There's Charlie Fairstairs, who would make as good a wife as any girl I know."


"Psha! Charlie Fairstairs, indeed!" The very idea of having such a bride palmed off upon him did something to restore him to his manly courage.


"Or my niece, Kate Vavasor, who has a nice little fortune of her own, and who is as accomplished as she is good-looking."


"That's because you never asked her to be anything. If I get her to come back to Yarmouth next summer, will you think about it? You want a wife, and you couldn't do better if you searched all England over. It would be so pleasant for us to be such near friends; wouldn't it?" And again she put her hand upon his arm.

"That's because you never asked her to be anything. If I get her to come back to Yarmouth next summer, will you think about it? You want a wife, and you couldn't do better if you searched all England. It would be so pleasant for us to be near friends; wouldn't it?" And again she put her hand upon his arm.


"Mrs. Greenow, just at present there's only one woman in the world that I can think of."

"Mrs. Greenow, at present there's only one woman in the world that I can think of."


"And that's yourself. I'm a broken-hearted man,--I am, indeed. I didn't ever think I should feel so much about a thing of the kind--I didn't, really. I hardly know what to do with myself; but I suppose I'd better go back to Oileymead." He had become so painfully unconscious of his new coat and his knickerbockers that it was impossible not to pity him. "I shall always hate the place now," he said,--"always."

"And that's yourself. I'm a broken-hearted man - I am, indeed. I hardly know what to do with myself; but I suppose I'd better go back to Oileymead. I shall always hate the place now," he said.


"That will pass away. You'd be as happy as a king there, if you'd take Kate for your queen."


"What shall I do?"--"Yes; what will you do?"


"That is, if you marry Kate? Why, I'll come and stay with you half my time, and nurse the children, as an old grand-aunt should."

If you marry Kate, I'll come and stay with you half my time, and nurse the children, as an old grand-aunt should."


"But about--." Then he hesitated, and she asked him of what he was thinking.


"You don't mean to take that man Bellfield, do you?"


"Come, Mr. Cheesacre, that's rank jealousy. What right can you have to ask me whether I shall take any man or no man? The chances are that I shall remain as I am till I'm carried to my grave; but I'm not going to give any pledge about it to you or to any one."

"Come, Mr. Cheesacre, that's jealousy. What right can you have to ask me whether I shall take any man? The chances are that I shall remain as I am till I'm carried to my grave; but I'm not going to give any promise about it to you or to anyone."


"You don't know that man, Mrs. Greenow; you don't, indeed. I tell it you as your friend. Does not it stand to reason, when he has got nothing in the world, that he must be a beggar? It's all very well saying that when a man is courting a lady, he shouldn't say much about his money; but you won't make me believe that any man will make a good husband who hasn't got a shilling. And for lies, there's no beating him!"

"You don't know that man, Mrs. Greenow; you don't, indeed. He hasn't got a shilling. And for lies, there's no beating him!"


"Why, then, has he been such a friend of yours?"


"Well, because I've been foolish. I took up with him just because he looked pleasant, I suppose."


"And you want to prevent me from doing the same thing."

"And you want to prevent me from doing the same."


"If you were to marry him, Mrs. Greenow, it's my belief I should do him a mischief; it is, really. I don't think I could stand it;--a mean, skulking beggar! I suppose I'd better go now?"

"If you were to marry him, Mrs. Greenow, it's my belief I should do him a mischief; I don't think I could stand it. A mean, skulking beggar! I suppose I'd better go now?"


"Certainly, if that's the way you choose to talk about my friends."


"Friends, indeed! Well, I won't say any more at present. I suppose if I was to talk for ever it wouldn't be any good?"

"Well, I won't say any more at present. I suppose if I was to talk for ever it wouldn't be any good?"


"Come and talk to Kate Vavasor for ever, Mr. Cheesacre."


To this he made no reply, but went forth from the house, and got his gig, and drove himself home to Oileymead, thinking of his disappointment with all the bitterness of a young lover. "I didn't ever think I should ever care so much about anything," he said, as he took himself up to bed that night.

To this he made no reply, but left, and drove home to Oileymead, thinking of his disappointment with all the bitterness of a young lover.
"I didn't think I should ever care so much about anything," he said, as he took himself to bed that night.


That evening Captain Bellfield did call in the Close, as he had said he would do, but he was not admitted. "Her mistress was very bad with a headache," Jeannette said.

That evening Captain Bellfield did call in the Close, as he had said he would, but he was not admitted.
"Her mistress had a headache," said Jeannette.


Alice came down to breakfast on that Christmas morning at Vavasor Hall without making any sign as to the letter she had received. The party there consisted of her grandfather, her father, her cousin Kate, and herself. They all made their Christmas salutations as is usual, and Alice received and made hers as did the others, without showing that anything had occurred to disturb her tranquillity. Kate remarked that she had heard that morning from Aunt Greenow, and promised to show Alice the letter after breakfast. But Alice said no word of her own letter.

Alice came down to breakfast on Christmas morning at Vavasor Hall to greet her grandfather, her father, and her cousin Kate. Kate remarked that she had received a letter from Aunt Greenow, and promised to show it to Alice after breakfast. But Alice said no word of her own letter.


"Why didn't your aunt come here to eat her Christmas dinner?" said the Squire.

"Why didn't your aunt come here for Christmas dinner?" said the Squire.


"Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her," said Kate, standing close to her grandfather,--for the old man was somewhat deaf.

"Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her," said Kate, standing close to the old man, who was somewhat deaf.


"And why didn't you ask her;--that is, if she stands upon asking to come to her old home?"


"Nay, sir, but I couldn't do that without your bidding. We Vavasors are not always fond of meeting each other."

"I couldn't do that without your bidding, sir. We Vavasors are not always fond of meeting each other."


"Hold your tongue, Kate. I know what you mean, and you should be the last to speak of it. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I am much obliged to you for coming down all this way to see your old grandfather at Christmas. I am indeed. I only wish you had brought better news about your sweetheart."

"Hold your tongue, Kate. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I am much obliged to you for coming all this way to see your old grandfather at Christmas. I only wish you had brought better news about your sweetheart."


