But Alice's love had been altogether of another kind,--and I am by no means sure that it was better suited for the work of this work-a-day world than that of her cousin. It was too thoughtful. I will not say that there was no poetry in it, but I will say that it lacked romance. Its poetry was too hard for romance. There was certainly in it neither fun nor wickedness; nor was there, I fear, so large a proportion of hero-worship as there always should be in a girl's heart when she gives it away. But there was in it an amount of self-devotion which none of those near to her had hitherto understood,--unless it were that one to whom the understanding of it was of the most importance. In all the troubles of her love, of her engagements, and her broken promises, she had thought more of others than of herself,--and, indeed, those troubles had chiefly come from that self-devotion. She had left John Grey because she feared that she would do him no good as his wife,--that she would not make him happy; and she had afterwards betrothed herself for a second time to her cousin, because she believed that she could serve him by marrying him. Of course she had been wrong. She had been very wrong to give up the man she did love, and more wrong again in suggesting to herself the possibility of marrying the man she did not love. She knew that she had been wrong in both, and was undergoing repentance with very bitter inward sackcloth. But she said little of all this even to her cousin.

Alice's love had been altogether of another kind - and it lacked romance. There was certainly in it neither fun nor wickedness; nor was there, I fear, so much hero-worship as there should be in a girl's heart when she gives it away. But in all the troubles of her love, she had thought more of others than of herself; and, indeed, those troubles had chiefly come from that. She had left John Grey because she feared that she would do him no good as his wife; and she had betrothed herself for a second time to her cousin, because she believed that she could help him by marrying him. Of course she had been wrong on both counts. She knew it, was undergoing bitter repentance. But she said little of all this to her cousin.


They went to Lucerne by Basle, and put up at the big hotel with the balcony over the Rhine, which Alice remembered so well. On the first evening of her arrival she found herself again looking down upon the river, as though it might have been from the same spot which she had occupied together with George and Kate. But, in truth, that house is very large, and has many bedrooms over the water. Who has ever been through Basle, and not stood in one of them, looking down upon the father of waters? Here, on this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no other alternative but to read it in his presence. "George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment, something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. "I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter went on to say, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats--three Liberals, and two Conservatives. The other two Liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day,--or rather, my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety,--on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together,--after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you;--and I know that you will pity me.

They went through Basle, and stayed at the big hotel with the balcony over the Rhine, which Alice remembered so well. On the first evening of her arrival she found herself again looking down upon the river.
Here, on one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with news about her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it, and she had no alternative but to read it in his presence.
"George has lost his election," the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. She felt a fleeting regret for the futility of the effort. But it passed away at once. "It was worth our while to try it," she said to herself, and then went on with her letter.
"I and Aunt Greenow are up in London," the letter said, "and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days, and have twice sent word to him, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any pleasant words could pass between us. He lost by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear news about him - or rather, my aunt hears and tells me - which fills me with fear about his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and has no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him; or I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am in London to see a lawyer about some steps which George is taking to upset grandpapa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest; but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled.
"Dear Alice, though so much of your money is gone, I must congratulate you on your escape. You will understand what I feel in writing this, after all that I did to bring you and him together - after all my hopes and ambitions. The money shall be repaid. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you; and I know that you will pity me.


"I am here to see the London lawyer,--but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements--greatly to his disgust. At present, she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. 'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'and, of course, there'll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,--if a sacrifice it were to be,--when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds."

"Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau; or, I should say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economies - greatly to his disgust. She holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money.
"'Of course, he'll run wild directly he's married,' she said to me, yesterday; 'but the more I tame him now, the less wild he'll be by-and-by. And though I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.' I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do; and she answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and since then we have been on the pleasantest terms about the Captain.
"They have arranged with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss. Apart from you, I have nothing left to me; and I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been trying to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped, but not without terrible wounds."


Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,--and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. "She mistakes me," Alice thought, as she put up her letter. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me."

It was undoubtedly true that if Alice had neither seen nor heard from Kate during John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But Alice protested against this truth within her own breast. She had been weak and foolish; but she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness.
"She mistakes me," Alice thought. "She is not the enemy who has wounded me."


Mr. Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of _The Times_ in his hand, opened to its full extent,--for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,--and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. "Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last.

While Alice had been reading, Mr. Palliser had almost buried himself in newspapers which held news about the elections. He was now completely hidden behind a sheet of the Times, and had not spoken a word since he had begun reading. Lady Glencora had also received letters.
"Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge," she said at last.


"Who? I! yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. "Yes; I have been returned," said Mr. Palliser. "I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate."

"What? yes; I'm returned," said Mr. Palliser, speaking with something like disdain about the possibility of anything else in his own family borough. The house of Omnium had been very great in carrying out the Reform Bill. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser.
"I'm sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate," he said.


"So I find," said Alice. "It will be a great misfortune to him."


"Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times."

"Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and money, and are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times."


"This has been the third time with him," said Alice, "and he is a poor man."


"Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out."

"Dear, dear," said Mr. Palliser, who knew nothing of such misfortunes. "I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out."


"Who is that unfortunate?" asked Lady Glencora.


"Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband.


"Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "Mr. Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;--he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now."

"Mr. Bott out!" exclaimed Lady Glencora. "I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching. I suppose he'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now."


A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath _The Times_ newspaper. "I did not know," said he, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies."

"I did not know," said Mr. Palliser stiffly, "that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies."


"Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help observing,--and disliking."

"Enemies! I don't suppose they were enemies," said Glencora. "But he was a man whom no one could help disliking."


"He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice, with great courage. "He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy."


"I hope he did nothing at Matching, to--to--to--," began Mr. Palliser, apologetically.

"I hope he did nothing at Matching, to - to -" began Mr. Palliser.


"Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser,--except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences."

"Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser - except that he had an unpleasant way of trying to make little secret confidences.


"And then he was so ugly," said Lady Glencora.


"I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief," said Alice.

I felt certain that he was trying to do mischief," said Alice.


"Of course he did," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable."

"Of course he was," said Lady Glencora; "and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the wallpaper, and leaving a mark that was quite unpardonable."


Mr. Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. "I suppose he will remain now among his own people," said Mr. Palliser.

Mr. Palliser felt himself forced to abandon his political ally. Perhaps this was easier now that Mr. Bott had lost his seat.


"Let us hope he will," said Lady Glencora,--"and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence." Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott.


It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,--the quick passage of the boats,--the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men's hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,--like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly.

It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, alongside boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the current.


"Oh, how I wish I could do that!" said Lady Glencora.


"It seems to be very dangerous," said Mr. Palliser. "I don't know how they can stop themselves."


"Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it?"

"Why should they want to stop themselves?" said Lady Glencora. "Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly!"


As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey.

She stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when George Vavasor was with her - and when she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey.


On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages; taking Schaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne, they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter.

The next day, Mr. Palliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey by slow stages via Schaffhausen and Zurich. At Lucerne, they stayed for some time in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here there came to them a visitor.


These arrangements as to the return of Mr. Palliser's party to London did not, of course, include Mr. Grey. They were generally discussed in Mr. Grey's absence, and communicated to him by Mr. Palliser. "I suppose we shall see you in England before long?" said Mr. Palliser. "I shall be able to tell you that before you go," said Grey. "Not but that in any event I shall return to England before the winter."

These arrangements for the return of Mr. Palliser's party to London did not, of course, include Mr. Grey.
"I suppose we shall see you in England before long?" said Mr. Palliser.
"I shall be able to tell you that before you go," said Grey. "In any event I shall return to England before winter."

Chapter 74: Showing What Happened in the Churchyard


"Then come to us at Matching," said Mr. Palliser. "We shall be most happy to have you. Say that you'll come for the first fortnight in December. After that we always go to the Duke, in Barsetshire. Though, by-the-by, I don't suppose we shall go anywhere this year," Mr. Palliser added, interrupting the warmth of his invitation, and reflecting that, under the present circumstances, perhaps, it might be improper to have any guests at Matching in December. But he had become very fond of Mr. Grey, and on this occasion, as he had done on some others, pressed him warmly to make an attempt at Parliament. "It isn't nearly so difficult as you think," said he, when Grey declared that he would not know where to look for a seat. "See the men that get in. There was Mr. Vavasor. Even he got a seat."

"Then come to us at Matching," said Mr. Palliser. "We shall be most happy to have you. Say that you'll come for the first fortnight in December. After that we always go to the Duke, in Barsetshire - though I don't suppose we shall go anywhere this year." Mr. Palliser reflected that, under the circumstances, it might be improper to have any guests at Matching in December. But he had become very fond of Mr. Grey, and now, as on several occasions, pressed him warmly to make an attempt at Parliament. "It isn't nearly so difficult as you think," said he. "Look at Mr. Vavasor. Even he got a seat."


"You might easily find some quiet little borough."


"Quiet little boroughs have usually got their own quiet little Members," said Grey.


"They're fond of change; and if you like to spend a thousand pounds, the thing isn't difficult. I'll put you in the way of it." But Mr. Grey still declined. He was not a man prone to be talked out of his own way of life, and the very fact that George Vavasor had been in Parliament would of itself have gone far towards preventing any attempt on his part in that direction. Alice had also wanted him to go into public life, but he had put aside her request as though the thing were quite out of the question,--never giving a moment to its consideration. Had she asked him to settle himself and her in Central Africa, his manner and mode of refusal would have been the same. It was this immobility on his part,--this absolute want of any of the weakness of indecision, which had frightened her, and driven her away from him. He was partly aware of this; but that which he had declined to do at her solicitation, he certainly would not do at the advice of any one else. So it was that he argued the matter with himself. Had he now allowed himself to be so counselled, with what terrible acknowledgements of his own faults must he not have presented himself before Alice?

"They're fond of change; and if you like to spend a thousand pounds, the thing isn't difficult. I'll put you in the way of it."
But Mr. Grey still declined. He was not a man to be talked out of his own way of life, and the very fact that George Vavasor had been in Parliament deterred him from making any attempt himself.
Alice had also wanted him to go into public life, but he had put aside her request without giving it consideration. It was this immobility on his part - this absolute lack of any of the weakness of indecision, which had frightened her, and driven her away from him. He was partly aware of this; but if he had not done it at her suggestion, he certainly would not do on the advice of anyone else. If he changed his mind, what terrible acknowledgements of his own faults must he not have made before Alice?


"I suppose books, then, will be your object in life?" said Mr. Palliser.


"I hope they will be my aids," Grey answered. "I almost doubt whether any object such as that you mean is necessary for life, or even expedient. It seems to me that if a man can so train himself that he may live honestly and die fearlessly, he has done about as much as is necessary."

"I hope they will be my aids," Grey answered. "I almost doubt whether any object is necessary for life. It seems to me that if a man can live honestly and die fearlessly, he has done about as much as is necessary."


"He has done a great deal, certainly," said Mr. Palliser, who was not ready enough to carry on the argument as he might have done had more time been given to him to consider it. He knew very well that he himself was working for others, and not for himself; and he was aware, though he had not analysed his own convictions on the matter, that good men struggle as they do in order that others, besides themselves, may live honestly, and, if possible, die fearlessly. The recluse of Nethercoats had thought much more about all this than the rising star of the House of Commons; but the philosophy of the rising star was the better philosophy of the two, though he was by far the less brilliant man. "I don't see why a man should not live honestly and be a Member of Parliament as well," continued Mr. Palliser, when he had been silent for a few minutes.

"He has done a great deal, certainly," said Mr. Palliser, who would have been ready enough to carry on the argument if he had more time. He knew that he himself was working for others, and not for himself; and he was aware that good men struggle as they do in order that others, besides themselves, may live honestly and die fearlessly. The recluse of Nethercoats had thought much more about all this than the rising star of the House of Commons; but the rising star had the better philosophy of the two, though he was a less brilliant man.
"I don't see why a man should not live honestly and be a Member of Parliament as well," continued Mr. Palliser.


"Nor I either," said Grey. "I am sure that there are such men, and that the country is under great obligation to them. But they are subject to temptations which a prudent man like myself may perhaps do well to avoid." But though he spoke with an assured tone, he was shaken, and almost regretted that he did not accept the aid which was offered to him. It is astonishing how strong a man may be to those around him,--how impregnable may be his exterior, while within he feels himself to be as weak as water, and as unstable as chaff.

"Nor I either," said Grey. "I am sure that there are such men, and that the country is under great obligation to them. But they have temptations which a prudent man may do well to avoid." But though he spoke with an assured tone, he was shaken, and almost regretted that he did not accept the aid which was offered to him.


