"It is, oh, Mrs. Greenow. But it is time that we should go back to them." They had been sitting all this time on a bank, under a hedge. "We will have our tea, and you shall have your pipe and brandy-and-water, and Charlie shall bring it to you. Shall she, Mr. Cheesacre?"

"But it is time that we should go back to them. We will have our tea, and you shall have your pipe and brandy-and-water, and Charlie shall bring it to you. Shall she, Mr. Cheesacre?"


"Do you ask her, and she'll like it it quick enough. But remember, Mr. Cheesacre, I'm quite serious in what I say about your having a mistress for your house. Only think what an age you'll be when your children grow up, if you don't marry soon now."

"But remember, Mr. Cheesacre, I'm quite serious in what I say about your having a mistress for your house. Only think what an age you'll be when your children grow up, if you don't marry soon."


They returned to the field in which they had dined, and found Charlie under the trees, with her muslin looking very fresh. "What, all a-mort?" said Mrs. Greenow. Charlie did not quite understand this, but replied that she preferred being alone. "I have told him that you should fill his pipe for him," said Mrs. Greenow. "He doesn't care for ladies to fill his pipe for him," said Charlie. "Do you try," said the widow, "while I go indoors and order the tea."

They returned to the field in which they had dined, and found Charlie under the trees, with her muslin looking very fresh.
"I have told him that you should fill his pipe for him," said Mrs. Greenow.
"He doesn't care for ladies to fill his pipe for him," said Charlie.
"Try," said the widow, "while I go indoors and order the tea."


It had been necessary to put the bait very close before Cheesacre's eyes, or there would have been no hope that he might take it. The bait had been put so very close that we must feel sure that he saw the hook. But there are fish so silly that they will take the bait although they know the hook is there. Cheesacre understood it all. Many things he could not see, but he could see that Mrs. Greenow was trying to catch him as a husband for Charlie Fairstairs; and he knew also that he had always despised Charlie, and that no worldly advantage whatever would accrue to him by a marriage with such a girl. But there she was, and he didn't quite know how to avoid it. She did look rather nice in her clear-starched muslin frock, and he felt that he should like to kiss her. He needn't marry her because he kissed her. The champagne which had created the desire also gave him the audacity. He gave one glance around him to see that he was not observed, and then he did kiss Charlie Fairstairs under the trees. "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie. "Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," echoed a laughing voice; and poor Cheesacre, looking round, saw that Mrs. Greenow, who ought to have been inside the house looking after the boiling water, was moving about for some unknown reason within sight of the spot which he had chosen for his dalliance.

It had been necessary to put the bait very close before Cheesacre's eyes, or there would have been no hope that he might take it. The bait had been put so very close that we must feel sure that he saw the hook. But there are fish so silly that they will take the bait although they know the hook is there. Cheesacre understood it all. He could see that Mrs. Greenow was trying to catch him as a husband for Charlie Fairstairs; and he knew also that he had always despised Charlie, and that no worldly advantage whatever would accrue to him by a marriage with such a girl.
But there she was, and he didn't quite know how to avoid it. She did look rather nice in her muslin frock, and he felt that he should like to kiss her. He needn't marry her because he kissed her. The champagne which had created the desire also gave him the audacity. He gave one glance around him to see that he was not observed, and then he did kiss Charlie Fairstairs under the trees.
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie.
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre," echoed a laughing voice; and poor Cheesacre, looking round, saw that Mrs. Greenow, who ought to have been inside the house looking after the boiling water, was for some reason quite close by.


"Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie sobbing, "how dare you do that?--and where all the world could see you?"

"Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie sobbing, "how dare you do that? - where all the world could see you?"


"It was only Mrs. Greenow," said Cheesacre.


"Lord bless you--she won't think anything about it."

"Lord bless you - she won't think anything about it."


"But I do;--I think a great deal about it. I don't know what to do, I don't;--I don't." Whereupon Charlie got up from her seat under the trees and began to move away slowly. Cheesacre thought about it for a moment or two. Should he follow her or should he not? He knew that he had better not follow her. He knew that she was bait with a very visible hook. He knew that he was a big fish for whom these two women were angling. But after all, perhaps it wouldn't do him much harm to be caught. So he got up and followed her. I don't suppose she meant to take the way towards the woods,--towards the little path leading to the old summer-house up in the trees. She was too much beside herself to know where she was going, no doubt. But that was the path she did take, and before long she and Cheesacre were in the summerhouse together. "Don't, Sam, don't! Somebody really will be coming. Well, then, there. Now I won't do it again." 'Twas thus she spoke when the last kiss was given on this occasion;--unless there may have been one or two later in the evening, to which it is not necessary more especially to allude here. But on the occasion of that last kiss in the summer-house Miss Fairstairs was perfectly justified by circumstances, for she was then the promised bride of Mr. Cheesacre.

"But I do; I think a great deal about it. I don't know what to do." Whereupon Charlie got up from her seat under the trees and began to move away slowly.
Cheesacre thought about it for a moment or two. Should he follow her or should he not? He knew that he had better not follow her. He knew that she was bait with a very visible hook. But after all, perhaps it wouldn't do him much harm to be caught.
So he got up and followed her. I don't suppose she meant to take the way towards the woods and the old summer-house: she was too much beside herself to know where she was going, no doubt. But that was the path she did take, and before long she and Cheesacre were in the summerhouse together.
"Don't, Sam, don't! Somebody really will be coming. Well, then, there. Now I won't do it again." 'Twas thus she spoke when the last kiss was given; unless there may have been one or two later in the evening, to which it is not necessary to allude here. But by the time of that last kiss in the summer-house Miss Fairstairs was the promised bride of Mr. Cheesacre.


But how was he to get down again among his friends? That consideration troubled Mr. Cheesacre as he rose from his happy seat after that last embrace. He had promised Charlie, and perhaps he would keep his promise, but it might be as well not to make it all too public at once. But Charlie wasn't going to be thrown over;--not if she knew it, as she said to herself. She returned therefore triumphantly among them all,--blushing indeed, and with her eyes turned away, and her hand now remained upon her lover's arm;--but still so close to him that there could be no mistake. "Goodness, gracious, Charlie! where have you and Mr. Cheesacre been?" said Mrs. Greenow. "We got up into the woods and lost ourselves," said Charlie. "Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Greenow.

However, Mr. Cheesacre was troubled as he rose from his happy seat after that last embrace. How would he tell his friends? He had promised Charlie, and perhaps he would keep his promise, but it might be as well not to make it all too public at once.
But Charlie wasn't going to be thrown over. She returned therefore triumphantly among them all, blushing indeed, and with her hand upon her lover's arm; but so close to him that there could be no mistake.
"Goodness, gracious, Charlie! where have you and Mr. Cheesacre been?" said Mrs. Greenow.
"We got up into the woods and lost ourselves," said Charlie.


It would be too long to tell now, in these last pages of our story, how Cheesacre strove to escape, and with what skill Mrs. Greenow kept him to his bargain. I hope that Charlie Fairstairs was duly grateful. Before that evening was over, under the comfortable influence of a glass of hot brandy-and-water,--the widow had, I think, herself mixed the second glass for Mr. Cheesacre, before the influence became sufficiently comfortable,--he was forced to own that he had made himself the happy possessor of Charlie Fairstairs' heart and hand. "And you are a lucky man," said the widow with enthusiasm; "and I congratulate you with all my heart. Don't let there be any delay now, because a good thing can't be done too soon." And indeed, before that night was over, Mrs. Greenow had the pair together in her own presence, and then fixed the day. "A fellow ought to be allowed to turn himself," Cheesacre said to her, pleading for himself in a whisper. But no; Mrs. Greenow would give him no such mercy. She knew to what a man turning himself might probably lead. She was a woman who was quite in earnest when she went to work, and I hope that Miss Fairstairs was grateful. Then, in that presence, was in truth the last kiss given on that eventful evening. "Come, Charlie, be good-natured to him. He's as good as your own now," said the widow. And Charlie was good-natured. "It's to be as soon as ever we come back from our trip," said Mrs. Greenow to Kate, the next day, "and I'm lending her money to get all her things at once. He shall come to the scratch, though I go all the way to Norfolk by myself and fetch him by his ears. He shall come, as sure as my name's Greenow,--or Bellfield, as it will be then, you know."