"She'll think better of it before long, sir," said her father.


"Papa, you shouldn't say that. You would not wish me to marry against my own judgement."


"I don't know much about ladies' judgements," said the old man. "It does seem to me that when a lady makes a promise she ought to keep it."


"According to that," said Kate, "if I were engaged to a man, and found that he was a murderer, I still ought to marry him."


"But Mr. Grey is not a murderer," said the Squire.


"Pray,--pray, don't talk about it," said Alice. "If you do I really cannot sit and hear it."

"Please don't talk about it," said Alice.


"I have given over saying anything on the subject," said John Vavasor, speaking as though he had already expended upon it a vast amount of paternal eloquence. He had, however, never said more than has been recorded in these pages. Alice during this conversation, sat with her cousin's letter in her pocket, and as yet had not even begun to think what should be the nature of her reply.

"I will say nothing more on the subject," said John Vavasor. Alice meanwhile sat with her cousin's letter in her pocket, and had not even begun to think how she should reply.


The Squire of Vavasor Hall was a stout old man, with a red face and grey eyes, which looked fiercely at you, and with long grey hair, and a rough grey beard, which gave him something of the appearance of an old lion. He was passionate, unreasoning, and specially impatient of all opposition; but he was affectionate, prone to forgive when asked to do so, unselfish, and hospitable. He was, moreover, guided strictly by rules, which he believed to be rules of right. His grandson George had offended him very deeply,--had offended him and never asked his pardon. He was determined that such pardon should never be given, unless it were asked for with almost bended knees; but, nevertheless, this grandson should be his heir. That was his present intention. The right of primogeniture could not, in accordance with his theory, be abrogated by the fact that it was, in George Vavasor's case, protected by no law. The Squire could leave Vavasor Hall to whom he pleased, but he could not have hoped to rest quietly in his grave should it be found that he had left it to any one but the eldest son of his own eldest son. Though violent, and even stern, he was more prone to love than to anger; and though none of those around him dared to speak to him of his grandson, yet he longed in his heart for some opportunity of being reconciled to him.

The Squire of Vavasor Hall was a stout old man, with a red face and fierce grey eyes; his long grey hair and beard gave him the appearance of an old lion. He was excitable, unreasoning, and impatient of all opposition; but he was also affectionate, ready to forgive, unselfish, and hospitable. He was guided strictly by what he believed to be rules of right.
His grandson George had offended him very deeply, and had never asked his pardon. He was determined that such pardon should never be given, unless it were asked for with bended knees; but, nevertheless, this grandson should be his heir. The Squire could not have rested quietly in his grave if he had left his estate to anyone but the eldest son of his eldest son. Though violent, he was more prone to love than anger; and he longed in his heart for some opportunity of being reconciled to George.


The whole party went to church on this Christmas morning. The small parish church of Vavasor, an unpretending wooden structure, with a single bell which might be heard tinkling for a mile or two over the fells, stood all alone about half a mile from the Squire's gate. Vavasor was a parish situated on the intermediate ground between the mountains of the lake country and the plains. Its land was unproductive, ill-drained, and poor, and yet it possessed little or none of the beauty which tourists go to see. It was all amidst the fells, and very dreary. There were long skirtings of dark pines around a portion of the Squire's property, and at the back of the house there was a thick wood of firs running up to the top of what was there called the Beacon Hill. Through this there was a wild steep walk which came out upon the moorland, and from thence there was a track across the mountain to Hawes Water and Naddale, and on over many miles to the further beauties of Bowness and Windermere. They who knew the country, and whose legs were of use to them, could find some of the grandest scenery in England within reach of a walk from Vavasor Hall; but to others the place was very desolate. For myself, I can find I know not what of charm in wandering over open, unadorned moorland. It must be more in the softness of the grass to the feet, and the freshness of the air to the lungs, than in anything that meets the eye. You might walk for miles and miles to the north-east, or east, or south-east of Vavasor without meeting any object to arrest the view. The great road from Lancaster to Carlisle crossed the outskirts of the small parish about a mile from the church, and beyond that the fell seemed to be interminable. Towards the north it rose, and towards the south it fell, and it rose and fell very gradually. Here and there some slight appearance of a valley might be traced which had been formed by the action of the waters; but such breakings of ground were inconsiderable, and did not suffice to interrupt the stern sameness of the everlasting moorland.

The whole party went to church on Christmas morning. The small parish church of Vavasor, an unpretending wooden building, stood all alone half a mile from the Squire's gate. Vavasor was a parish between the mountains of the lake district and the plains. Its land was unproductive, ill-drained, and poor, with little of the beauty which tourists go to see. It was very dreary. There were dark pines around part of it, and at the back of the house there was a thick wood of firs running up to the top of a hill. Through this there was a wild steep walk which came out upon the moorland, and from there a track led across the mountain to Hawes Water, and on over many miles to the beauties of Windermere. But it was a long walk; and you might walk for miles and miles in other directions without seeing anything but the stern, everlasting moorland.


The daily life at Vavasor was melancholy enough for such a one as the Squire's son, who regarded London as the only place on the earth's surface in which a man could live with comfort. The moors offered no charms to him. Nor did he much appreciate the homely comforts of the Hall; for the house, though warm, was old-fashioned and small, and the Squire's cook was nearly as old as the Squire himself. John Vavasor's visits to Vavasor were always visits of duty rather than of pleasure. But it was not so with Alice. She could be very happy there with Kate; for, like herself, Kate was a good walker and loved the mountains. Their regard for each other had grown and become strong because they had gone together o'er river and moor, and because they had together disregarded those impediments of mud and wet which frighten so many girls away from the beauties of nature.

The daily life at Vavasor was melancholy for John Vavasor, who regarded London as the only place where a man could live with comfort. The moors offered no charms to him; nor did the homely comforts of the old-fashioned Hall. But Alice could be very happy there with Kate; for both were good walkers and loved the mountains. Their regard for each other had grown as they had walked together over river and moor, disregarding the mud and wet which frighten so many girls away from the beauties of nature.