But the object which he had now in view was a renewal of his engagement with Alice, and he felt that he must obtain an answer from her before they left Lucerne. If she still persisted in refusing to give him her hand, it would not be consistent with his dignity as a man to continue his immediate pursuit of her any longer. In such case he must leave her, and see what future time might bring forth. He believed himself to be aware that he would never offer his love to another woman; and if Alice were to remain single, he might try again, after the lapse of a year or two. But if he failed now,--then, for that year or two, he would see her no more. Having so resolved, and being averse to anything like a surprise, he asked her, as he left her one evening, whether she would walk with him on the following morning. That morning would be the morning of her last day at Lucerne; and as she assented she knew well what was to come. She said nothing to Lady Glencora on the subject, but allowed the coming prospects of the Palliser family to form the sole subject of their conversation that night, as it had done on every night since the great news had become known. They were always together for an hour every evening before Alice was allowed to go to bed, and during this hour the anxieties of the future father and mother were always discussed till Alice Vavasor was almost tired of them. But she was patient with her friend, and on this special night she was patient as ever. But when she was released and was alone, she made a great endeavour to come to some fixed resolution as to what she would do on the morrow,--some resolution which should be absolutely resolute, and from which no eloquence on the part of any one should move her. But such resolutions are not easily reached, and Alice laboured through half the night almost in vain. She knew that she loved the man. She knew that he was as true to her as the sun is true to the earth. She knew that she would be, in all respects, safe in his hands. She knew that Lady Glencora would be delighted, and her father gratified. She knew that the countesses would open their arms to her,--though I doubt whether this knowledge was in itself very persuasive. She knew that by such a marriage she would gain all that women generally look to gain when they give themselves away. But, nevertheless, as far as she could decide at all, she decided against her lover. She had no right of her own to be taken back after the evil that she had done, and she did not choose to be taken back as an object of pity and forgiveness.

What he now wished for was a renewal of his engagement with Alice, and he felt that he must obtain an answer from her before they left Lucerne. If she still persisted in refusing to give him her hand, it would not be consistent with his dignity to continue his immediate pursuit of her any longer. In that case he must leave her, and see what the future might bring. If Alice were to remain single, he might try again, after a year or two. But if he failed now, then for that year or two he would see her no more.
Having resolved this, he asked her one evening whether she would walk with him on the following morning - the morning of her last day at Lucerne. As she agreed she knew well what was to come. She said nothing to Lady Glencora about it, but that night, when she was alone, she tried to decide what she would do.
She knew that she loved the man. She knew that he was as true to her as the sun is true to the earth. She knew that she would be safe in his hands. She knew that Lady Glencora would be delighted, and her father gratified. She knew that by such a marriage she would gain all that women generally look to gain when they give themselves away.
But, nevertheless, as far as she could decide at all, she decided against her lover. She had no right to be taken back after the evil that she had done, and she did not choose to be taken back as an object of pity and forgiveness.


"Where are you going?" said her cousin, when she came in with her hat on, soon after breakfast.


"Yes, by appointment. He asked me yesterday."


"Then it's all settled, and you haven't told me!"


"All that is settled I have told you very often. He asked me yesterday to walk with him this morning, and I could not well refuse him."

He asked me yesterday to walk with him this morning, and I could not very well refuse him."


"Why should you have wished to refuse him?"


"I haven't said that I did wish it. But I hate scenes, and I think it would have been pleasanter for us to have parted without any occasion for special words."

"I think it would have been pleasanter for us to have parted without any need for special words."


"Of course he is now going to say the very thing that he has come all this way for the purpose of saying. He has been wonderfully slow about it; but then slow as he is, you are slower. If you don't make it up with him now, I really shall think you are very wicked. I am becoming like Lady Midlothian;--I can't understand it. I know you want to be his wife, and I know he wants to be your husband, and the only thing that keeps you apart is your obstinacy,--just because you have said you wouldn't have him. My belief is that if Lady Midlothian and the rest of us were to pat you on the back, and tell you how right you were, you'd ask him to take you, out of defiance. You may be sure of this, Alice; if you refuse him now, it'll be for the last time."

"Of course he is now going to say the very thing that he has come all this way for. He has been wonderfully slow about it; but you are slower. If you don't make up with him now, I really shall think you are very wicked. I can't understand it. I know you want to be his wife, and I know he wants to be your husband, and the only thing that keeps you apart is your obstinacy. You may be sure of this, Alice; if you refuse him now, it'll be for the last time."


This, and much more of the same kind, she bore before Mr. Grey came to take her, and she answered to it all as little as she could. "You are making me very unhappy, Glencora," she said once. "I wish I could break you down with unhappiness," Lady Glencora answered, "so that he might find you less stiff, and hard, and unmanageable." Directly upon that he came in, looking as though he had no business on hand more exciting than his ordinary morning's tranquil employments. Alice at once got up to start with him. "So you and Alice are going to make your adieux," said Lady Glencora. "It must be done sooner or later," said Mr. Grey; and then they went off.

"You are making me very unhappy, Glencora," she said.
"I wish I could break you down with unhappiness," Lady Glencora answered, "so that he might find you less stiff, and hard, and unmanageable." Just then he came in, looking as though he had no business on hand more exciting than his ordinary morning's tranquil employments.
"So you and Alice are going to make your adieux," said Lady Glencora.
"It must be done sooner or later," said Mr. Grey; and off they went.


Those who know Lucerne,--and almost everybody now does know Lucerne,--will remember the big hotel which has been built close to the landing-pier of the steamers, and will remember also the church that stands upon a little hill or rising ground, to the left of you, as you come out of the inn upon the lake. The church is immediately over the lake, and round the church there is a burying-ground, and skirting the burying-ground there are cloisters, through the arches and apertures of which they who walk and sit there look down immediately upon the blue water, and across the water upon the frowning menaces of Mount Pilate. It is one of the prettiest spots in that land of beauty; and its charm is to my feeling enhanced by the sepulchral monuments over which I walk, and by which I am surrounded, as I stand there. Up here, into these cloisters, Alice and John Grey went together. I doubt whether he had formed any purpose of doing so. She certainly would have gone without question in any direction that he might have led her. The distance from the inn up to the church-gate did not take them ten minutes, and when they were there their walk was over. But the place was solitary, and they were alone; and it might be as well for Mr. Grey to speak what words he had to say there as elsewhere. They had often been together in those cloisters before, but on such occasions either Mr. Palliser or Lady Glencora had been with them. On their slow passage up the hill very little was spoken, and that little was of no moment. "We will go in here for a few minutes," he said. "It is the prettiest spot about Lucerne, and we don't know when we may see it again." So they went in, and sat down on one of the embrasures that open from the cloisters over the lake.

The church by Lake Lucerne is one of the prettiest spots in that land of beauty. Up here, into the cloisters, Alice and John Grey went together.
"We will go in here for a few minutes," he said. "It is a lovely spot, and we don't know when we may see it again." The place was deserted as they went in, and sat down on one of the embrasures that open over the lake.


"Probably never again," said Alice. "And yet I have been here now two years running."


She shuddered as she remembered that in that former year George Vavasor had been with her. As she thought of it all she hated herself. Over and over again she had told herself that she had so mismanaged the latter years of her life that it was impossible for her not to hate herself. No woman had a clearer idea of feminine constancy than she had, and no woman had sinned against that idea more deeply. He gave her time to think of all this as he sat there looking down upon the water.

She shuddered as she remembered the time when George Vavasor had been with her; and she hated herself. No woman had a clearer idea of feminine constancy than she had, and no woman had sinned against that idea more deeply. He gave her time to think of all this as he sat looking down upon the water.


