 CHAPTER XXIX On the night before Christmas Eve, two men were sitting together in George Vavasor's rooms in Cecil Street. It was past twelve o'clock, and they were both smoking. There were square bottles on the table containing spirits, with hot water and cold water in jugs, and one of the two men was using and had been using these materials for enjoyment. Vavasor had not been drinking, nor did it appear as though he intended to begin. There was a little weak brandy and water in a glass by his side, but there it had remained, untouched for the last twenty minutes. His companion, however, had twice in that time replenished his beaker, and was now puffing out the smoke of his pipe with the fury of a steamer's funnel when she has not yet burned the black off her last installment of fresh coals. This man was Bergo Fitzgerald. He was as handsome as ever a man whom neither man nor woman could help regarding as a thing beautiful to behold, but not the less was there in his eyes and cheeks a look of haggard dissipation, a riotous living which had become wearisome by its continuance even to himself, that told to all who saw him much of the history of his life. Most men who drink at nights and are out till cock-crow doing deeds of darkness become red in their faces, have pimpled cheeks and watery eyes, and are bloated and not comfortable to be seen. It is a kind of dispensation of providence who thus affords to such sinners a visible sign to be seen day by day of the injury which is being done. The first approach of a carbuncle on the nose about the age of thirty has stopped many a man from drinking. No one likes to have carbuncles on his nose or to appear before his female friends with eyes which look as though they were swimming in grog. But to Bergo Fitzgerald providence in her anger had not afforded this protection. He became at times pale, sallow, worn and haggard. He grew thin and still thinner. At times he had been ill to death's door. Among his intimate friends there were those who heard him declare frequently that his liver had become useless to him, and that as for gastric juices he had none left to him. But still his beauty remained. The perfect form of his almost godlike face was the same as ever, and the brightness of his bright blue eye was never quenched. On the present occasion he had come to Vavasor's room with the object of asking from him certain assistance, and perhaps also some amount of advice. But as regarded the latter article he was, I think, in the state of most men when they seek for counselors who shall counsel them to do evil. Advice administered in accordance with his own views would give him comfortable encouragement, but advice on the other side he was prepared to disregard altogether. These two men had known each other long, and a close intimacy had existed between them in the days past, previous to Lady Glencora's engagement with Mr. Palliser. When Lady Glencora endeavored, vainly as we know, to obtain aid from Alice Vavasor, Bergo had been instigated to believe that Alice's cousin might assist him. Any such assistance George Vavasor would have been quite ready to give. Some pecuniary assistance he had given he at that time having been in good funds. He had, for a moment, induced Bergo to think that he could obtain, for the pair, the use of the house in Queen Anne Street, as a point at which they might meet, and from whence they might start on their journey of love. All that was over. Those hopes had been frustrated, and Lady Glencora McCluskey had become Lady Glencora Palliser and not Lady Glencora Fitzgerald. But now other hopes had sprung up, and Bergo was again looking to his friend for assistance. I believe she would, Bergo said, as he lifted the glass to his mouth. It's a thing of that sort that a man can only believe, perhaps only hope, till he has tried. I know that she is not happy with him, and I have made up my mind that I will at least ask her. But he would have her fortune all the same. I don't know that would be. I haven't inquired, and I don't mean to inquire. Of course, I don't expect you or anyone else to believe me, but her money has no bearing on the question now. Who knows, I want money bad enough, but I wouldn't take away another man's wife for money. You don't mean to say you think it would be wicked, I suppose you to be above those prejudices. It's all very well for you to chaff. It's no chaff at all. I tell you fairly I wouldn't run away with any man's wife. I have an old-fashioned idea that when a man has got a wife he ought to be allowed to keep her. Public opinion, I know, is against me. I think he ran away with my wife, said Bergo, with emphasis. That's the way I look at it. She was engaged to me first, and she really loved me, while she never cared for him. Nevertheless, marriage is marriage, and the law is against you. But if I did go in for such troublesome job at all, I certainly should keep an eye upon the money. It can make no difference. It did make a difference, I suppose, when you first thought of marrying her. Of course it did. My people brought us together because she had a large fortune and I had none. There's no doubt in the world about that. And I'll tell you what, I believe that old harridan of an ant of mine is willing to do the same thing now again. Of course she doesn't say as much. She wouldn't dare do that. But I do believe she means