On this Christmas Day they all went to church, the Squire being accompanied by Alice in a vehicle which in Ireland is called an inside jaunting-car, and which is perhaps the most uncomfortable kind of vehicle yet invented; while John Vavasor walked with his niece. But the girls had arranged that immediately after church they would start for a walk up the Beacon Hill, across the fells, towards Hawes Water. They always dined at the Hall at the vexatious hour of five; but as their church service, with the sacrament included, would be completed soon after twelve, and as lunch was a meal which the Squire did not himself attend, they could have full four hours for their excursion. This had all been planned before Alice received her letter; but there was nothing in that to make her change her mind about the walk.

On this Christmas Day Alice accompanied the Squire to church in a vehicle which in Ireland is called a jaunting-car, and which is perhaps the most uncomfortable vehicle yet invented. John Vavasor walked with Kate. But the girls had arranged that immediately after church they would start for a walk across the fells towards Hawes Water. They would have four hours for their excursion before dinner at five. This had all been planned before Alice received her letter.


"Alice, my dear," said the old man to her when they were together in the jaunting-car, "you ought to get married." The Squire was hard of hearing, and under any circumstances an inside jaunting-car is a bad place for conversation, as your teeth are nearly shaken out of your head by every movement which the horse makes. Alice therefore said nothing, but smiled faintly, in reply to her grandfather. On returning from church he insisted that Alice should again accompany him, telling her specially that he desired to speak to her. "My dear child," he said, "I have been thinking a great deal about you, and you ought to get married."

"Alice, my dear," said the old man to her in the jaunting-car after church, "you ought to get married." The Squire was hard of hearing, and a jaunting-car is a bad place for conversation, as your teeth are nearly shaken out of your head by every movement of the horse.


"Not if you quarrel with all your suitors," said the old man. "You quarrelled with your cousin George, and now you have quarrelled with Mr. Grey. You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in that way."

"Not if you quarrel with all your suitors," said the old man. "You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in that way."


"Why should I be married more than Kate?"


"Oh, Kate! I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wish you'd think of what I say. If you don't get married before long, perhaps you'll never get married at all. Gentlemen won't stand that kind of thing for ever."

"I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wish you'd think about it. If you don't get married before long, perhaps you never will at all."


The two girls took a slice of cake each in her hand, and started on their walk. "We shan't be able to get to the lake," said Kate.

On returning home the two girls each took a slice of cake, and started on their walk.
"We shan't get to the lake," said Kate.


"No," said Alice; "but we can go as far as the big stone on Swindale Fell, where we can sit down and see it."


"Do you remember the last time we sat there?" said Kate. "It is nearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all was to be over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was, and how I screamed in my sorrow? I sometimes wonder at myself and my own folly. How is it that I can never get up any interest about my own belongings? And then we got soaking wet through coming home."

"Do you remember the last time we sat there?" said Kate. "It was nearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all was over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was, and how I screamed in my sorrow? And then we got soaking wet coming home."


"And how dark it was! That was in September, but we had dined early. If we go as far as Swindale we shall have it very dark coming home to-day;--but I don't mind that through the Beacon Wood, because I know my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark?"

"And how dark it was! If we go as far as Swindale we shall have it very dark coming home today; but I don't mind, because I know my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark?"


"Yes; I do remember that day. Well; it's all for the best, I suppose. And now I must read you my aunt's letter." Then, while they were still in the wood, Kate took out the letter from her aunt and read it, while they still walked slowly up the hill. It seemed that hitherto neither of her two suitors had brought the widow to terms. Indeed, she continued to write of Mr. Cheesacre as though that gentleman were inconsolable for the loss of Kate, and gave her niece much serious advice as to the expedience of returning to Norfolk, in order that she might secure so eligible a husband. "You must understand all the time, Alice," said Kate, pausing as she read the letter, "that the dear man has never given me the slightest ground for the faintest hope, and that I know to a certainty that he makes an offer to her twice a week,--that is, on every market day. You can't enjoy half the joke if you won't bear that in mind." Alice promised that she would bear it all in mind, and then Kate went on with her reading. Poor Bellfield was working very hard at his drill, Mrs. Greenow went on to say; so hard that sometimes she really thought the fatigue would be too much for his strength. He would come in sometimes of an evening and just take a cup of tea;--generally on Mondays and Thursdays. "These are not market days at Norwich," said Kate; "and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided." "He comes in," said Mrs. Greenow, "and takes a little tea; and sometimes I think that he will faint at my feet." "That he kneels there on every occasion," said Kate, "and repeats his offer also twice a week, I have not the least doubt in the world."

"Well; it's all for the best, I suppose. And now I must read you my aunt's letter." Kate took out the letter and read it while they walked slowly up the hill. It seemed that neither of her two suitors had succeeded with the widow. Indeed, she wrote of Mr. Cheesacre as though he were inconsolable for the loss of Kate, and advised her to return to Norfolk so that she might secure him.
"You must understand, Alice," said Kate, pausing, "that the dear man has never given me the slightest ground for hope, and that I know that he makes an offer to her twice a week - on every market day." Then she went on reading. Poor Bellfield was working very hard at his drill, Mrs. Greenow wrote; sometimes she really thought the fatigue would be too much for his strength. He would sometimes come and just take a cup of tea - generally on Mondays and Thursdays. "These are not market days," said Kate; "and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided. I have not the slightest doubt that he also offers for her twice a week."


"Really I don't know what to think of it. Sometimes I fancy that she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake to put herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money, because he wants it sadly and she is very generous. She gives him money, I feel sure, but takes his receipt on stamped paper for every shilling. That's her character all over."

"Really, I don't know. Sometimes I fancy that she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake to put herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money, because she is very generous."


The letter then went on to say that the writer had made up her mind to remain at Norwich certainly through the winter and spring, and that she was anxiously desirous that her dear Kate should go back to her. "Come and have one other look at Oileymead," said the letter, "and then, if you make up your mind that you don't like it or him, I won't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a very honest fellow." "Did you ever know such a woman?" said Kate; "with all her faults I believe she would go through fire and water to serve me. I think she'd lend me money without any stamped paper." Then Aunt Greenow's letter was put up, and the two girls had come out upon the open fell.