"And yet I would sooner live in Cambridgeshire," were the first words he spoke.

"And yet I would sooner live in Cambridgeshire," he said.


"Partly because all beauty is best enjoyed when it is sought for with some trouble and difficulty, and partly because such beauty, and the romance which is attached to it, should not make up the staple of one's life. Romance, if it is to come at all, should always come by fits and starts."

"Partly because such beauty and romance should not make up the staple of one's life. Romance, if it is to come at all, should always come by fits and starts."


"I should like to live in a pretty country."


"And would like to live a romantic life,--no doubt; but all those things lose their charm if they are made common. When a man has to go to Vienna or St. Petersburg two or three times a month, you don't suppose he enjoys travelling?"

"And would like to live a romantic life; but all those things lose their charm if they are made common. When a man has to go to Vienna or St. Petersburg two or three times a month, you don't suppose he enjoys travelling?"


"All the same, I should like to live in a pretty country," said Alice.


"And I want you to come and live in a very ugly country." Then he paused for a minute or two, not looking at her, but gazing still on the mountain opposite. She did not speak a word, but looked as he was looking. She knew that the request was coming, and had been thinking about it all night; but now that it had come she did not know how to bear herself. "I don't think," he went on to say, "that you would let that consideration stand in your way, if on other grounds you were willing to become my wife."

"And I want you to come and live in a very ugly country." Then he paused for a minute or two, not looking at her, but gazing still on the mountain opposite. "I don't think," he went on, "that you would let that stand in your way, if on other grounds you were willing to become my wife."


"Because Nethercoats is not so pretty as Lucerne."


"It would have nothing to do with it," said Alice.

"Prettiness would have nothing to do with it," said Alice.


"Nothing; nothing at all," repeated Alice.


"Will you come, then? Will you come and be my wife, and help me to be happy amidst all that ugliness? Will you come and be my one beautiful thing, my treasure, my joy, my comfort, my counsellor?"


"No man ever wanted one more. Alice, this has been a bad year to me, and I do not think that it has been a happy one for you."

"No man ever needed one more. Alice, this has been a bad year to me, and I do not think that it has been a happy one for you."


"Let us forget it,--or rather, let us treat it as though it were forgotten. Twelve months ago you were mine. You were, at any rate, so much mine that I had a right to boast of my possession among my friends."

"Let us forget it - or rather, let us treat it as though it were forgotten. Twelve months ago you were mine - enough mine, at least, that I had a right to boast of my possession among my friends."


"They did not seem to think so. I had but one or two to whom I could speak of you, but they told me that I was going to be a happy man. As to myself, I was sure that I was to be so. No man was ever better contented with his bargain than I was with mine. Let us go back to it, and the last twelve months shall be as though they had never been."

"They did not seem to think so. And no man was ever better contented with his bargain than I was with mine. Let us go back to it, and the last twelve months shall be as though they had never been."


"That cannot be, Mr. Grey. If it could, I should be worse even than I am."


"Because I cannot forgive myself what I have done, and because you ought not to forgive me."

- because I cannot forgive myself what I have done, and you ought not to forgive me."


"But I do. There has never been an hour with me in which there has been an offence of yours rankling in my bosom unforgiven. I think you have been foolish, misguided,--led away by a vain ambition, and that in the difficulty to which these things brought you, you endeavoured to constrain yourself to do an act, which, when it came near to you,--when the doing of it had to be more closely considered, you found to be contrary to your nature." Now, as he spoke thus, she turned her eyes upon him, and looked at him, wondering that he should have had power to read her heart so accurately. "I never believed that you would marry your cousin. When I was told of it, I knew that trouble had blinded you for awhile. You had driven yourself to revolt against me, and upon that your heart misgave you, and you said to yourself that it did not matter then how you might throw away all your sweetness. You see that I speak of your old love for me with the frank conceit of a happy lover."

"But I do. I think you have been foolish, misguided - led away by a vain ambition, and that in your difficulty, you tried to force yourself to do something which you then found to be contrary to your nature." As he spoke, she turned her eyes upon him, wondering that he should have read her heart so accurately. "I never believed that you would marry your cousin. When I was told of it, I knew that trouble had blinded you for a while. You had driven yourself to revolt against me, and your heart misgave you, and you said to yourself that it did not matter then how you might throw away all your sweetness.


"But the storm passes over the tree and does not tear it up by the roots or spoil it of all its symmetry. When we hear the winds blowing, and see how the poor thing is shaken, we think that its days are numbered and its destruction at hand. Alice, when the winds were shaking you, and you were torn and buffeted, I never thought so. There may be some who will forgive you slowly. Your own self-forgiveness will be slow. But I, who have known you better than any one,--yes, better than any one,--I have forgiven you everything, have forgiven you instantly. Come to me, Alice, and comfort me. Come to me, for I want you sorely." She sat quite still, looking at the lake and the mountain beyond, but she said nothing. What could she say to him? "My need of you is much greater now," he went on to say, "than when I first asked you to share the world with me. Then I could have borne to lose you, as I had never boasted to myself that you were my own,--had never pictured to myself the life that might be mine if you were always to be with me. But since that day I have had no other hope,--no other hope but this for which I plead now. Am I to plead in vain?"

"But the storm passes over the tree and does not tear it up by the roots. Alice, when the winds were shaking you, and you were torn and buffeted, I never thought your destruction was at hand. There may be some who will forgive you slowly. Your own self-forgiveness will be slow. But I, who have known you better than any one, I have forgiven you everything, have forgiven you instantly. Come to me, Alice, and comfort me. Come to me, for I want you sorely."
She sat quite still, looking at the lake and the mountain beyond, but she said nothing. What could she say to him?
"My need of you is much greater now," he went on to say, "than when I first asked you. Then I could have borne to lose you, as I had never pictured to myself the life that might be mine if you were with me. But since that day I have had no other hope but this. Am I to plead in vain?"


"You do not know me," she said; "how vile I have been! You do not think what it is,--for a woman to have promised herself to one man while she loved another."

"You do not know me," she said; "how vile I have been! You do not think what it is, for a woman to have promised herself to one man while she loved another."


"But it was me you loved. Ah! Alice, I can forgive that. Do I not tell you that I did forgive it the moment that I heard it? Do you not hear me say that I never for a moment thought that you would marry him? Alice, you should scold me for my vanity, for I have believed all through that you loved me, and me only. Come to me, dear, and tell me that it is so, and the past shall be only as a dream."

"But it was me you loved. I can forgive that. Alice, you should scold me for my vanity, for I have believed all through that you loved me. Come to me, dear, and tell me that it is so, and the past shall be only as a dream."