It would be too long to tell now, in these last pages of our story, how Cheesacre strove to escape, and with what skill Mrs. Greenow kept him to his bargain. Before that evening was over, under the comfortable influence of a glass of hot brandy-and-water, he was forced to confess that he had made himself the happy possessor of Charlie Fairstairs' heart and hand.
"And you are a lucky man," said the widow with enthusiasm; "and I congratulate you with all my heart. Don't let there be any delay now, because a good thing can't be done too soon." And indeed, before that night was over, Mrs. Greenow had fixed the day. She was a woman who was quite in earnest when she went to work, and I hope that Miss Fairstairs was grateful. Then, in her presence, the last kiss on that eventful evening was given.
"Come, Charlie, be good-natured to him. He's as good as your own now," said the widow. And Charlie was good-natured.
Mrs. Greenow said to Kate, the next day, "I'm lending her money to get all her things. He shall come to the scratch, if I have to go all the way to Norfolk and fetch him by his ears."


"And I shouldn't wonder if she did have to go to Norfolk," said Kate to her cousin. That event, however, cannot be absolutely concluded in these pages. I can only say that, when I think of Mrs. Greenow's force of character and warmth of friendship, I feel that Miss Fairstairs' prospects stand on good ground.

"And I shouldn't wonder if she did have to go to Norfolk," said Kate to her cousin.
I cannot relate that far. I can only say that, when I think of Mrs. Greenow's force of character and warmth of friendship, I feel that Miss Fairstairs' prospects are good.


Mrs. Greenow's own marriage was completed with perfect success. She took Captain Bellfield for better or for worse, with a thorough determination to make the best of his worst, and to put him on his legs, if any such putting might be possible. He, at any rate, had been in luck. If any possible stroke of fortune could do him good, he had found that stroke. He had found a wife who could forgive all his past offences,--and also, if necessary, some future offences; who had money enough for all his wants, and kindness enough to gratify them, and who had, moreover,--which for the Captain was the most important,--strength enough to keep from him the power of ruining them both. Reader, let us wish a happy married life to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield!

Mrs. Greenow's own marriage was completed. She took Captain Bellfield for better or for worse, with a thorough determination to make the best of his worst. He was a lucky man. He had found a wife who could forgive all his past offences - and also, if necessary, some future ones; who had money enough for all his wants, and kindness enough to gratify them, and who had, most importantly, strength enough to keep him from ruining them both. Reader, let us wish a happy married life to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield!


The day after the ceremony Alice Vavasor and Kate Vavasor started for Matching Priory.

The day after the ceremony Alice and Kate started for Matching Priory.


I am inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the Session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had been to him; and he envied them. He took short, solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence,--having, in truth, no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet, he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition.

Mr. Palliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne there was no one with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation to pass his time. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe; but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne when the business of Parliament was over, for a little change of air, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way. But he had no passion for mountains and lakes. His mind was always in the House of Commons, or the Cabinet, and in the meetings of which he read from week to week.
He took short, solitary walks about the town, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses, had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his, so did he prophesy an absolute downfall from all political power as the result of his absence - having, in truth, no cause for such despair. He was barely thirty, and if he had been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might raise his value rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow him to make such calculations aright. So he became fretful and unhappy; and though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, he made her conscious that she had brought him to this miserable condition.


Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment.

Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which needs to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic-pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains, and going through all the passes. But Mr. Palliser did not share her aspirations, and Lady Glencora soon lost her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and sea-sick in a large one.
At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to make new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, because Mr. Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were, moreover, some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other; but Lady Glencora would purposely irritate her husband by her flippant tone, and then Mr. Palliser would become fretful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot, therefore, say that Alice had much enjoyment at this time.


But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine,--or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear,--and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. "How I do hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I do so wish it would come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret.

But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent some excitement to their lives. They usually breakfasted at nine, and then Mr. Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after handing the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours.
"How I hate this carriage," Lady Glencora said one day. "I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever." At some moments, it seemed that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret.


"If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it?" Alice once said.


"So you tell me very often," Alice replied; "and it is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while.

"So you say very often," Alice replied. "But hard or soft, I won't beg for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while.


But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser.

But we must go back to the stranger. One day Mr. Palliser had put the ladies into their carriage, and was standing by the front door of the hotel, wondering whether to walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right, when he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Palliser.


"I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance.

"I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courteously. But though he smiled and raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere.


"My name is John Grey," said the stranger.


Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together.

Then the smile was dropped, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that he was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After exchanging a few words, the two men started off for a walk together.


"Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage?" said Mr. Palliser. "If so, we had better go through the town and up the river."


They went through the town, and up the river, and when Mr. Palliser, on his return, was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Palliser's hands and left the sitting-room for the night.

They went through the town, and up the river, where they would not meet the ladies' carriage, and when Mr. Palliser returned, he was alone. The three dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and came in and drank their tea; but still nothing was said. At last, Alice and her cousin took their candles and left the sitting-room for the night.


"Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this house, at this very moment?"

"Alice," said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together, "I have been dying to say something. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here, at Lucerne, in this hotel, at this very moment?"


Alice knew at once who it was. She knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. "Who is it, Glencora?" she asked, very calmly.

Alice knew, immediately, that Mr. Grey had followed her, though she had heard no word since that day on which he had told her that they would meet abroad.
"Who is it, Glencora?" she asked calmly.


"Whom in all the world would you best like to see?" said Glencora.


"My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice.


"Then it is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you;--or else you're a fool."

"It is not your cousin Kate. And I don't believe you.


Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. "Perhaps I am a fool," she said.


"Only I know you are not. But I am not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement, at any rate? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that; but, I declare, I believe I might have left him to do it; it would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose?"

It is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement? When Plantagenet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, but I thought it best to save you from that. Who has come, do you suppose?"


"Of course I know now," said Alice, very calmly, "that Mr. John Grey has come."


"Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this house at this minute;--or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. "Well?"

"Yes, he is in this house; or, more probably, waiting outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bedroom." Then Lady Glencora paused. But Alice said nothing. "Well?" said Lady Glencora.
"Well?"


"Have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come?"


"No; not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it,--if it will do you any good to know that; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it."

"I am quite aware of the importance of Mr. Grey's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it; but I don't feel that I have much to say about it."


"I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary way, before all the servants. I do indeed."

"I wish I had let Mr. Palliser tell you before all the servants. I do indeed."


"It would not have made much difference."


"Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life,--for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe;--except your cousin Kate. Still waters, they say, run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?"

"Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life - except your cousin Kate. Still waters run deep; and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say?"


"What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come."

"What do you want me to say? He told me he would come."


"And you have never said a word about it."


"He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better that he should have remained away."

"I thought it better not to. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come; and it would have been much better if he had stayed away."


"Because his being here will do no good to any one."

"Because his being here will do no good to anyone."


"No good! It seems to me impossible but that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call."

"No good! Look here, Alice. If you do not make it up with him before tomorrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake." Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask, "What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you tomorrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call."


"He may come if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him!"

"He may come if he pleases. I haven't quarrelled with him."


"And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it. In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well;--good night. I don't understand you, that's all."

"In fact, he is to be regarded as an ordinary person. Well; good night. I don't understand you, that's all."


It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house. If it were so, at any rate he should not see her, so she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard; but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why, then, should it not be as he wished it?

It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone, she put out her candle and sat at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, as Glencora had hinted? If it were so, he should not see her, so she drew the curtain.
It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result; and yet she loved him dearly for coming. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love towards this man; and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. There could be no doubt that he was still willing. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? Why should it not be as he wished?


She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon; and having done it, she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyse the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her; she could not clearly read her own thoughts; but the causes were as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it,--had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man since she had belonged to him,--since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault.

She asked herself the question, and did not answer it; but she felt she had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do something which she herself could not pardon; and she could not bring herself to accept a reward. If she had simply refused his hand, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse! She had affianced herself to another man. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect?
Then she remembered those interviews with George Vavasor in Queen Anne Street. She had shrunk from him. There had been no caress, no kiss. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin George should ever be made known to Mr. Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-side; but she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh! reader, can you forgive her for sinning against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she never thought lightly of her own fault.


If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Grey was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love,--as he proved to be the case when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne; but I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom-window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out; but I think he was already in bed, being tired with long travel, before Lady Glencora had left Alice's room.

If he were there, by the lake-side, she did not see him. John Grey was not a man to console himself by looking up at his lady's candle. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which, if possible, he meant to carry out; but he was already in bed, tired with long travel, before Lady Glencora had left Alice's room.