The letter went on to say that her aunt had decided to remain at Norwich through the winter and spring, and that she hoped dear Kate would go back to her. "Come and have another look at Oileymead," said the letter, "and then, if you don't like it or him, I won't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a very honest fellow."
"Did you ever know such a woman?" said Kate. Then Aunt Greenow's letter was put away, and the two girls had come to the open fell.


It was a delicious afternoon for a winter's walk. The air was clear and cold, but not actually frosty. The ground beneath their feet was dry, and the sky, though not bright, had that appearance of enduring weather which gives no foreboding of rain. There is a special winter's light, which is very clear though devoid of all brilliancy,--through which every object strikes upon the eye with well-marked lines, and under which almost all forms of nature seem graceful to the sight if not actually beautiful. But there is a certain melancholy which ever accompanies it. It is the light of the afternoon, and gives token of the speedy coming of the early twilight. It tells of the shortness of the day, and contains even in its clearness a promise of the gloom of night. It is absolute light, but it seems to contain the darkness which is to follow it. I do not know that it is ever to be seen and felt so plainly as on the wide moorland, where the eye stretches away over miles, and sees at the world's end the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselves upon the horizon. Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, and both the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the big stone on Swindale Fell, from which they intended to look down upon the loveliness of Hawes Water. As they went up through the wood there had been some laughter between them over Aunt Greenow's letter; and they had discussed almost with mirth the merits of Oileymead and Mr. Cheesacre; but as they got further on to the fell, and as the half-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, their words became less light, and after a while they almost ceased to speak.

It was a delicious afternoon for a winter's walk. The air was clear and cold, but not frosty. The ground was dry, and the sky gave no sign of rain. There is a special winter's light which is very clear, but melancholy; it tells of the shortness of the day and the coming of the early twilight. It is never seen so plainly as on the wide moorland, where the eye stretches away over miles to the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselves upon the horizon.
Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, and both the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the big stone on Swindale Fell. At first they had discussed almost with mirth the merits of Oileymead and Mr. Cheesacre; but as they got further on to the fell, the half-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, and they ceased to speak.


Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had placed it there when she came down to breakfast, and had carried it with her since. She had come to no resolution as yet as to her answer to it, nor had she resolved whether or no she would show it to Kate. Kate had ever been regarded by her as her steadfast friend. In all these affairs she had spoken openly to Kate. We know that Kate had in part betrayed her, but Alice suspected no such treason. She had often quarrelled with Kate; but she had quarrelled with her not on account of any sin against the faith of their friendship. She believed in her cousin perfectly, though she found herself often called upon to disagree with her almost violently. Why should she not show this letter to Kate, and discuss it in all its bearings before she replied to it? This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the fell.

Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had come to no decision yet as to her answer; nor had she decided whether to show it to Kate. She regarded Kate as her steadfast friend, and suspected no treason by her. She had often quarrelled with Kate; but not because she did not trust her. Why should she not show this letter to Kate, and discuss it before she replied to it? This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the fell.


The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclined to give way, and to join her lot to that of her cousin George. Alas, yes! The reader will be right in his surmise. And yet it was not her love for the man that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. Had it been so, I think that it would be easier to forgive her. She was beginning to think that love,--the love of which she had once thought so much,--did not matter. Of what use was it, and to what had it led? What had love done for her friend Glencora? What had love done for her? Had she not loved John Grey, and had she not felt that with all her love life with him would have been distasteful to her? It would have been impossible for her to marry a man whom personally she disliked; but she liked her cousin George,--well enough, as she said to herself almost indifferently.

The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclined to give way, and to accept her cousin George. Alas, yes! The reader will be right.
And yet it was not her love for him that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. That would have been easier to forgive. She was beginning to think that the love of which she had once thought so much did not matter. Of what use was it, and to what had it led? What had love done for her friend Glencora? What had love done for her? Had she not loved John Grey, and had she not felt that life with him would have been distasteful to her? She could not marry a man whom she disliked, but she liked her cousin George well enough, as she said to herself almost indifferently.


Upon the whole it was a grievous task to her in these days,--this having to do something with her life. Was it not all vain and futile? As for that girl's dream of the joys of love which she had once dreamed,--that had gone from her slumbers, never to return. How might she best make herself useful,--useful in some sort that might gratify her ambition;--that was now the question which seemed to her to be of most importance.

It was a grievous task to her these days - this having to do something with her life. Was it not all futile? As for her earlier dream of the joys of love - that had gone, never to return. How she could make herself useful in some way that might gratify her ambition; that was now the question which seemed most important.


Her cousin's letter to her had been very crafty. He had studied the whole of her character accurately as he wrote it. When he had sat down to write it he had been indifferent to the result; but he had written it with that care to attain success which a man uses when he is anxious not to fail in an attempt. Whether or no he cared to marry his cousin was a point so little interesting to him that chance might decide it for him; but when chance had decided that he did wish it, it was necessary for his honour that he should have that for which he condescended to ask.

Her cousin's letter to her had been very crafty. He had considered her character, and had written it with care. Whether he cared to marry his cousin was a point of so little interest to him that he left it to chance; but once chance had decided that he did wish it, it was necessary for his honour that he should get what he wanted.


His letter to her had been clever and very crafty. "At any rate he does me justice," she said to herself, when she read those words about her money, and the use which he proposed to make of it. "He is welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether he has it as my friend or as my husband." Then she thought of Kate's promise of her little mite, and declared to herself that she would not be less noble than her cousin Kate. And would it not be well that she should be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather? George was the representative of the family,--of a family so old that no one now knew which had first taken the ancient titular name of some old Saxon landowner,--the parish, or the man. There had been in old days some worthy Vavaseurs, as Chaucer calls them, whose rank and bearing had been adopted on the moorland side. Of these things Alice thought much, and felt that it should be her duty so to act, that future Vavasors might at any rate not be less in the world than they who had passed away. In a few years at furthest, George Vavasor must be Vavasor of Vavasor. Would it not be right that she should help him to make that position honourable?

"At any rate he does me justice," Alice said to herself, when she read his words about her money. "He is welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether as my friend or as my husband." And would it not be well that she should be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather? George was the heir of a family so old that it went back to the Saxons. Alice thought much about this, and felt that it should be her duty to help George attain honour in his position.