"They will cease to be bitter dreams if your head be upon my shoulder. You will cease to reproach yourself when you know that you have made me happy."


"I shall never cease to reproach myself. I have done that which no woman can do and honour herself afterwards. I have been--a jilt."

"I shall never cease to reproach myself. I have done that which no woman can do and honour herself afterwards. I have been - a jilt."


"The noblest jilt that ever yet halted between two minds! There has been no touch of selfishness in your fickleness. I think I could be hard enough upon a woman who had left me for greater wealth, for a higher rank,--who had left me even that she might be gay and merry. It has not been so with you."

"The noblest jilt that ever yet halted between two minds! There has been no touch of selfishness in your fickleness. I think I could be hard enough upon a woman who had left me for greater wealth, or higher rank. It has not been so with you."


"Yes, it has. I thought you were too firm in your own will, and--"

"Yes, it has. I thought you were too firm in your own will, and-"


"It does not matter what I think now. I am a fallen creature, and have no longer a right to such thoughts. It will be better for us both that you should leave me,--and forget me. There are things which, if a woman does them, should never be forgotten;--which she should never permit herself to forget."

"It does not matter what I think now. I no longer have a right to such thoughts. It will be better for us both that you should leave me - and forget me. There are things which, if a woman does them, she should never permit herself to forget."


"And am I to be punished, then, because of your fault? Is that your sense of justice?" He got up, and standing before her, looked down upon her. "Alice, if you will tell me that you do not love me, I will believe you, and will trouble you no more. I know that you will say nothing to me that is false. Through it all you have spoken no word of falsehood. If you love me, after what has passed, I have a right to demand your hand. My happiness requires it, and I have a right to expect your compliance. I do demand it. If you love me, Alice, I tell you that you dare not refuse me. If you do so, you will fail hereafter to reconcile it to your conscience before God."

"And am I to be punished, then, because of your fault? Is that your sense of justice?" He stood and looked down upon her. "Alice, if you tell me that you do not love me, I will believe you, and will trouble you no more. I know that you will say nothing that is false. But if you love me, I have a right to demand your hand. My happiness requires it, and I have a right to expect your compliance. I do demand it. If you love me, Alice, I tell you that you dare not refuse me. If you do so, you will fail hereafter to reconcile it to your conscience before God."


Then he stopped his speech, and waited for a reply; but Alice sat silent beneath his gaze, with her eyes turned upon the tombstones beneath her feet. Of course she had no choice but to yield. He, possessed of power and force infinitely greater than hers, had left her no alternative but to be happy. But there still clung to her what I fear we must call a perverseness of obstinacy, a desire to maintain the resolution she had made,--a wish that she might be allowed to undergo the punishment she had deserved. She was as a prisoner who would fain cling to his prison after pardon has reached him, because he is conscious that the pardon is undeserved. And it may be that there was still left within her bosom some remnant of that feeling of rebellion which his masterful spirit had ever produced in her. He was so imperious in his tranquillity, he argued his question of love with such a manifest preponderance of right on his side, that she had always felt that to yield to him would be to confess the omnipotence of his power. She knew now that she must yield to him,--that his power over her was omnipotent. She was pressed by him as in some countries the prisoner is pressed by the judge,--so pressed that she acknowledged to herself silently that any further antagonism to him was impossible. Nevertheless, the word which she had to speak still remained unspoken, and he stood over her, waiting for her answer. Then slowly he sat down beside her, and gradually he put his arm round her waist. She shrank from him, back against the stonework of the embrasure, but she could not shrink away from his grasp. She put up her hand to impede his, but his hand, like his character and his words, was full of power. It would not be impeded. "Alice," he said, as he pressed her close with his arm, "the battle is over now, and I have won it."

Then he waited; but Alice sat silent, with her eyes turned upon the tombstones. Of course she had no choice but to yield. He had left her no alternative but to be happy. But there still clung to her what I fear we must call a perverseness of obstinacy, a desire to keep the resolution she had made - to undergo the punishment she had deserved. She was as a prisoner who would fain cling to his prison after pardon has reached him, because he is conscious that the pardon is undeserved.
And it may be that she still felt some remnant of the rebellion which his masterful spirit had always produced in her. He was so imperious in his tranquillity - he argued with such a manifest weight of right on his side, that she had always felt that to yield to him would be to confess the omnipotence of his power. She knew now that she must yield to him.
Nevertheless, the word which she had to speak still remained unspoken, and he stood waiting for her answer. Then slowly he sat down beside her, and gradually he put his arm round her waist. She shrank from him, against the stonework, but she could not shrink away from his grasp. She put up her hand to impede his, but his hand, like his character and his words, would not be impeded.
"Alice," he said, as he pressed her close with his arm, "the battle is over now, and I have won it."


"You win everything,--always," she said, whispering to him, as she still shrank from his embrace.

"You win everything - always," she said, whispering to him, as she still shrank from his embrace.


"In winning you I have won everything." Then he put his face over her and pressed his lips to hers. I wonder whether he was made happier when he knew that no other touch had profaned those lips since last he had pressed them?

"In winning you I have won everything." Then he pressed his lips to hers.


The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr. Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs. Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o'clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead.

The next day was Sunday. Mrs. Greenow had warned Mr. Cheesacre that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might give them too much of his society. In the morning the aunt and niece went to the Cathedral, and at three o'clock they dined.
But today they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs had been asked to join them; and so that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs. Greenow had, with her usual good-nature, invited Captain Bellfield. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr. Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he joked prettily about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead.


"He is the most generous man I ever met," said Mrs. Greenow.


"So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a great pity he shouldn't get himself a wife."

"So he is," said Captain Bellfield, "and we'll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It's a pity he shouldn't get himself a wife."


"I don't know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy," said Mrs. Greenow.


"No, indeed," said Miss Fairstairs. "I'm told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful."


"Especially the straw-yard and the horse-pond," said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend.


It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,--in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,--"Poor man," as Mrs. Greenow said in her little explanation, "if I hadn't let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!" Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs. Greenow's drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone;--that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, and Mr. Cheesacre's cream was used with liberality.

The ladies were to go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would accompany them; but when it was time to set out, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not. She stayed behind - as she afterwards explained to Kate - so as not to turn Captain Bellfield out of the house.
However, when the young ladies returned from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, "looking back," she said, "to things that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy." So they had tea, with Mr. Cheesacre's cream.


Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. "I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings."

Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip. After the younger ladies had gone, he said little, but sat with a wine-glass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter.
"I'm afraid the wine is not very good," said Mrs. Greenow. "But one can't get good wine in lodgings."


"I'm not thinking very much about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain. "I daresay the wine is very good of its kind." Then there was another period of silence between them.

"I'm not thinking about it, Mrs. Greenow; that's the truth," said the Captain.


"I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don't you?" asked the Captain.