At breakfast the next morning nothing was said for a while about the new arrival. At last Mr. Palliser ventured to speak. "Glencora has told you, I think, that Mr. Grey is here? Mr. Grey is an old friend of yours, I believe?"

At breakfast the next morning, Mr. Palliser ventured to speak.
"Glencora has told you, I think, that Mr. Grey is here? He is an old friend of yours, I believe?"


Alice, keeping her countenance as well as she was able, said Mr. Grey had been, and, indeed, was, a very dear friend of hers. Mr. Palliser knew the whole story, and what was the use of any little attempt at dissimulation? "I shall be glad to see him,--if you will allow me?" she went on to say.

Alice, remaining as composed as she could, said Mr. Grey was a very dear friend of hers.
"I shall be glad to see him - if you will allow me?" she added.


"Glencora suggests that we should ask him to dinner," said Mr. Palliser; and then that matter was settled.

"Glencora suggests that we should ask him to dinner," said Mr. Palliser.


But Mr. Grey did not wait till dinner-time to see Alice. Early in the morning his card was brought up, and Lady Glencora, as soon as she saw the name, immediately ran away.

But Mr. Grey did not wait till dinner-time to see Alice. Early in the morning his card was brought up, and Lady Glencora, as soon as she saw the name, ran away.


"Indeed I shall go," said her ladyship. "I know what's proper on these occasions, if you don't."


So she went, whisking herself along the passages with a little run; and Mr. Grey, as he was shown into her ladyship's usual sitting-room, saw the skirt of her ladyship's dress as she whisked herself off towards her husband.

Mr. Grey, when he was shown into her ladyship's sitting-room, saw the skirt of her ladyship's dress as she whisked herself off to her husband.


"I told you I should come," he said, with his ordinary sweet smile. "I told you that I should follow you, and here I am."

"I told you I should come," he said, with his ordinary sweet smile. "And here I am."


He took her hand, and held it, pressing it warmly. She hardly knew with what words first to address him, or how to get her hand back from him.

He took her hand, and held it, pressing it warmly. She hardly knew how to address him, or how to get her hand back.


"I am very glad to see you,--as an old friend," she said; "but I hope--"

"I am very glad to see you - as an old friend," she said; "but I hope-"


"I hope you have had some better cause for travelling than a desire to see me?"


"No, dearest; no. I have had no better cause, and, indeed, none other. I have come on purpose to see you; and had Mr. Palliser taken you off to Asia or Africa, I think I should have felt myself compelled to follow him. You know why I follow you?"

"No, dearest; no. I have had no better cause. I have come on purpose to see you; and if Mr. Palliser had taken you off to Africa, I should have felt compelled to follow. You know why?"


"Hardly," said she,--not finding at the moment any other word that she could say.

"Hardly," said she - not finding any other word to say.


"Because I love you. You see what a plain-spoken John Bull I am, and how I come to the point at once. I want you to be my wife; and they say that perseverance is the best way when a man has such a want as that."

"Because I love you. I want you to be my wife; and they say that perseverance is the best way when a man has such a want as that."


"You ought not to want it," she said, whispering the words as though she were unable to speak them out loud.

"You ought not to want it," she said, whispering.


"But I do, you see. And why should I not want it?"


"I am the best judge of that, Alice. You have to make up your mind whether I am fit to be your husband."


"You would be disgraced if you were to take me, after all that has passed;--after what I have done. What would other men say of you when they knew the story?"

"You would be disgraced if you were to take me, after what I have done. What would other men say of you when they knew the story?"


"Other men, I hope, would be just enough to say, that when I had made up my mind, I was tolerably constant in keeping to it. I do not think they could say much worse of me than that."

"Other men, I hope, would say that when I had made up my mind, I was tolerably constant in keeping to it. I do not think they could say much worse of me than that."


"They would say that you had been jilted, and had forgiven the jilt."


"As far as the forgiveness goes, they would tell the truth. But, indeed, Alice, I don't very much care what men do say of me."


"But I care, Mr. Grey;--and though you may forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Indeed I know now, as I have known all along, that I am not fit to be your wife. I am not good enough. And I have done that which makes me feel that I have no right to marry anyone." These words she said, jerking out the different sentences almost in convulsions; and when she had come to the end of them, the tears were streaming down her cheeks. "I have thought about it, and I will not. I will not. After what has passed, I know that it will be better,--more seemly, that I should remain as I am."

"But I care, Mr. Grey; and though you may forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Indeed I know now, as I have known all along, that I am not fit to be your wife. I am not good enough. And I have done that which makes me feel that I have no right to marry anyone." She said this, jerking out the sentences almost in convulsions; the tears were streaming down her cheeks. "I have thought about it, and I will not. I will not. After what has passed, I know that it will be better - that I should remain as I am."


Soon after that she left him, not, however, till she had told him that she would meet him again at dinner, and had begged him to treat her simply as a friend. "In spite of everything, I hope that we may always be friends,--dear friends," she said.

Soon after that she left him; not, however, till she had begged him to treat her simply as a friend. "In spite of everything, I hope that we may always be dear friends," she said.


"I hope we may," he answered;--"the very dearest." And then he left her.

"I hope we may," he answered; "the very dearest."


In the afternoon he again encountered Mr. Palliser, and having thought over the matter since his interview with Alice, he resolved to tell his whole story to his new acquaintance,--not in order that he might ask for counsel from him, for in this matter he wanted no man's advice,--but that he might get some assistance. So the two men walked off together, up the banks of the clear-flowing Reuss, and Mr. Palliser felt the comfort of having a companion.

In the afternoon he again met Mr. Palliser, and resolved to tell his whole story to his new acquaintance - not in order to ask for advice, but so that he might get some assistance. So the two men walked off together, and Mr. Palliser felt the comfort of having a companion.


"I have always liked her," said Mr. Palliser, "though, to tell the truth, I have twice been very angry with her."


"I have never been angry with her," said the lover.


"And my anger was in both instances unjust. You may imagine how great is my confidence in her, when I have thought she was the best companion my wife could have for a long journey, taken under circumstances that were--that were--; but I need not trouble you with that."

"And my anger was unjust both times. You may imagine how great is my confidence in her, when I have thought she was the best companion my wife could have for a long journey, under circumstances that were - but I need not trouble you with that."


So great had been the desolation of Mr. Palliser's life since his banishment from London that he almost felt tempted to tell the story of his troubles to this absolute stranger. But he bethought himself of the blood of the Pallisers, and refrained. There are comforts which royalty may never enjoy, and luxuries in which such men as Plantagenet Palliser may not permit themselves to indulge.

So great had been the desolation of Mr. Palliser's life since his banishment from London that he almost felt tempted to tell the story of his troubles to this absolute stranger. But he thought of the blood of the Pallisers, and refrained.


"About her and her character I have no doubt in the world," said Grey. "In all that she has done I think that I have seen her motives; and though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. Had she married that man, I should have forgiven her even that,--though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself. Living as she is with you, and with your wife, she may, perhaps, just now be more under your influence and your wife's than she can possibly be under mine." Whereupon, Mr. Palliser promised that he would do what he could. "I think she loves me," said Mr. Grey.

"About her character I have no doubt in the world," said Grey. "In all that she has done I think that I have seen her motives; and though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. If she had married that man, I should have forgiven her even that - though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself. Just now, she may, perhaps, be more under your influence and your wife's than she can be under mine."
Mr. Palliser promised that he would do what he could.
"I think she loves me," said Mr. Grey.


Mr. Palliser said that he was sure she did, though what ground he had for such assurance I am quite unable to surmise. He was probably desirous of saying the most civil thing which occurred to him.

Mr. Palliser said that he was sure she did, though he had no way of knowing, and said it merely to be civil.


The little dinner-party that evening was pleasant enough, and nothing more was said about love. Lady Glencora talked nonsense to Mr. Grey, and Mr. Palliser contradicted all the nonsense which his wife talked. But this was all done in such a way that the evening passed away pleasantly. It was tacitly admitted among them that Mr. Grey was to be allowed to come among them as a friend, and Lady Glencora managed to say one word to him aside, in which she promised to give him her most cordial cooperation.

The little dinner-party that evening was pleasant enough, and nothing was said about love. Lady Glencora talked nonsense to Mr. Grey, and Mr. Palliser contradicted all the nonsense which his wife talked. But this was done in such a way that the evening passed away pleasantly. It was tacitly admitted among them that Mr. Grey was to be allowed to come among them as a friend, and Lady Glencora managed to say one word to him aside, in which she promised to give him her most cordial cooperation.