They walked on, exchanging now and again a word or two, till the distant Cumberland mountains began to form themselves in groups of beauty before their eyes. "There's Helvellyn at last," said Kate. "I'm always happy when I see that." "And isn't that Kidsty Pike?" asked Alice. "No; you don't see Kidsty yet. But you will when you get up to the bank there. That's Scaw Fell on the left;--the round distant top. I can distinguish it, though I doubt whether you can." Then they went on again, and were soon at the bank from whence the sharp top of the mountain which Alice had named was visible. "And now we are on Swindale, and in five minutes we shall get to the stone."

They walked on, exchanging a word or two, till the distant Cumberland mountains began to appear.
"There's Helvellyn at last," said Kate. "I'm always happy when I see that. That's Scaw Fell on the left; the round distant top."
Soon they were at the top of the bank


In less than five minutes they were there; and then, but not till then, the beauty of the little lake, lying down below them in the quiet bosom of the hills, disclosed itself. A lake should, I think, be small, and should be seen from above, to be seen in all its glory. The distance should be such that the shadows of the mountains on its surface may just be traced, and that some faint idea of the ripple on the waters may be present to the eye. And the form of the lakes should be irregular, curving round from its base among the lower hills, deeper and still deeper into some close nook up among the mountains from which its head waters spring. It is thus that a lake should be seen, and it was thus that Hawes Water was seen by them from the flat stone on the side of Swindale Fell. The basin of the lake has formed itself into the shape of the figure of 3, and the top section of the figure lies embosomed among the very wildest of the Westmoreland mountains. Altogether it is not above three miles long, and every point of it was to be seen from the spot on which the girls sat themselves down. The water beneath was still as death, and as dark,--and looked almost as cold. But the slow clouds were passing over it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed themselves with gradual changes. And though no movement was visible, there was ever and again in places a slight sheen upon the lake, which indicated the ripple made by the breeze.

; and then the beauty of the little lake of Haweswater lying down below them disclosed itself. A lake should, I think, be seen from above, to be seen in all its glory. The water beneath them was still as death, and as dark. But the slow clouds were passing over it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed, as now a then a slight sheen was laid upon it by the breeze.


"I'm so glad I've come here," said Alice, seating herself. "I cannot bear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes at least."


"We'll get over to Windermere one day," said Kate.


"I don't think we shall. I don't think it possible that I should stay long. Kate, I've got a letter to show you." And there was that in the tone of her voice which instantly put Kate upon her mettle.

"I don't think so. I don't think I can stay long. Kate, I've got a letter to show you." And the tone of her voice instantly put Kate upon her mettle.


Kate seated herself also, and put up her hand for the letter. "Is it from Mr. Grey?" she asked.


"No," said Alice; "it is not from Mr. Grey." And she gave her companion the paper. Kate before she had touched it had seen that it was from her brother George; and as she opened it looked anxiously into Alice's face. "Has he offended you?" Kate asked.

"No," said Alice. She gave her companion the paper, and Kate saw it was from her brother. As she opened it looked anxiously at Alice.
"Has he offended you?" she asked.


"Read it," said Alice, "and then we'll talk of it afterwards,--as we go home." Then she got up from the stone and walked a step or two towards the brow of the fell, and stood there looking down upon the lake, while Kate read the letter. "Well!" she said, when she returned to her place.

"Read it," said Alice, "and then we'll talk of it as we go home." Then she got up and stood looking down upon the lake while Kate read.


"Well," said Kate. "Alice, Alice, it will, indeed, be well if you listen to him. Oh, Alice, may I hope? Alice, my own Alice, my darling, my friend! Say that it shall be so." And Kate knelt at her friend's feet upon the heather, and looked up into her face with eyes full of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false as she had been, and yet could be so true?

"Well," said Kate at last. "Alice, oh, Alice, may I hope? My own Alice, my darling! Say that it shall be so." And Kate knelt at her friend's feet upon the heather, and looked up at her with eyes full of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false as she had been, and yet could be so true?


Alice made no immediate answer, but still continued to gaze down over her friend upon the lake. "Alice," continued Kate, "I did not think I should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have the heart to bring me here and show me this letter in this way, and bid me read it so calmly, and then tell me that it is all for nothing. No; you could not do that? Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this place. I hated it before." And then she put her face down upon the boulder-stone and kissed it. Still Alice said nothing, but she began to feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It was almost impossible for her now to say that her answer to George must be a refusal.

Alice made no answer, but continued to gaze down upon the lake.
"Alice," continued Kate, "I did not think I should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have the heart to bring me here and show me this letter, and then tell me that it is all for nothing. Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this place."
Alice said nothing, but she began to feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It was almost impossible for her now to say that she must refuse George.


Then Kate again went on speaking. "But is it not a beautiful letter? Say, Alice,--is it not a letter of which if you were his brother you would feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage, who will yet do manly things. Here out on the mountain, with nobody near us, with Nature all round us, I ask you on your solemn word as a woman, do you love him?"

Kate went on. "Is it not a beautiful letter? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart, who will do manly things. Do you love him?"


"Yes;--love him: as a woman should love her husband. Is not your heart his? Alice, there need be no lies now. If it be so, it should be your glory to say so, here, to me, as you hold that letter in your hand."


"I can have no such glory, Kate. I have ever loved my cousin; but not so passionately as you seem to think."

"I have always loved my cousin. Kate; but not so passionately as you seem to think."


"Perhaps not, Kate. I would sometimes hope that it is so. But come; we shall be late; and you will be cold sitting there."

"Perhaps not, Kate. I sometimes hope that it is so. But come; we shall be late; and you will get cold sitting there."


"I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would be as I would have it. But, Alice, at any rate you shall tell me before I move what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; but make me happy by saying so with your own lips."

"I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would a yes. But, Alice, tell me what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; but make me happy by saying so."


"I cannot tell you before you move, Kate."


"Ah, that is impossible. That is quite impossible. On such a subject and under such circumstances a woman must resolve at the first moment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read the letter;--though, perhaps, it may not suit you to say so."