"I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings?"


"I don't know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can't find her life very gay. It's not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do."

"A woman in my circumstances can't find her life very gay, Captain Bellfield. It's not yet a full year yet since I lost all that made life happy."


"It's wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs. Greenow."


"That's what my dear Kate always says to me, and I'm sure I do my best to overcome it." Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield."

"That's what my dear Kate says, and I do my best to overcome it." Upon this, soft tears trickled down her cheek. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and smiled faintly. "I didn't intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield."


"There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears."

"There is nothing on earth, Mrs. Greenow, that I desire so much as permission to dry those tears."


"Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;--time alone."

"Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield."


"But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?"


"By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?"

"By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without friendship?"


"And how much better is the warm glow of love?" Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow's side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him.

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


"How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time.

"How much better is the warm glow of love?" he said again.


"The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it--"

"The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it-"


"If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs. Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong."


"Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?"


"Yes; often;--in various scenes of life; on the field of battle--"


"I did not know that you had seen active service."


"What!--not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;--never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!"

"What! - not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty men I kept five hundred Kaffirs at bay - and never knew the comfort of a bed for seven long weeks!


"Not for seven weeks?" said Mrs. Greenow.


"No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!"

And did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I captured a slaver with my own hand and my own sword!"


"I really hadn't heard," said Mrs. Greenow.


"Ah, I understand. I know. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. I know who has belittled me. Who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain, thinking in the heat of the moment that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

"Ah, I understand. Cheesy is the best fellow in the world in some respects, but he cannot bring himself to speak well of a fellow behind his back. Yet who was the first to storm the heights of Inkerman?" demanded the Captain.


"But when you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind."

"When you spoke of yearnings, I thought you meant yearnings of a softer kind."


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

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


"But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up now; the girl will come in."

"But, Captain Bellfield, I don't want any services. Pray get up; the girl will come in."


"I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till some answer shall have been made to me; till some word shall have been said that may give me a little hope." Then he attempted to get hold of her hand, but she put them behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?"

"I care nothing for any girl. I am planted here till you give me a little hope." Then he attempted to take her hand, but she put her hands behind her back and shook her head. "Arabella," he said, "will you not speak a word to me?"


"Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, than whom no man was more respected where he was known, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way."

"Not a word, Captain Bellfield, till you get up; and I won't have you call me Arabella. I am the widow of Samuel Greenow, and it is not fitting that I should be addressed in that way."


"But I want you to become my wife,--and then--"

"But I want you to become my wife - and then-"


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

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


There was that in the widow's voice which made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet. "You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. Then in one minute she had restored the scattered furniture to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time that the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if a cup should be set for him. This he declined, and bade her farewell while Jeannette was still in the room. She shook hands with him without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long.

Something in the widow's voice made him get up, and he rose slowly to his feet.
"You've pushed all the chairs about, you stupid man," she said. In one minute she had restored them to their proper places, and had rung the bell. When Jeannette came she desired that tea might be ready by the time the young ladies returned, and asked Captain Bellfield if he would stay for a cup.
He declined, and said farewell. She shook hands without any sign of anger, and even expressed a hope that they might see him again before long.


"He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as the hero of the Kitchyhomy River descended the stairs.

"He's a very handsome man, is the Captain," said Jeannette, as he descended the stairs.


"You shouldn't think about handsome men, child," said Mrs. Greenow.


"And I'm sure I don't," said Jeannette. "Not no more than anybody else; but if a man is handsome, ma'am, why it stands to reason that he is handsome."


"I suppose Captain Bellfield has given you a kiss and a pair of gloves."


"As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain; as we all know; don't we, ma'am? But in regard to kisses, they're presents as I never takes from anybody. Let everybody pay his debts. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her."

"As for gloves and such like, Mr. Cheesacre is much better for giving than the Captain. But kisses is presents as I never takes from anybody. If the Captain ever gets a wife, let him kiss her."


On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre as usual called in the Close, but he brought with him no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and laurestinus flowers, and sent up a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow--on particular business.

On the following Tuesday morning Mr. Cheesacre called as usual in the Close, but brought no basket. He merely left a winter nosegay made of green leaves and viburnum flowers, and sent a message to say that he should call at half past three, and hoped that he might then be able to see Mrs. Greenow on particular business.


"That means you, Kate," said Mrs. Greenow.


"No, it doesn't; it doesn't mean me at all. At any rate he won't see me."


"I dare say it's me he wishes to see. It seems to be the fashionable plan now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know."

"It seems to be the fashion now for gentlemen to make offers by deputy. If he says anything, I can only refer him to you, you know."


"Yes, you can; you can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is no more thinking of me than--"

"You can tell him simply that I won't have him. But he is not thinking of me."


"Than he is of me, you were going to say."


"No, aunt; I wasn't going to say that at all."


"Well, we shall see. If he does mean anything, of course you can please yourself; but I really think you might do worse."


"Very well; you must have your own way. I can only tell you what I think."


At half past three o'clock punctually Mr. Cheesacre came to the door, and was shown up-stairs. He was told by Jeannette that Captain Bellfield had looked in on the Sunday afternoon, but that Miss Fairstairs and Miss Vavasor had been there the whole time. He had not got on his black boots nor yet had his round topped hat. And as he did wear a new frock coat, and had his left hand thrust into a kid glove, Jeannette was quite sure that he intended business of some kind. With new boots, creaking loudly, he walked up into the drawing-room, and there he found the widow alone.

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


"Thanks for the flowers," she said at once. "It was so good of you to bring something that we could accept."


"As for that," said he, "I don't see why you should scruple about a trifle of cream, but I hope that any such feeling as that will be over before long." To this the widow made no answer, but she looked very sweetly on him as she bade him sit down.


He did sit down; but first he put his hat and stick carefully away in one corner, and then he pulled off his glove--somewhat laboriously, for his hand was warm. He was clearly prepared for great things. As he pushed up his hair with his hands there came from his locks an ambrosial perfume,--as of marrow-oil, and there was a fixed propriety of position of every hair of his whiskers, which indicated very plainly that he had been at a hairdresser's shop since he left the market. Nor do I believe that he had worn that coat when he came to the door earlier in the morning. If I were to say that he had called at his tailor's also, I do not think that I should be wrong.

First he put his hat and stick carefully in a corner, and laboriously pulled off his gloves. There came from his hair an ambrosial perfume - as of bone-marrow oil - and the fixed position of his whiskers indicated that he had recently been at a hairdresser's.


"How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest wanted some little assistance in leading off the conversation.

"How goes everything at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow, seeing that her guest needed some assistance in starting the conversation.


"Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow; pretty well. Everything will go very well if I am successful in the object which I have on hand to-day."

"Pretty well, Mrs. Greenow. Everything will go very well if I am successful in my object today."