"Hush!" said the widow, "there's a carriage coming on the road--close to us." Mrs. Greenow, as she spoke these words, drew back from the Captain's arms before the first kiss of permitted ante-nuptial love had been exchanged. The scene was on the high road from Shap to Vavasor, and as she was still dressed in all the sombre habiliments of early widowhood, and as neither he nor his sweetheart were under forty, perhaps it was as well that they were not caught toying together in so very public a place. But they were only just in time to escape the vigilant eyes of a new visitor. Round the corner of the road, at a sharp trot, came the Shap post-horse, with the Shap gig behind him,--the same gig which had brought Bellfield to Vavasor on the previous day,--and seated in the gig, looming large, with his eyes wide awake to everything round him, was--Mr. Cheesacre.

Mrs. Greenow, as she spoke, drew back from the Captain's arms. They were on the high road to Shap, and as she was still dressed in mourning, and as neither of them were under forty, perhaps it was as well to escape the vigilant eyes of a new visitor. Round the corner of the road, at a sharp trot, came the Shap post-horse, with the Shap gig behind him - and seated in the gig, looming large, and staring around, was - Mr. Cheesacre.


It was a sight terrible to the eyes of Captain Bellfield, and by no means welcome to those of Mrs. Greenow. As regarded her, her annoyance had chiefly reference to her two nieces, and especially to Alice. How was she to account for this second lover? Kate, of course, knew all about it; but how could Alice be made to understand that she, Mrs. Greenow, was not to blame,--that she had, in sober truth, told this ardent gentleman that there was no hope for him? And even as to Kate,--Kate, whom her aunt had absurdly chosen to regard as the object of Mr. Cheesacre's pursuit,--what sort of a welcome would she extend to the owner of Oileymead? Before the wheels had stopped, Mrs. Greenow had begun to reflect whether it might be possible that she should send Mr. Cheesacre back without letting him go on to the Hall; but if Mrs. Greenow was dismayed, what were the feelings of the Captain? For he was aware that Cheesacre knew that of him which he had not told. How ardently did he now wish that he had sailed nearer to the truth in giving in the schedule of his debts to Mrs. Greenow.

It was a sight terrible to Captain Bellfield, and by no means welcome to Mrs. Greenow. Her annoyance was chiefly because of Alice. How was she to account for this second lover? Kate, of course, knew all about it; but how could Alice be made aware that Mrs. Greenow was not to blame? She had told this ardent gentleman that there was no hope for him.
And if Mrs. Greenow was dismayed, what were the Captain's feelings? For he was aware that Cheesacre knew things about him which he had not told. Now he wished ardently that he had sailed nearer to the truth in listing his debts to Mrs. Greenow.


"That man's wanted by the police," said Cheesacre, speaking while the gig was still in motion. "He's wanted by the police, Mrs. Greenow," and in his ardour he stood up in the gig and pointed at Bellfield. Then the gig stopped suddenly, and he fell back into his seat in his effort to prevent his falling forward. "He's wanted by the police," he shouted out again, as soon as he was able to recover his voice.

"That man's wanted by the police," said Cheesacre, speaking while the gig was still in motion; and he stood up in the gig and pointed at Bellfield. The gig stopped suddenly, and he fell back into his seat. "He's wanted by the police," he shouted out again.


Mrs. Greenow turned pale beneath the widow's veil which she had dropped. What might not her Captain have done? He might have procured things, to be sent to him, out of shops on false pretences; or, urged on by want and famine, he might have committed--forgery. "Oh, my!" she said, and dropped her hand from his arm, which she had taken.

Mrs. Greenow turned pale. What might not her Captain have done? He might have ordered things from shops on false pretences; he might have committed forgery.
"Oh, my!" she said.


"I'll indict you for slander, my friend," said Bellfield.

"I'll sue you for slander, my friend," said Bellfield.


"Pay me the money you owe me," said Cheesacre. "You're a swindler!"


Mrs. Greenow cared little as to her lover being a swindler in Mr. Cheesacre's estimation. Such accusations from him she had heard before. But she did care very much as to this mission of the police against her Captain. If that were true, the Captain could be her Captain no longer. "What is this I hear, Captain Bellfield?" she said.

Mrs. Greenow cared little about her lover being a swindler in Mr. Cheesacre's eyes. She had heard such accusations from him before. But she did care very much about the police.
"What is this I hear, Captain Bellfield?" she said.


"It's a lie and a slander. He merely wants to make a quarrel between us. What police are after me, Mr. Cheesacre?"


"It's the police, or the sheriff's officer, or something of the kind," said Cheesacre.

"It's the sheriff's officer, or something of the kind," said Cheesacre.


"Oh, the sheriff's officers!" exclaimed Mrs. Greenow, in a tone of voice which showed how great had been her relief. "Mr. Cheesacre, you shouldn't come and say such things;--you shouldn't, indeed. Sheriff's officers can be paid, and there's an end of them."

"Oh, the sheriff's officers!" exclaimed Mrs. Greenow, in a tone of relief. "Mr. Cheesacre, you shouldn't come and say such things. Sheriff's officers can be paid, and there's an end of them."


"I'll indict him for the libel--I will, as sure as I'm alive," said Bellfield.

"I'll sue him for libel - I will," said Bellfield.


"Nonsense," said the widow. "Don't you make a fool of yourself. When men can't pay their way they must put up with having things like that said of them. Mr. Cheesacre, where were you going?"

"Nonsense," said the widow. "Don't you make a fool of yourself. When men can't pay their way they must put up with having things like that said about them. Mr. Cheesacre, where were you going?"


"I was going to Vavasor Hall, on purpose to caution you."

"I was going to Vavasor Hall, to warn you."


"It's too late," said Mrs. Greenow, sinking behind her veil.


"Why, you haven't been and married him since yesterday? He only had twenty-four hours' start of me, I know. Or, perhaps, you had it done clandestine in Norwich? Oh, Mrs. Greenow!"

"Why, you haven't been and married him since yesterday? He only had twenty-four hours' start of me! Oh, Mrs. Greenow!"


He got out of the gig, and the three walked back towards the Hall together, while the boy drove on with Mr. Cheesacre's carpetbag. "I hardly know," said Mrs. Greenow, "whether we can welcome you. There are other visitors, and the house is full."


"I'm not one to intrude where I'm not wanted. You may be sure of that. If I can't get my supper for love, I can get at for money. That's more than some people can say. I wonder when you're going to pay me what you owe me, Lieutenant Bellfield?"

"I'm not one to intrude where I'm not wanted. I can pay for my supper. That's more than some people can say. I wonder when you're going to pay me what you owe me, Lieutenant Bellfield?"


[Illustration: "I wonder when you're going to pay me what you owe me, Lieutenant Bellfield?"]


Nevertheless, the widow had contrived to reconcile the two men before she reached the Hall. They had actually shaken hands, and the lamb Cheesacre had agreed to lie down with the wolf Bellfield. Cheesacre, moreover, had contrived to whisper into the widow's ears the true extent of his errand into Westmoreland. This, however, he did not do altogether in Bellfield's hearing. When Mrs. Greenow ascertained that there was something to be said, she made no scruple in sending her betrothed away from her "You won't throw a fellow over, will you, now?" whispered Bellfield into her ear as he went. She merely frowned at him, and bade him begone, so that the walk which Mrs. Greenow began with one lover she ended in company with the other.

Nevertheless, the widow had managed to reconcile the two men before she reached the Hall. They had actually shaken hands.
Cheesacre, moreover, had whispered into the widow's ears the true extent of his errand into Westmorland - but not in Bellfield's hearing. When Mrs. Greenow ascertained that there was something to be said, she sent her betrothed away into


Bellfield, who was sent on to the house, found Alice and Kate surveying the newly arrived carpet bag. "He knows 'un," said the boy who had driven the gig, pointing to the Captain.

 the house.
There, Bellfield found Alice and Kate surveying the newly arrived carpet bag.


"It belongs to your old friend, Mr. Cheesacre," said Bellfield to Kate.


The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and admitted that it was hard. "And it's not the slightest use," said he, "not the least in the world. He never had a chance in that quarter."

The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and admitted that it was hard. "And it's not the slightest use," said he. "He never had a chance."


"Not enough of the rocks and valleys about him, was there, Captain Bellfield?" said Kate. But Captain Bellfield understood nothing about the rocks and valleys, though he was regarded by certain eyes as being both a rock and a valley himself.