"Ah, that is impossible. On such a subject a woman must decide at the first moment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read the letter."


"You are quite mistaken. Come along and let us walk, and I will tell you all." Then Kate arose, and they turned their back to the lake, and began to make their way homewards. "I have not made up my mind as to what answer I will give him; but I have shown you his letter in order that I might have some one with whom I might speak openly. I knew well how it would be, and that you would strive to hurry me into an immediate promise."

"You are quite mistaken. Let us walk, and I will tell you all." They turned their backs to the lake, and began to make their way homewards. "I have shown you his letter so that I might have someone with whom I could speak openly. I knew how it would be, and that you would try to hurry me into an immediate promise."


"But yet I could not deny myself the comfort of your friendship."


"No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do not wish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Has it not been the longing of all my life? Have I not passed my time plotting and planning and thinking of it till I have had time to think of nothing else? Do you know what I suffered when, through George's fault, the engagement was broken off? Was it not martyrdom to me,--that horrid time in which your Crichton from Cambridgeshire was in the ascendant? Did I not suffer the tortures of purgatory while that went on;--and yet, on the whole, did I not bear them with patience? And, now, can you be surprised that I am wild with joy when I begin to see that everything will be as I wish;--for it will be as I wish, Alice. It may be that you have not resolved to accept him. But you would have resolved to refuse him instantly had that been your destined answer to his letter." There was but little more said between them on the subject as they were passing over the fell, but when they were going down the path through the Beacon Wood, Kate again spoke: "You will not answer him without speaking to me first?" said Kate.

"No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do not wish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Has it not been the longing of my life? Have I not passed my time planning and thinking of it? Do you know what I suffered when the engagement was broken off? And, now, can you be surprised that I am wild with joy? - for it will be as I wish, Alice. You would have decided to refuse him instantly had that been your destiny."
There was little more said until they were going down the path through the Beacon Wood. Then Kate again spoke:
"You will not answer him without speaking to me first?"


"I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you," said Alice.


"Nay," said Alice; "I will not promise that. But if it is unfavourable I will show it you."

"No," said Alice. "But if it is unfavourable I will show it you."


"Then I shall never see it," said Kate, laughing. "But that is quite enough for me. I by no means wish to criticise the love-sweet words in which you tell him that his offences are all forgiven. I know how sweet they will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him!"

"Then I shall never see it," said Kate, laughing. "That is enough for me. I know how sweet your words of forgiveness will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him!"


Then they were at home; and the old man met them at the front door, glowering at them angrily from out his old leonine eyes, because the roast beef was already roasted. He had his great uncouth silver watch in his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and he pointed at it fiercely, showing them the minute hand at ten minutes past the hour.

Then they were at home; and the old man met them at the front door, glowering angrily, because the roast beef was ready. He had his great uncouth silver watch in his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and he pointed at it fiercely.


"But, grandpapa, you are always too fast," said Kate.


"And you are always too slow, miss," said the hungry old squire.


"Indeed, it is not five yet. Is it, Alice?"


"And how long are you going to be dressing?"


"Not ten minutes;--are we, Alice? And, grandpapa, pray don't wait."


"Don't wait! That's what they always say," he muttered, peevishly. "As if one would be any better waiting for them after the meat is on the table." But neither Kate nor Alice heard this, as they were already in their rooms.

And the two girls hurried to their rooms to change.


Nothing more was said that evening between Alice and Kate about the letter; but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night inside her bedroom door, spoke to her just one word--"Pray for him to-night," she said, "as you pray for those you love best." Alice made no answer, but we may believe that she did as she was desired to do.

Nothing more was said that evening about the letter; but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night, said, "Pray for him tonight, as you pray for those you love best."
Alice made no answer, but we may believe she did as Kate desired.


Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far.

Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand.
Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared.
"It is very hard to realize money," said George, "immediately after a death, when all the property left is real property."
"Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard all about the old Squire's will. Vavasor cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey - and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days later, he again called, and gave Mr. Scruby the four slips of paper which have been mentioned.
Before we learn Mr Scruby's judgment of those scraps of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far.

Chapter 60: Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market


One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman.

One morning the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" waiting in the hall. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that he is not a gentleman.


"A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?"


"Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at."

"Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort."


Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him.

Alice Vavasor was aware that the gentleman could not be her cousin George, and therefore she said, "Let him come up."


"Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy.


This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room.

At this time John Vavasor was in his dressing-room.


Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down.

Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was a little dark man, with sharp close-set eyes, a beaked nose, and a black moustache. Alice did not like the look of him, but she asked him to sit down.


"Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant.

"Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant, purely to let Mr. Levy know that there was a gentleman in the house with her.


"Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed."


Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her.


"I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?"

"I've called about a little bit of business," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George.


"Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir."


George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:--


After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me.

After what passed between us when I last saw you, I thought that on my return from Westmorland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know how to do what business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard of the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever necessary that you should be true to your pledge to me.


Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right.

Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us, I think it wiser not to call on you myself. I therefore send my clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you how this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. Drummonds bank will not object if you call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right.


I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine.

I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine.


The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it.

The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness, rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. She believed that she had no alternative but to give him the money. She had told him that he should have it. She should not have forced him into the necessity of demanding it.


But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood.

But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then entrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she thought of asking him.
But it occurred to her that if she were to speak to her father about this advancing of money, he would prevent her, if he could, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money; but her father might be able to delay the gift. If she signed the bills, the money must be forthcoming.


Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said.

Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills and had placed them on the table.


"And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house.

"If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer," he said. Mr. Levy was anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house.


But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time.

But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time.


"Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice.

"Could you not leave them with me?" said Alice.


"Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad."

"Well; not very well, miss. The fact is, Mr. Vavasor must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down about this here election."


"But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques."

"But, sir, the money will not be payable today. If I understand it, they are not cheques."


"No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same."

"No, miss, they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money."


She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him.

While she paused, he handed her a pen, and then she signed the four bills quickly.


These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him.

These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor offered to Mr. Scruby, in the manner of a grand capitalist.


"You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say."

"You insisted on ready money, with your d-- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say."