"I'm sure I hope you'll be successful in all your undertakings."


"In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. There isn't a shilling due on my land to e'er a bank in Norwich; and I haven't thrashed out a quarter of last year's corn yet, which is more than many of them can say. But there ain't many of them who don't have to pay rent, and so perhaps I oughtn't to boast."

"In all my business undertakings I am, Mrs. Greenow. I don't owe a shilling to any bank in Norwich."


"I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre, as regards worldly matters."

"I know that Providence has been very good to you, Mr. Cheesacre."


"And I haven't left it all to Providence, either. Those who do, generally go to the wall, as far as I can see. I'm always at work late and early, and I know when I get a profit out of a man's labour and when I don't, as well as though it was my only chance of bread and cheese."

"I haven't left it all to Providence, either. I'm always at work, late and early.


"I always thought you understood farming business, Mr. Cheesacre."


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

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


"But he has fought his country's battles, Mr. Cheesacre."


"He fight! I suppose he's been telling you some of his old stories. He was ten years in the West Indies, and all his fighting was with the mosquitoes."


"But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance--"

"But he was in the Crimea. At Inkerman, for instance-"


"He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But do you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead."

"He in the Crimea! Well, never mind. But you inquire before you believe that story. But as I was saying, Mrs. Greenow, you have seen my little place at Oileymead."


"A charming house. All you want is a mistress for it."


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

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


[Illustration: "Arabella Greenow, will you be that woman?"]


"Yes, you. Who else? Since I saw you what other woman has been anything to me; or, indeed, I may say before? Since the first day I saw you I felt that there my happiness depended."

"Yes, you. Who else? Since the first day I saw you I felt that my happiness depended on you."


"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre, I thought you were looking elsewhere."


"No, no, no. There never was such a mistake as that. I have the highest regard and esteem for Miss Vavasor, but really--"

"No, no, no. I have the highest regard for Miss Vavasor, but really-"


"Mr. Cheesacre, what am I to say to you?"


"What are you to say to me? Say that you'll be mine. Say that I shall be yours. Say that all I have at Oileymead shall be yours. Say that the open carriage for a pair of ponies to be driven by a lady which I have been looking at this morning shall be yours. Yes, indeed; the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life,--just like one that the lady of the Lord Lieutenant drives about in always. That's what you must say. Come, Mrs. Greenow!"

"Say that you'll be mine. Come, Mrs. Greenow!"


"Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly yet twelve months."

"Ah, Mr. Cheesacre, you don't know what it is to have buried the pride of your youth hardly twelve months."


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

"But you have buried him, and sitting here all alone won't bring him back. I'm sorry, indeed. But what more can I do?"


"I can do more, Mr. Cheesacre. I can mourn for him in solitude and in silence."

"I can mourn for him in solitude and silence, Mr. Cheesacre."


"No, no, no. What's the use of it,--breaking your heart for nothing,--and my heart too. You never think of that." And Mr. Cheesacre spoke in a tone that was full of reproach.

"No, no, no. What's the use of breaking your heart for nothing - and my heart too." Mr. Cheesacre spoke reproachfully.


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

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


"Show Captain Bellfield up, certainly," said Mrs. Greenow.


"D---- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre.

"D-- Captain Bellfield!" said Mr. Cheesacre.


Mr. Grey and wife were duly carried away from Matching Priory by post horses, and did their honeymoon, we may be quite sure, with much satisfaction. When Alice was first asked where she would go, she simply suggested that it should not be to Switzerland. They did, in truth, go by slow stages to Italy, to Venice, Florence, and on to Rome; but such had not been their intention when they first started on their journey. At that time Mr. Grey believed that he would be wanted again in England, down at Silverbridge in Barsetshire, very shortly. But before he had married a week he learned that all that was to be postponed. The cup of fruition had not yet reached Mr. Palliser's lips. "There will be no vacancy either in the county or in the borough till Parliament meets." That had been the message sent by Mr. Palliser to Mr. Grey. Lady Glencora's message to Alice had been rather more full, having occupied three pages of note paper, the last of which had been crossed, but I do not know that it was more explicit. She had abused Lord Brock, had abused Mr. Finespun, and had abused all public things and institutions, because the arrangements as now proposed would be very comfortable to Alice, but would not, as she was pleased to think, be very comfortable to herself. "You can go to Rome and see everything and enjoy yourself, which I was not allowed to do; and all this noise and bother, and crowd of electioneering, will take place down in Barsetshire just when I am in the middle of all my trouble." There were many very long letters came from Lady Glencora to Rome during the winter,--letters which Alice enjoyed thoroughly, but which she could not but regard as being very indiscreet. The Duke was at the Castle during the Christmas week, and the descriptions of the Duke and of his solicitude as to his heir were very comic. "He comes and bends over me on the sofa in the most stupendous way, as though a woman to be the mother of his heir must be a miracle in nature. He is quite awful when he says a word or two, and more awful in his silence. The devil prompted me the other day, and I said I hoped it would be a girl. There was a look came over his face which nearly frightened me. If it should be, I believe he will turn me out of the house; but how can I help it? I wish you were going to have a baby at the same time. Then, if yours was a boy and mine a girl, we'd make a change." This was very indiscreet. Lady Glencora would write indiscreet letters like this, which Alice could not show to her husband. It was a thousand pities.

Mr. Grey and wife were duly carried away from Matching Priory for their honeymoon. When Alice was first asked where she wished to go, she simply suggested that it should not be to Switzerland. They travelled slowly through Italy to Rome, although that had not been their original intention, because Mr. Grey believed that he would be wanted in England, down at Silverbridge, very shortly. But he soon learned that things were to be postponed.
"There will be no vacancy till Parliament meets." That had been the message sent to him by Mr. Palliser. Lady Glencora's message to Alice had been rather longer, covering three pages; she had abused Lord Brock, had abused Mr. Finespun, and had abused all public things, because the arrangements now proposed would not be very comfortable to herself.
"You can go to Rome and see everything and enjoy yourself, which I was not allowed to do; and all this bother of electioneering will take place just when I am in the middle of all my trouble."
Many very long letters came from Lady Glencora to Rome during the winter - letters which Alice enjoyed thoroughly, but which were very indiscreet. The Duke was at the Castle for Christmas, and Glencora's descriptions of him were very comic.
"He comes and bends over me on the sofa in the most stupendous way, as though a woman who may the mother of his heir must be a miracle. The other day the devil prompted to say that I hoped it would be a girl. The look on his face nearly frightened me. If it is a girl, I believe he will turn me out of the house; but how can I help it? I wish you were going to have a baby at the same time. Then, if yours was a boy and mine a girl, we'd exchange." This was very indiscreet, and it was a pity Alice could not show it to her husband.