In the meantime Cheesacre was telling his story. He first asked, in a melancholy tone, whether it was really necessary that he must abandon all his hopes. "He wasn't going to say anything against the Captain," he said, "if things were really fixed. He never begrudged any man his chance."

In the meantime Cheesacre was telling his story. He first asked, in a melancholy tone, whether it was really necessary that he must abandon all his hopes. He wasn't going to say anything against the Captain, he told Mrs, Greenow, if things were really fixed.


"Things are really fixed," said Mrs. Greenow.


He could, however, not keep himself from hinting that Oileymead was a substantial home, and that Bellfield had not as much as a straw mattress to lie upon. In answer to this Mrs. Greenow told him that there was so much more reason why some one should provide the poor man with a mattress. "If you look at it in that light, of course it's true," said Cheesacre. Mrs. Greenow told him that she did look at it in that light. "Then I've done about that," said Cheesacre; "and as to the little bit of money he owes me, I must give him his time about it, I suppose." Mrs. Greenow assured him that it should be paid as soon as possible after the nuptial benediction had been said over them. She offered, indeed, to pay it at once if he was in distress for it, but he answered contemptuously that he never was in distress for money. He liked to have his own,--that was all.

He could, however, not keep himself from hinting that Bellfield had not as much as a straw mattress to lie upon. Mrs. Greenow answered, so much more reason why someone should provide the poor man with a mattress.
"If you look at it in that light, of course it's true," said Cheesacre; "and as to the bit of money he owes me, I must give him his time about it, I suppose."
Mrs. Greenow offered to pay it at once if he needed it, but he answered contemptuously that he was never in distress for money.


After this he did not get away to his next subject quite so easily as he wished; and it must be admitted that there was a difficulty. As he could not have Mrs. Greenow he would be content to put up with Kate for his wife. That was his next subject. Rumours as to the old Squire's will had no doubt reached him, and he was now willing to take advantage of that assistance which Mrs. Greenow had before offered him in this matter. The time had come in which he ought to marry; of that he was aware. He had told many of his friends in Norfolk that Kate Vavasor had thrown herself at his head, and very probably he had thought it true. In answer to all his love speeches to herself, the aunt had always told him what an excellent wife her niece would make him. So now he had come to Westmoreland with this second string to his bow. "You know you put it into my head your own self," pleaded Mr. Cheesacre. "Didn't you, now?"

After this he did not get on to his next subject quite so easily as he wished; and it must be admitted that there was a difficulty. As he could not have Mrs. Greenow he would be content to put up with Kate for his wife. That was his next subject. Rumours about the old Squire's will had reached him, and he had decided that the time had come when he ought to marry. He had told his friends in Norfolk that Kate Vavasor had thrown herself at his head, and very probably he had thought it true. And the aunt had always told him what an excellent wife her niece would make.
"You know you put it into my head your own self," pleaded Mr. Cheesacre.


"But things are so different since that," said the widow.

"But things are different now," said the widow.


"How different? I ain't different. There's Oileymead just where it always was, and the owner of it don't owe a shilling to any man. How are things different?"


"And is that to make a change? Oh! Mrs. Greenow, who would have thought to find you mercenary like that? Inherited property! Is she going to fling a man over because of that?"

"And is that to make a change? Oh! Mrs. Greenow, how mercenary! Is she going to fling a man over because of that?"


Mrs. Greenow endeavoured to explain to him that her niece could hardly be said to have flung him over, and at last pretended to become angry when he attempted to assert his position. "Why, Mr. Cheesacre, I am quite sure she never gave you a word of encouragement in her life."

Mrs. Greenow tried to explain to him that her niece could hardly be said to have flung him over, and at last pretended to become angry. "Why, Mr. Cheesacre, I am quite sure she never gave you a word of encouragement."


"But you always told me I might have her for the asking."


"And now I tell you that you mayn't. It's of no use your going on there to ask her, for she will only send you away with an answer you won't like. Look here, Mr. Cheesacre; you want to get married, and it's quite time you should. There's my dear friend Charlie Fairstairs. How could you get a better wife than Charlie?"

"And now I tell you that you mayn't. It's of no use your asking her, for she will only send you away with an answer you won't like. Look here, Mr. Cheesacre; you want to get married, and there's my dear friend Charlie Fairstairs. How could you get a better wife than Charlie?"


"Charlie Fairstairs!" said Cheesacre, turning up his nose in disgust. "She hasn't got a penny, nor any one belonging to her. The man who marries her will have to find the money for the smock she stands up in."

"Charlie Fairstairs!" said Cheesacre in disgust. "She hasn't got a penny."


"Who's mercenary now, Mr. Cheesacre? Do you go home and think of it; and if you'll marry Charlie, I'll go to your wedding. You shan't be ashamed of her clothing. I'll see to that."

"Who's mercenary now, Mr. Cheesacre? Go home and think about it; and if you'll marry Charlie, I'll go to your wedding."


They were now close to the gate, and Cheesacre paused before he entered. "Do you think there's no chance at all for me, then?" said he.

They were now at the gate, and Cheesacre paused. "Do you think there's no chance at all for me, then?" said he.


"I know there's none. I've heard her speak about it."


"Somebody else, perhaps, is the happy man?"


"I can't say anything about that, but I know that she wouldn't take you. I like farming, you know, but she doesn't."

"I can't say anything about that, but I know she wouldn't take you."


"I might give that up," said Cheesacre readily,--"at any rate, for a time."


"No, no, no; it would do no good. Believe me, my friend, that it is of no use."


He still paused at the gate. "I don't see what's the use of my going in," said he. To this she made him no answer. "There's a pride about me," he continued, "that I don't choose to go where I'm not wanted."


"I can't tell you, Mr. Cheesacre, that you are wanted in that light, certainly."


"Then I'll go. Perhaps you'll be so good as to tell the boy with the gig to come after me? That's six pound ten it will have cost me to come here and go back. Bellfield did it cheaper, of course; he travelled second class. I heard of him as I came along."

"Then I'll go. Perhaps you'll tell the boy with the gig to come after me? That's six pound ten it will have cost me to come here and go back. Bellfield did it cheaper, of course; he travelled second class."


"The expense does not matter to you, Mr. Cheesacre."


To this he assented, and then took his leave, at first offering his hand to Mrs. Greenow with an air of offended dignity, but falling back almost into humility during the performance of his adieu. Before he was gone he had invited her to bring the Captain to Oileymead when she was married, and had begged her to tell Miss Vavasor how happy he should be to receive her. "And Mr. Cheesacre," said the widow, as he walked back along the road, "don't forget dear Charlie Fairstairs."

He agreed, and then took his leave, offering his hand to Mrs. Greenow almost with humility. Before he left he invited her to bring the Captain to Oileymead when she was married, and begged her to tell Miss Vavasor how happy he should be to receive her.
"And Mr. Cheesacre," said the widow, as he walked away, "don't forget dear Charlie Fairstairs."


They were all standing at the front door of the house when Mrs. Greenow re-appeared,--Alice, Kate, Captain Bellfield, the Shap boy, and the Shap horse and gig. "Where is he?" Kate asked in a low voice, and everyone there felt how important was the question. "He has gone," said the widow. Bellfield was so relieved that he could not restrain his joy, but took off his little straw hat and threw it up into the air. Kate's satisfaction was almost as intense. "I am so glad," said she. "What on earth should we have done with him?" "I never was so disappointed in my life," said Alice. "I have heard so much of Mr. Cheesacre, but have never seen him." Kate suggested that she should get into the gig and drive after him. "He ain't a been and took hisself off?" suggested the boy, whose face became very dismal as the terrible idea struck him. But, with juvenile craft, he put his hand on the carpet-bag, and finding that it did not contain stones, was comforted. "You drive after him, young gentleman, and you'll find him on the road to Shap," said Mrs. Greenow. "Mind you give him my love," said the Captain in his glee, "and say I hope he'll get his turnips in well."

She entered the house, and told her nieces and the Captain, "He has gone." Bellfield was so relieved that he took off his little straw hat and threw it in the air.
Kate's satisfaction was almost as intense. "I am so glad," said she. "What on earth should we have done with him?"
"I never was so disappointed in my life," said Alice. "I have heard so much of Mr. Cheesacre, but have never seen him." Kate suggested that she should get into the gig and drive after him.