"Fourteen days is neither here nor there," said Mr. Scruby. "We can let our payments stand over as long as that, without doing any harm. I'll send one of my men down to Grimes, and tell him I can't see him, till,--let me see," and he looked at one of the bills, "till the 15th."

"Fourteen days is neither here nor there," said Mr. Scruby. "I'll send one of my men down to Grimes, and tell him I can't see him, till" and he looked at one of the bills, "till the 15th."


But this was not exactly what George Vavasor wanted. He was desirous that the bills should be immediately turned into money, so that the necessity of forcing payments from Alice, should due provision for the bills not be made, might fall into other hands than his.

But this was not what George Vavasor wanted. He wished that the bills should be immediately turned into money, but not by him.


"We can wait till the 15th," said Scruby, as he handed the bits of paper back to his customer.


"You will want a thousand, you say?" said George.

"You will want a thousand, you say?" he said.


"A thousand to begin with. Certainly not less."


"Well--no! I don't see the use of that. You had better collect them through your own banker, and let me have a cheque on the 15th or 16th."

"Well, no! I don't see the use of that. You had better collect them through your own banker, and let me have a cheque on the 15th or 16th."


"How cursed suspicious you are, Scruby."


"No, I ain't. I'm not a bit suspicious. I don't deal in such articles; that's all!"

"No, I ain't. I don't deal in such articles; that's all.


"What doubt can there be about such bills as those? Everybody knows that my cousin has a considerable fortune, altogether at her own disposal."


"The truth is, Mr. Vavasor, that bills with ladies' names on them,--ladies who are no way connected with business,--ain't just the paper that people like."

The truth is, Mr. Vavasor, that bills with ladies' names on them ain't just what people like.


"You take them into the City for discount, and see if the bankers don't tell you the same. They may be done, of course, upon your name. I say nothing about that."

You take them into the City, and see if the bankers don't tell you the same. They may be done, of course, upon your name."


"I can explain to you the nature of the family arrangement, but I can't do that to a stranger. However, I don't mind."


"Of course not. The time is so short that it does not signify. Have them collected through your own bankers, and then, if it don't suit you to call, send me a cheque for a thousand pounds when the time is up." Then Mr. Scruby turned to some papers on his right hand, as though the interview had been long enough. Vavasor looked at him angrily, opening his wound at him and cursing him inwardly. Mr. Scruby went on with his paper, by no means regarding either the wound or the unspoken curses. Thereupon Vavasor got up and went away without any word of farewell.

"Of course not. The time is so short that it does not signify. Have them collected through your own bankers, and then send me a cheque for a thousand pounds when the time is up."
Then Mr. Scruby turned to some papers as though the interview had been long enough. Vavasor looked at him angrily, cursing him inwardly, but Mr. Scruby ignored him. So Vavasor got up and went away.


As he walked along Great Marlborough Street, and through those unalluring streets which surround the Soho district, and so on to the Strand and his own lodgings, he still continued to think of some wide scheme of revenge,--of some scheme in which Mr. Scruby might be included. There had appeared something latterly in Mr. Scruby's manner to him, something of mingled impatience and familiarity, which made him feel that he had fallen in the attorney's estimation. It was not that the lawyer thought him to be less honourable, or less clever, than he had before thought him; but that the man was like a rat, and knew a falling house by the instinct that was in him. So George Vavasor cursed Mr. Scruby, and calculated some method of murdering him without detection.

As he walked along the unalluring streets which surround Soho, to the Strand and his own lodgings, he continued to think of some wide scheme of revenge - in which Mr. Scruby might be included. Some impatience and familiarity in Mr. Scruby's manner made him feel that he had fallen in the attorney's esteem. The man was like a rat, and knew a falling house by instinct. So George Vavasor cursed Mr. Scruby, and calculated some method of murdering him without detection.


The reader is not to suppose that the Member for the Chelsea Districts had, in truth, resolved to gratify his revenge by murder,--by murdering any of those persons whom he hated so vigorously. He did not, himself, think it probable that he would become a murderer. But he received some secret satisfaction in allowing his mind to dwell upon the subject, and in making those calculations. He reflected that it would not do to take off Scruby and John Grey at the same time, as it would be known that he was connected with both of them; unless, indeed, he was to take off a third person at the same time,--a third person, as to the expediency of ending whose career he made his calculations quite as often as he did in regard to any of those persons whom he cursed so often. It need hardly be explained to the reader that this third person was the sitting Member for the Chelsea Districts.

The reader is not to suppose that the Member for the Chelsea Districts had, in truth, any intention to become a murderer. But he received a secret satisfaction in allowing his mind to dwell upon the subject. He reflected that it would not do to knock off Scruby and John Grey at the same time, as it would be known that he was connected with both of them; unless, indeed, he was to kill himself too.


As he was himself in want of instant ready money Mr. Scruby's proposition that he should leave the four bills at his own bankers', to be collected when they came to maturity, did not suit him. He doubted much, also, whether at the end of the fourteen days the money would be forthcoming. Alice would be driven to tell her father, in order that the money might be procured, and John Vavasor would probably succeed in putting impediments in the way of the payment. He must take the bills into the City, and do the best there that he could with them. He was too late for this to-day, and therefore he went to his lodgings, and then down to the House. In the House he sat all the night with his hat over his eyes, making those little calculations of which I have spoken.

As he needed instant money, Mr. Scruby's proposition that he should leave the four bills at his own bankers', to be collected when they came to maturity, did not suit him. He doubted much whether at the end of the fourteen days the money would be forthcoming. Alice would have to tell her father, and John Vavasor would probably prevent the payment. He must take the bills into the City, and do the best there that he could with them. He was too late for this today, so he went down to the House. There he sat all night with his hat over his eyes, plotting his murders.


"You have heard the news; haven't you?" said Mr. Bott to him, whispering in his ear.

"You have heard the news; haven't you?" said Mr. Bott, whispering in his ear.


"Finespun has resigned, and Palliser is at this moment with the Duke of St. Bungay in the Lords' library."


"They may both be at the bottom of the Lords' fishpond, for what I care," said Vavasor.

"They may both be at the bottom of the Lords' fishpond, for all I care," said Vavasor.