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


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

But December and January wore themselves away, and the time came for the Greys to return to England. The husband had discussed his parliamentary ambition with his wife, and found her a very ready listener. Having made up his mind to do this, he was resolved to do it thoroughly, and was becoming almost as full of politics as Mr. Palliser himself.
Then, when they reached London, they heard the news from Mr. Vavasor, who met them at the railway.
"The Duke has got an heir," he said, before the carriage-door was open; "born this morning!" One might have supposed that it was the Duke's baby, and not Lady Glencora's and Mr. Palliser's.
There was a note from Mr. Palliser to Mr. Grey. "Thank God!" it said, "Lady Glencora and the boy are quite as well as can be expected. Both the new writs were moved for last night." Mr. Palliser's honours came rushing upon him all at once.


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

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


And now we will pay a little visit to the small one born in the purple, and the story of that visit shall be the end of our history. It was early in April, quite early in April, and Mr. and Mrs. Grey were both at Gatherum Castle. Mrs. Grey was there at the moment of which we write, but Mr. Grey was absent at Silverbridge with Mr. Palliser. This was the day of the Silverbridge election, and Mr. Grey had gone to that ancient borough, to offer himself as a candidate to the electors, backed by the presence and aid of a very powerful member of the Cabinet. Lady Glencora and Alice were sitting up-stairs with the small, purple-born one in their presence, and the small, purple-born one was lying in Alice's lap.

And now we will pay a little visit to the small one, to end our history. It was early in April, when Mrs. Grey was at Gatherum Castle, but Mr. Grey was absent at Silverbridge with Mr. Palliser. This was the day of the Silverbridge election. Lady Glencora and Alice were sitting upstairs with the small, noble-born one lying in Alice's lap.


"It is such a comfort that it is over," said the mother.


"Oh, Alice,--if you could have known! Your baby may come just as it pleases. You won't lie awake trembling how on earth you will bear your disgrace if one of the vile weaker sex should come to disturb the hopes of your lords and masters;--for I had two, which made it so much more terrible."

"Oh, Alice! Your baby may come just as it pleases. You won't lie awake trembling how on earth you will bear your disgrace if it should be a girl."


"I'm sure Mr. Palliser would not have said a word."


"No, he would have said nothing,--nor would the Duke. The Duke would simply have gone away instantly, and never have seen me again till the next chance comes,--if it ever does come. And Mr. Palliser would have been as gentle as a dove;--much more gentle than he is now, for men are rarely gentle in their triumph. But I should have known what they both thought and felt."

"No, he would have said nothing, nor would the Duke. The Duke would simply have gone away instantly, and never have seen me again till the next chance comes - if it ever does come. And Mr. Palliser would have been as gentle as a dove. But I should have known what they both thought and felt."


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

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


[Illustration: "Yes, my bonny boy,--you have made it all right for me."]


In the course of that afternoon Lady Glencora took Alice all over the house. It was a castle of enormous size, quite new,--having been built by the present proprietor,--very cold, very handsome, and very dull. "What an immense place!" said Alice, as she stood looking round her in the grand hall, which was never used as an entrance except on very grand occasions. "Is it not? And it cost--oh, I can't tell you how much it cost. A hundred thousand pounds or more. Well;--that would be nothing, as the Duke no doubt had the money in his pocket to do what he liked with at the time. But the joke is, nobody ever thinks of living here. Who'd live in such a great, overgrown place such as this, if they could get a comfortable house like Matching? Do you remember Longroyston and the hot-water pipes? I always think of the poor Duchess when I come through here. Nobody ever lives here, or ever will. The Duke comes for one week in the year, and Plantagenet says he hates to do that. As for me, nothing on earth shall ever make me live here. I was completely in their power and couldn't help their bringing me here the other day;--because I had, as it were, disgraced myself."

That afternoon Lady Glencora took Alice all over the house. It was a castle of enormous size, quite new, very cold, very handsome, and very dull.
"What an immense place!" said Alice, as she stood looking round her in the grand hall.
"Is it not? And it cost a hundred thousand pounds or more. Well, that would be nothing to the Duke. But the joke is, nobody ever thinks of living here. Who'd live in such a great, overgrown place such as this, if they could get a comfortable house like Matching? The Duke comes for one week in the year, and Plantagenet says he hates to do that. As for me, nothing on earth shall ever make me live here. I couldn't help their bringing me here;


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

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


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

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


"I hope you'll like it," he said to Grey.


"I shall never like it as you do," Grey answered.


"In the first place, I have not begun it so young."


"Any time before thirty-five is young enough."


"For useful work, yes,--but hardly for enjoyment in the thing. And then I don't believe it all as you do. To you the British House of Commons is everything."

"For useful work, yes - but hardly for enjoyment in the thing. And then I don't believe it all as you do. To you the British House of Commons is everything."


"Yes;--everything," said Mr. Palliser with unwonted enthusiasm;--"everything, everything. That and the Constitution are everything."

"Yes; everything," said Mr. Palliser with unusual enthusiasm; "everything, everything. That and the Constitution are everything."


"Ah, but it will be. If you really take to the work, and put yourself into harness, it will be so. You'll get to feel it as I do. The man who is counted by his colleagues as number one on the Treasury Bench in the English House of Commons, is the first of living men. That's my opinion. I don't know that I ever said it before; but that's my opinion."

"Ah, but it will be. If you really take to the work, you'll get to feel it as I do. The man who is number one on the Treasury Bench in the English House of Commons, is the first of living men. That's my opinion. I don't know that I ever said it before; but that's my opinion."


"And who is the second;--the purse-bearer to this great man?"

"And who is the second; the purse-bearer to this great man?"


"I say nothing about the second. I don't know that there is any second. I wonder how we shall find Lady Glencora and the boy." They had then arrived at the side entrance to the Castle, and Mr. Grey ran up-stairs to his wife's room to receive her congratulations.

"I don't know that there is any second. I wonder how we shall find Lady Glencora and the boy." They had arrived at the Castle, and Mr. Grey ran upstairs to his wife's room to receive her congratulations.


"And you are a Member of Parliament?" she asked.


"They tell me so, but I don't know whether I actually am one till I've taken the oaths."


"I am so happy. There's no position in the world so glorious!"


"It's a pity you are not Mr. Palliser's wife. That's just what he has been saying."


"Oh, John, I am so happy. It is so much more than I have deserved. I hope,--that is, I sometimes think--"

"Oh, John, I am so happy. It is so much more than I have deserved. I hope - that is, I sometimes think-"


"I hope nothing that I have ever said has driven you to it."


"I'd do more than that, dear, to make you happy," he said, as he put his arm round her and kissed her; "more than that, at least if it were in my power."

"I'd do more than that, dear, to make you happy," he said, as he put his arm round her and kissed her.


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

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