This little episode went far to break the day, and did more than anything else could have done to put Captain Bellfield at his ease. It created a little joint-stock fund of merriment between the whole party, which was very much needed. The absence of such joint-stock fund is always felt when a small party is thrown together without such assistance. Some bond is necessary on these occasions, and no other bond is so easy or so pleasant. Now, when the Captain found himself alone for a quarter of an hour with Alice, he had plenty of subjects for small-talk. "Yes, indeed. Old Cheesacre, in spite of his absurdities, is not a bad sort of fellow at bottom;--awfully fond of his money, you know, Miss Vavasor, and always boasting about it." "That's not pleasant," said Alice. "No, the most unpleasant thing in the world. There's nothing I hate so much, Miss Vavasor, as that kind of talking. My idea is this,--when a man has lots of money, let him make the best use he can of it, and say nothing about it. Nobody ever heard me talking about my money." He knew that Alice knew that he was a pauper; but, nevertheless, he had the satisfaction of speaking of himself as though he were not a pauper.

This little episode did more than anything else to put Captain Bellfield at his ease. It created a little fund of merriment between the whole party, which was very much needed. Now, when the Captain found himself alone for a quarter of an hour with Alice, he had plenty of small-talk.
"Yes, indeed. Old Cheesacre is not a bad fellow at bottom; awfully fond of his money, you know, Miss Vavasor, and always boasting about it."
"That's not pleasant," said Alice.
"No, the most unpleasant thing in the world. I think that when a man has lots of money, let him make the best use he can of it, and say nothing about it. Nobody ever heard me talking about my money."


In this way the afternoon went very pleasantly. For an hour before dinner Captain Bellfield was had into the drawing-room and was talked to by his widow on matters of business; but he had of course known that this was necessary. She scolded him soundly about those sheriff's officers. Why had he not told her? "As long as there's anything kept back, I won't have you," said she. "I won't become your wife till I'm quite sure there's not a penny owing that is not shown in the list." Then I think he did tell her all,--or nearly all. When all was counted it was not so very much. Three or four hundred pounds would make him a new man, and what was such a sum as that to his wealthy widow! Indeed, for a woman wanting a husband of that sort, Captain Bellfield was a safer venture than would be a man of a higher standing among his creditors. It is true Bellfield might have been a forger, or a thief, or a returned convict,--but then his debts could not be large. Let him have done his best, he could not have obtained credit for a thousand pounds; whereas, no one could tell the liabilities of a gentleman of high standing. Burgo Fitzgerald was a gentleman of high standing, and his creditors would have swallowed up every shilling that Mrs. Greenow possessed; but with Captain Bellfield she was comparatively safe.

In this way the afternoon went very pleasantly. For an hour before dinner Captain Bellfield was talked to by his widow; but he had known that this was necessary. She scolded him soundly about those sheriff's officers. Why had he not told her?
"As long as there's anything kept back, I won't have you," said she. "I won't become your wife till I'm quite sure there's not a penny owing that is not in the list."
Then I think he did tell her all - or nearly all. It was not so very much. Three or four hundred pounds would make him a new man, and what was such a sum as that to his wealthy widow! Indeed, for a woman wanting a husband of that sort, Captain Bellfield was a safer bet than someone of the standing of Burgo Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald's creditors would have swallowed up every shilling that Mrs. Greenow possessed; but with Captain Bellfield she was comparatively safe.


Upon the whole I think that she was lucky in her choice; or, perhaps, I might more truly say, that she had chosen with prudence. He was no forger, or thief--in the ordinary sense of the word; nor was he a returned convict. He was simply an idle scamp, who had hung about the world for forty years, doing nothing, without principle, shameless, accustomed to eat dirty puddings, and to be kicked--morally kicked--by such men as Cheesacre. But he was moderate in his greediness, and possessed of a certain appreciation of the comfort of a daily dinner, which might possibly suffice to keep him from straying very wide as long as his intended wife should be able to keep the purse-strings altogether in her own hands. Therefore, I say that Mrs. Greenow had been lucky in her choice, and not altogether without prudence.

She had chosen with prudence. Bellfield was no forger, or thief. He was simply an idle scamp, who had hung about the world for forty years, doing nothing. But he was moderate in his greediness, with an appreciation of a daily dinner, which might keep him from straying very far as long as his intended wife could keep the purse-strings in her hands.


"I think of taking this house," said she, "and of living here."

"I am thinking of taking this house," said she, "and of living here."


"What, in Westmoreland!" said the Captain, with something of dismay in his tone. What on earth would he do with himself all his life in that gloomy place!

"What, in Westmorland!" said the Captain, with some dismay. What on earth would he do with himself in that gloomy place!


"Yes, in Westmoreland. Why not in Westmoreland as well as anywhere else? If you don't like Westmoreland, it's not too late yet, you know." In answer to this the poor Captain was obliged to declare that he had no objection whatever to Westmoreland.

"Yes. Why not in Westmorland as well as anywhere else? If you don't like it, it's not too late, you know." To which the poor Captain was obliged to declare that he had no objection whatever to Westmorland.


"I've been talking to my niece about it," continued Mrs. Greenow, "and I find that such an arrangement can be made very conveniently. The property is left between her and her uncle,--the father of my other niece, and neither of them want to live here."

"I've been talking to my niece about it," continued Mrs. Greenow, "and I find that such an arrangement can be made very conveniently. The property is left between her and her uncle, and neither of them want to live here."


"But won't you be rather dull, my dear?"


"We could go to Yarmouth, you know, in the autumn." Then the Captain's visage became somewhat bright again. "And perhaps, if you are not extravagant, we could manage a month or so in London during the winter, just to see the plays and do a little shopping." Then the Captain's face became very bright. "That will be delightful," said he. "And as for being dull," said the widow, "when people grow old they must be dull. Dancing can't go on for ever." In answer to this the widow's Captain assured the widow that she was not at all old; and now, on this occasion, that ceremony came off successfully which had been interrupted on the Shap road by the noise of Mr. Cheesacre's wheels. "There goes my cap," said she. "What a goose you are! What will Jeannette say?" "Bother Jeannette," said the Captain in his bliss. "She can do another cap, and many more won't be wanted." Then I think the ceremony was repeated.

"We could go to Yarmouth in the autumn." Then the Captain's face brightened somewhat. "And perhaps, if you are not extravagant, we could manage a month or so in London during the winter, just to see the plays and do a little shopping." Then the Captain's face became very bright.
"That will be delightful," said he.
"And as for being dull," said the widow, "when people grow old they must be dull. Dancing can't go on for ever." In answer to this he assured this widow that she was not at all old; and now, on this occasion, his attempt to kiss her was successful.
"There goes my cap," said she. "What a goose you are! What will Jeannette say?"
"Bother Jeannette," said the Captain in his bliss. Then the ceremony was repeated.


Upon the whole the Captain's visit was satisfactory--at any rate to the Captain. Everything was settled. He was to go away on Saturday morning, and remain in lodgings at Penrith till the wedding, which they agreed to have celebrated at Vavasor Church. Kate promised to be the solitary bridesmaid. There was some talk of sending for Charlie Fairstairs, but the idea was abandoned. "We'll have her afterwards," said the widow to Kate, "when you are gone, and we shall want her more. And I'll get Cheesacre here, and make him marry her. There's no good in paying for two journeys." The Captain was to be allowed to come over from Penrith twice a week previous to his marriage; or perhaps, I might more fairly say, that he was commanded to do so. I wonder how he felt when Mrs. Greenow gave him his first five-pound note, and told him that he must make it do for a fortnight?--whether it was all joy, or whether there was about his heart any touch of manly regret?

Upon the whole the Captain's visit was satisfactory - at any rate to the Captain. Everything was settled. He was to go away on Saturday morning, and remain in lodgings at Penrith till the wedding, which they agreed to have celebrated at Vavasor Church. Kate promised to be the solitary bridesmaid. The Captain was to be allowed to come over from Penrith twice a week before his marriage. I wonder how he felt when Mrs. Greenow gave him his first five-pound note, and told him that he must make it do for a fortnight? whether it was all joy, or whether there was any touch of manly regret?


"Captain Bellfield, of Vavasor Hall, Westmoreland. It don't sound badly," he said to himself, as he travelled away on his first journey to Penrith.

"Captain Bellfield, of Vavasor Hall. It don't sound badly," he said to himself, as he travelled away on his first journey to Penrith.