"That's nonsense, you know," said Bott. "Still, you know Palliser is Chancellor of the Exchequer at this moment. What a lucky fellow you are to have such a chance come to you directly you get in. As soon as he takes his seat down there, of course we shall go up behind him."

"That's nonsense, you know," said Bott. "What a lucky fellow you are to have such a chance come to you directly you get in. As soon as he takes his seat down there, of course we shall go up behind him."


"We shall have another election in a month's time," said George. "I'm safe enough," said Bott. "It never hurts a man at elections to be closely connected with the Government."


George Vavasor was in the City by times the next morning, but he found that the City did not look with favourable eyes on his four bills. The City took them up, first horizontally, and then, with a twist of its hand, perpendicularly, and looked at them with distrustful eyes. The City repeated the name, Alice Vavasor, as though it were not esteemed a good name on Change. The City suggested that as the time was so short, the holder of the bills would be wise to hold them till he could collect the amount. It was very clear that the City suspected something wrong in the transaction. The City, by one of its mouths, asserted plainly that ladies' bills never meant business. George Vavasor cursed the City, and made his calculation about murdering it. Might not a river of strychnine be turned on round the Exchange about luncheon time? Three of the bills he left at last with his own bankers for collection, and retained the fourth in his breast-pocket, intending on the morrow to descend with it into those lower depths of the money market which he had not as yet visited. Again, on the next day, he went to work and succeeded to some extent. Among those lower depths he found a capitalist who was willing to advance him two hundred pounds, keeping that fourth bill in his possession as security. The capitalist was to have forty pounds for the transaction, and George cursed him as he took his cheque. George Vavasor knew quite enough of the commercial world to enable him to understand that a man must be in a very bad condition when he consents to pay forty pounds for the use of two hundred for fourteen days. He cursed the City. He cursed the House of Commons. He cursed his cousin Alice and his sister Kate. He cursed the memory of his grandfather. And he cursed himself.

George Vavasor was in the City early the next morning, but he found that the City did not look with favourable eyes on his four bills. The City took them up distrustfully, and repeated the name Alice Vavasor, and suggested that as the time was so short, the holder of the bills would be wise to hold them till he could collect the amount. It was very clear that the City suspected something wrong in the transaction.
George Vavasor cursed the City, and made his calculation about murdering it. Might not a river of strychnine be turned on the Exchange at luncheon time? At last he left three of the bills with his own bankers for collection, and kept the fourth in his pocket. The next day he descended with it into the lower depths of the money market, and found a capitalist who was willing to advance him two hundred pounds, keeping that fourth bill as security. The capitalist was to have forty pounds for the transaction, and George cursed him as he took his cheque. He knew that a man must be in a very bad condition when he consents to pay forty pounds for the use of two hundred for fourteen days. He cursed the City. He cursed the House of Commons. He cursed his cousin Alice and his sister Kate. He cursed the memory of his grandfather. And he cursed himself.


Mr. Levy had hardly left the house in Queen Anne Street, before Alice had told her father what she had done. "The money must be forthcoming," said Alice. To this her father made no immediate reply, but turning himself in his chair away from her with a sudden start, sat looking at the fire and shaking his head. "The money must be made to be forthcoming," said Alice. "Papa, will you see that it is done?" This was very hard upon poor John Vavasor, and so he felt it to be. "Papa, if you will not promise, I must go to Mr. Round about it myself, and must find out a broker to sell out for me. You would not wish that my name should be dishonoured."

Mr. Levy had hardly left the house in Queen Anne Street, before Alice had told her father what she had done.
"The money must be forthcoming," said Alice. "Papa, will you see that it is done?" To this her father made no reply, but sat looking at the fire and shaking his head, feeling it to be very hard upon him. "Papa, if you will not promise, I must go to Mr. Round myself, and find a broker to sell out for me."


"You will be ruined," said he, "and for such a rascal as that!"


"Never mind whether he is a rascal or not, papa. You must acknowledge that he has been treated harshly by his grandfather."

"Never mind whether he is a rascal or not, papa. You must admit that he has been treated harshly by his grandfather."


"I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever did. Had he left the estate to George, there wouldn't have been an acre of it left in the family in six months' time."

"I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever did. If he had left the estate to George, there wouldn't have been an acre of it left in the family in six months' time."


"He would have raised all he could upon that, and it would have done him no good."


"At any rate, papa, he must have this two thousand pounds. You must promise me that."

"At any rate, papa, he must have this two thousand pounds."


"No; I do not think he will ask for more. At any rate, I do not think that I am bound to give him all that I have."


"I should think not. I should like to know how you can be bound to give him anything?"

"I should think not. Why are you bound to give him anything?"


"Because I promised it. I have signed the bills now, and it must be done." Still Mr. Vavasor made no promise. "Papa, if you will not say that you will do it, I must go down to Mr. Round at once."


"I don't know that I can do it. I don't know that Mr. Round can do it. Your money is chiefly on mortgage." Then there was a pause for a moment in the conversation. "Upon my word, I never heard of such a thing in my life," said Mr. Vavasor; "I never did. Four thousand pounds given away to such a man as that, in three months! Four thousand pounds! And you say you do not intend to marry him."

"I don't know that Mr. Round can do it. Your money is chiefly on mortgage." He paused for a moment. "I never heard of such a thing. Four thousand pounds given away to such a man as that, in three months! And you say you do not intend to marry him."


"You suppose so! Things of that sort are so often over with you!" This was very cruel. Perhaps she had deserved the reproach, but still it was very cruel. The blow struck her with such force that she staggered under it. Tears came into her eyes, and she could hardly speak lest she should betray herself by sobbing.

"You suppose so! Things of that sort are so often over with you!" This was very cruel. The blow struck her with such force that she staggered under it. Tears came into her eyes, and she could hardly speak lest she should betray herself by sobbing.


"I know that I have behaved badly," she said at last; "but I am punished, and you might spare me now!"


"I didn't want to punish you," he said, getting up from his chair and walking about the room. "I don't want to punish you. But, I don't want to see you ruined!"

"I didn't want to punish you," he said, getting up and walking about the room. "But I don't want to see you ruined!"