Vavasor, as he sat alone in his room, after Fitzgerald had left him, began to think of the days in which he had before wished to assist his friend in his views with reference to Lady Glencora;--or rather he began to think of Alice's behaviour then, and of Alice's words. Alice had steadfastly refused to give any aid. No less likely assistant for such a purpose could have been selected. But she had been very earnest in declaring that it was Glencora's duty to stand by her promise to Burgo. "He is a desperate spendthrift," Kate Vavasor had said to her. "Then let her teach him to be otherwise," Alice had answered. "That might have been a good reason for refusing his offer when he first made it; but it can be no excuse for untruth, now that she has told him that she loves him!" "If a woman," she had said again, "won't venture her fortune for the man she loves, her love is not worth having." All this George Vavasor remembered now; and as he remembered it he asked himself whether the woman that had once loved him would venture her fortune for him still.

Vavasor, after Fitzgerald had left him, began to think of the days past when he had helped his friend; and he thought of Alice's behaviour then. Alice had steadfastly refused to give any aid. But she had been very earnest in declaring that it was Glencora's duty to stand by her promise to Burgo.
"He is a desperate spendthrift," Kate Vavasor had said to her.
"Then let her teach him to be otherwise," Alice had answered. "If a woman won't venture her fortune for the man she loves, her love is not worth having." All this George Vavasor remembered now; and he asked himself whether the woman that had once loved him would venture her fortune for him still.


Though his sister had pressed him on the subject with all the vehemence that she could use, he had hardly hitherto made up his mind that he really desired to marry Alice. There had grown upon him lately certain Bohemian propensities,--a love of absolute independence in his thoughts as well as actions,--which were antagonistic to marriage. He was almost inclined to think that marriage was an old-fashioned custom, fitted indeed well enough for the usual dull life of the world at large,--as many men both in heathen and in Christian ages have taught themselves to think of religion,--but which was not adapted to his advanced intelligence. If he loved any woman he loved his cousin Alice. If he thoroughly respected any woman he respected her. But that idea of tying himself down to a household was in itself distasteful to him. "It is a thing terrible to think of," he once said to a congenial friend in these days of his life, "that a man should give permission to a priest to tie him to another human being like a Siamese twin, so that all power of separate and solitary action should be taken from him for ever! The beasts of the field do not treat each other so badly. They neither drink themselves drunk, nor eat themselves stupid;--nor do they bind themselves together in a union which both would have to hate." In this way George Vavasor, trying to imitate the wisdom of the brutes, had taught himself some theories of a peculiar nature. But, nevertheless, as he thought of Alice Vavasor on this occasion, he began to feel that if a Siamese twin were necessary for him, she of all others was the woman to whom he would wish to be so bound.

He had until now hardly made up his mind that he really wanted to marry Alice. He had grown to love his independence; and he was inclined to think that marriage was an old-fashioned custom, not adapted to his advanced intelligence. If he loved and respected any woman, it was his cousin Alice. But that idea of tying himself down was distasteful. Nevertheless, as he thought now of Alice Vavasor, he began to feel that if a Siamese twin were necessary for him, she of all others was the woman to whom he would wish to be bound.


And if he did it at all, he must do it now. Under the joint instigation of himself and his sister,--as he thought, and perhaps not altogether without reason,--she had broken her engagement with Mr. Grey. That she would renew it again if left to herself, he believed probable. And then, despite that advanced intelligence which had taught him to regard all forms and ceremonies with the eye of a philosopher, he had still enough of human frailty about him to feel keenly alive to the pleasure of taking from John Grey the prize which John Grey had so nearly taken from him. If Alice could have been taught to think as he did as to the absurdity of those indissoluble ties, that would have been better. But nothing would have been more impossible than the teaching of such a lesson to his cousin Alice. George Vavasor was a man of courage, and dared do most things;--but he would not have dared to commence the teaching of such a lesson to her.

And if he did it at all, he must do it now. He and his sister, as Kate thought, had induced Alice to break her engagement with Mr. Grey. But he believed that if left to herself, Alice would probably renew it again. And then, despite that advanced intelligence of his, he still had enough human frailty to feel pleasure at the idea of taking John Grey's prize from him.


And now, at this moment, what was his outlook into life generally? He had very high ambition, and a fair hope of gratifying it if he could only provide that things should go well with him for a year or so. He was still a poor man, having been once nearly a rich man; but still so much of the result of his nearly acquired riches remained to him, that on the strength of them he might probably find his way into Parliament. He had paid the cost of the last attempt, and might, in a great degree, carry on this present attempt on credit. If he succeeded there would be open to him a mode of life, agreeable in itself, and honourable among men. But how was he to bear the cost of this for the next year, or the next two years? His grandfather was still alive, and would probably live over that period. If he married Alice he would do so with no idea of cheating her out of her money. She should learn,--nay, she had already learned from his own lips,--how perilous was his enterprise. But he knew her to be a woman who would boldly risk all in money, though no consideration would induce her to stir a hair's breadth towards danger in reputation. Towards teaching her that doctrine at which I have hinted, he would not have dared to make an attempt; but he felt that he should have no repugnance to telling her that he wanted to spend all her money in the first year or two of their married life!

George Vavasor had very high ambition, and a fair hope of gratifying it if only things would go well with him for a year or so. He was still a poor man, but if he succeeded in getting into Parliament he would be able to live an agreeable and honourable mode of life.
But how was he to bear the cost of this for the next year or two? His grandfather would probably not die soon. If he married Alice he would do so with no idea of cheating her out of her money. She already knew how perilous was his enterprise. He knew her to be a woman who would boldly risk all in money; but could he tell her that he wanted to spend all her fortune in the first year or two of their married life!


He was still in his arm-chair, thinking of all this, with that small untasted modicum of brandy and water beside him, when he heard some distant Lambeth clock strike three from over the river. Then he rose from his seat, and taking the candles in his hand, sat himself down at a writing-desk on the other side of the room. "I needn't send it when it's written," he said to himself, "and the chances are that I won't." Then he took his paper, and wrote as follows:--

He was still in his arm-chair, thinking of all this, when he heard a distant clock strike three. Then he rose from his seat, and sat down at a writing-desk.
"I needn't send it when it's written," he said to himself, "and the chances are that I won't." He wrote as follows:


The time was when the privilege was mine of beginning my letters to you with a warmer show of love than the above word contains,--when I might and did call you dearest; but I lost that privilege through my own folly, and since that it has been accorded to another. But you have found,--with a thorough honesty of purpose than which I know nothing greater,--that it has behoved you to withdraw that privilege also. I need hardly say that I should not have written as I now write, had you not found it expedient to do as you have done. I now once again ask you to be my wife. In spite of all that passed in those old days,--of all the selfish folly of which I was then guilty, I think you know, and at the time knew, that I ever loved you. I claim to say for myself that my love to you was true from first to last, and I claim from you belief for that statement. Indeed I do not think that you ever doubted my love.

Once I had the privilege of beginning my letters to you with a warmer show of love than 'dear' - when I could call you dearest; but I lost that privilege through my own folly, and since then it has been granted to another. But you have found, with a thorough honesty, that it has been best for you to withdraw that privilege also. Otherwise I should not be writing this.
I now once again ask you to be my wife. In spite of all that passed in those old days - all my selfish folly - I think you know that I always loved you. Indeed my love to you was true from first to last, and I do not think you ever doubted it.


Nevertheless, when you told me that I might no longer hope to make you my wife, I had no word of remonstrance that I could utter. You acted as any woman would act whom love had not made a fool. Then came the episode of Mr. Grey; and bitter as have been my feelings whilst that engagement lasted, I never made any attempt to come between you and the life you had chosen. In saying this I do not forget the words which I spoke last summer at Basle, when, as far as I knew, you still intended that he should be your husband. But what I said then was nothing to that which, with much violence, I refrained from saying. Whether you remember those few words I cannot tell; but certainly you would not have remembered them,--would not even have noticed them,--had your heart been at Nethercoats.

Nevertheless, when you told me that I might no longer hope to make you my wife, I had no answer. You acted as any sensible woman would. Then came the episode of Mr. Grey; and bitter as have been my feelings during that engagement, I never tried to come between you and the life you had chosen. I do not forget the words which I spoke last summer at Basle, when you still intended to marry him. But what I said then was nothing to what I refrained from saying. Whether you remember those few words I cannot tell.


But all this is nothing. You are now again a free woman; and once again I ask you to be my wife. We are both older than we were when we loved before, and will both be prone to think of marriage in a somewhat different light. Then personal love for each other was most in our thoughts. God forbid that it should not be much in our thoughts now! Perhaps I am deceiving myself in saying that it is not even now stronger in mine than any other consideration. But we have both reached that time of life, when it is probable that in any proposition of marriage we should think more of our adaptability to each other than we did before. For myself I know that there is much in my character and disposition to make me unfit to marry a woman of the common stamp. You know my mode of life, and what are my hopes and my chances of success. I run great risk of failing. It may be that I shall encounter ruin where I look for reputation and a career of honour. The chances are perhaps more in favour of ruin than of success. But, whatever may be the chances, I shall go on as long as any means of carrying on the fight are at my disposal. If you were my wife to-morrow I should expect to use your money, if it were needed, in struggling to obtain a seat in Parliament and a hearing there. I will hardly stoop to tell you that I do not ask you to be my wife for the sake of this aid;--but if you were to become my wife I should expect all your cooperation;--with your money, possibly, but certainly with your warmest spirit.

But you are now again a free woman; and once again I ask you to be my wife. We are both older than we were when we loved before, and will both think of marriage in a somewhat different light. Then personal love for each other was most in our thoughts. God forbid that love should not be in our thoughts now - and my love for you is stronger than any other consideration. But we have both reached that time of life when we should think more of our adaptability to each other than we did before.
I know that there is much in my character to make me unfit to marry an ordinary woman. You know my mode of life, and my hopes and my chances of success. I run great risk of failing. It may be that I shall encounter ruin where I look for a career of honour. The chances are perhaps more in favour of ruin than of success. But, whatever my chances, I shall go on as long as I can. If you were my wife tomorrow I should expect to use your money, if it were needed, in struggling to obtain a seat in Parliament. I do not ask you to be my wife for the sake of this aid; but if you were to become my wife I should expect all your cooperation - with your money, possibly, but certainly with your warmest spirit.


And now, once again, Alice,--dearest Alice, will you be my wife? I have been punished, and I have kissed the rod,--as I never kissed any other rod. You cannot accuse my love. Since the time in which I might sit with my arm round your waist, I have sat with it round no other waist. Since your lips were mine, no other lips have been dear to me. Since you were my counsellor, I have had no other counsellor,--unless it be poor Kate, whose wish that we may at length be married is second in earnestness only to my own. Nor do I think you will doubt my repentance. Such repentance indeed claims no merit, as it has been the natural result of the loss which I have suffered. Providence has hitherto been very good to me in not having made that loss irremediable by your marriage with Mr. Grey. I wish you now to consider the matter well, and to tell me whether you can pardon me and still love me. Do I flatter myself when I feel that I doubt your pardon almost more than I doubt your love?

And now, once again, dearest Alice, will you be my wife? I have been punished, and no other woman has held any place in my heart. Providence has been very good to me in giving me another chance. Tell me whether you can pardon me and still love me.


Think of this thing in all its bearings before you answer me. I am so anxious that you should think of it that I will not expect your reply till this day week. It can hardly be your desire to go through life unmarried. I should say that it must be essential to your ambition that you should join your lot to that of some man the nature of whose aspirations would be like to your own. It is because this was not so as regarded him whose suit you had accepted, that you found yourself at last obliged to part from him. May I not say that with us there would be no such difference? It is because I believe that in this respect we are fitted for each other, as man and woman seldom are fitted, that I once again ask you to be my wife.

Think well before you answer me. I will not expect your reply for a week. It can hardly be your desire to go through life unmarried. I should say that it must be essential to your ambition that you should join your lot to that of some man with aspirations like your own. It is because of this that you found yourself obliged to part from Mr. Grey. May I not say that with us there would be no such difference? I believe that in this respect we are fitted for each other.


This will reach you at Vavasor, where you will now be with the old squire and Kate. I have told her nothing of my purpose in writing this letter. If it should be that your answer is such as I desire, I should use the opportunity of our re-engagement to endeavour to be reconciled to my grandfather. He has misunderstood me and has ill-used me. But I am ready to forgive that, if he will allow me to do so. In such case you and Kate would arrange that, and I would, if possible, go down to Vavasor while you are there. But I am galloping on a-head foolishly in thinking of this, and am counting up my wealth while the crockery in my basket is so very fragile. One word from you will decide whether or no I shall ever bring it into market.

This will reach you at Vavasor Hall, where you will now be with the old squire and Kate. I have told her nothing of my purpose in writing this letter. If you should accept me, I would try to be reconciled to my grandfather. He has misunderstood and ill-used me. But I am ready to forgive that, if he will allow me to. In that case I would, if possible, go down to Vavasor while you are there. But I am galloping on ahead foolishly.


If that word is to be adverse do not say anything of a meeting between me and the Squire. Under such circumstances it would be impossible. But, oh, Alice! do not let it be adverse. I think you love me. Your woman's pride towards me has been great and good and womanly; but it has had its way; and, if you love me, might now be taught to succumb.

If your answer is to be adverse, a meeting between me and the Squire would be impossible. But, oh, Alice! do not let it be adverse. I think you love me. Your woman's pride towards me has been great and good and womanly; but it has had its way; and, if you love me, might now succumb.


Yours, in any event, most affectionately,


Vavasor, when he had finished his letter, went back to his seat over the fire, and there he sat with it close at his hand for nearly an hour. Once or twice he took it up with fingers almost itching to throw it into the fire. He took it up and held the corners between his forefinger and thumb, throwing forward his hand towards the flame, as though willing that the letter should escape from him and perish if chance should so decide. But chance did not so decide, and the letter was put back upon the table at his elbow. Then when the hour was nearly over he read it again. "I'll bet two to one that she gives way," he said to himself, as he put the sheet of paper back into the envelope. "Women are such out-and-out fools." Then he took his candle, and carrying his letter with him, went into his bedroom.

Vavasor, when he had finished his letter, went back to his seat over the fire, and there he sat with it by his hand for nearly an hour. Once or twice he took it up and almost threw it in the fire. But the letter was put back upon the table. Then when the hour was nearly over he read it again.
"I'll bet two to one that she gives way," he said to himself, as he put the sheet of paper into the envelope. "Women are such fools." Then he took his candle, and went to bed.


The next morning was the morning of Christmas Eve. At about nine o'clock a boy came into his room who was accustomed to call for orders for the day. "Jem," he said to the boy, "there's half a crown lying there on the looking-glass." Jem looked and acknowledged the presence of the half-crown. "Is it a head or a tail, Jem?" asked the boy's master. Jem scrutinized the coin, and declared that the uppermost surface showed a tail. "Then take that letter and post it," said George Vavasor. Whereupon Jem, asking no question and thinking but little of the circumstances under which the command was given, did take the letter and did post it. In due accordance with postal regulations it reached Vavasor Hall and was delivered to Alice on the Christmas morning.

The next day was Christmas Eve. At about nine o'clock in the morning a boy came into his room to ask for orders for the day.
"Jem," he said to the boy, "there's half a crown lying there on the looking-glass. Is it a head or a tail?"
Jem scrutinized the coin, and declared that the uppermost surface showed a tail.
"Then take that letter and post it," said George Vavasor. So Jem took it and posted it. It reached Vavasor Hall and was delivered to Alice on Christmas morning.


A merry Christmas did not fall to the lot of George Vavasor on the present occasion. An early Christmas-box he did receive in the shape of a very hurried note from his friend Burgo. "This will be brought to you by Stickling," the note said; but who Stickling was Vavasor did not know. "I send the bill. Couldn't you get the money and send it me, as I don't want to go up to town again before the thing comes off? You're a trump; and will do the best you can. Don't let that rogue off for less than a hundred and twenty.--Yours, B. F." Vavasor, therefore, having nothing better to do, spent his Christmas morning in calling on Mr. Magruin.

George Vavasor did not have a merry Christmas. He received an early gift in the shape of a very hurried note from his friend Burgo.
"I am sending the bill. Could you get the money and send it me, as I don't want to go up to town again? Don't let that rogue off for less than a hundred and twenty. Yours, B. F."
Vavasor, therefore, spent his Christmas morning in calling on Mr. Magruin.


"Oh, Mr. Vavasor," said Magruin; "really this is no morning for business!"

"Oh, Mr. Vavasor," said Magruin, "this is no morning for business!"


"Time and tide wait for no man, Mr. Magruin, and my friend wants his money to-morrow."


"Yes, to-morrow. If time and tide won't wait, neither will love. Come, Mr. Magruin, out with your cheque-book, and don't let's have any nonsense."


"But is the lady sure, Mr. Vavasor?" asked Mr. Magruin, anxiously.