it. I wonder where she expects to go to. That's grateful on your part. Upon my soul I hate her. I do indeed. It isn't love for me now so much as downright malice against paloser, because he balked her project before. She is a wicked old woman. Some of us fellows are wicked enough. You and I, for instance. Thank you. I don't know, however, that I am qualified to run in a curicle with you. But we are angels to such an old she-devil as that. You may believe me or not as you like. I daresay you won't believe me. I'll say I do at any rate. The truth is I want to get her partly because I love her, but chiefly because I do believe in my heart that she loves me. It's for her sake, then. You are ready to sacrifice yourself to do her a good turn? Just for sacrificing myself? That's done. I'm a man utterly ruined and would cut my throat tomorrow for the sake of my relations if I cared enough about them. I know my own condition pretty well. I have made a shipwreck of everything, and I have now only got to go down among the breakers. Only you would like to take Lady Glencora with you. No by heavens. But sometimes, when I do think about it at all, which I do as seldom as I can, it seems to me that I might still become a different fellow if it were possible for me to marry her. Had you married her when she was free to marry any one, and when her money was her own it might have been so. I think it would be quite as much so now. I do indeed. If I could get her once, say to Italy, or perhaps to Greece, I think I could treat her well, and live with her quietly. I know that I would try. Without the assistance of Brandy and Cigars? Yes. And without any money? With only a little. I know you'll laugh at me, but I make pictures to myself of a sort of life which I think would suit us, and be very different from this hideous way of living, with which I have become so sick that I loathe it. Something like one, and high day, with Planty Paul coming after you, like old Lambrough. By the nickname of Planty Paul, George Vavisar intended to designate Lady Glencora's present husband. He'd get a divorce, of course, and then we should be married. I really don't think he'd dislike it when it was all done. They tell me he doesn't care for her. You have seen her since her marriage? Yes. Twice. And have spoken to her? Only once, so as to be able to do more than ask her if she were well. Once, for about two minutes, I did speak to her. And what did she say? She said it would be better that we should not meet. When she said that, I knew that she was still fond of me. I could have fallen at her feet that moment, only the room was full of people. I do think that she is fond of me. Or paused a few minutes. I daresay she is fond of you, he then said. But whether she has plucked for such a thing as this is more than I can say. Probably she has not. And if she has, probably you would fail in carrying out your plan. I must get a little money first, said Bergo. And that's an operation which no doubt you find more difficult every day as you grow older. It seems to be much the same sort of thing. I went to Magruin this morning. He's the fellow that lives out near Grey's Inlane? Just beyond the Foundling Hospital. I went to him and he was quite civil about it. He says I owe him over three thousand pounds, but that doesn't seem to make any difference. How much did you ever have from him? I don't recollect that I ever absolutely had any money. He got a bill of mine from a tailor who went to smash and he kept on renewing that till it grew to be ever so many bills. I think he did once let me have twenty-four pounds, but certainly never more than that. And he says he'll give you money now. I suppose you told him why you wanted it? I didn't name her, but I told him what would make him understand that I hoped to get off with a lady who had a lot of tin. I asked him for two hundred and fifty. He says he'll let me have one hundred and fifty on a bill at two months for five hundred, with your name to it. With my name to it? That's kind on his part, and on yours too. Of course I can't take it up at the end of two months. I daresay not, said Vavasor. But he won't come upon you then, not for a year or more afterwards. I did pay you what you lent me before. Yes, you did. I always thought that to be a special compliment on your part. And you'll find I'll pull you through now in some way. If I don't succeed in this, I shall go off the hooks all together soon, and if I were dead, my people would pay my debts then. Before the evening was over, Vavasor promised the assistants asked of him. He knew that he was lending his name to a man who was utterly ruined, and putting it into the hands of another man who was absolutely without conscience in the use he would make of it. He knew that he was creating for himself trouble and in all probability loss which he was ill-able to bear. But the thing was one which came within the pale of his laws. Such assistants as that he might ask of others, and had asked and received before now. It was a reckless deed on his part, but then all his doings were reckless. It was consonant with his mode of life. I thought you would, old fellow, said Bergo as he got up to go away. Perhaps, you know, I shall pull through in this, and perhaps, after all, some part of her fortune will come with her. If so, you'll be all right. Perhaps I may, but look here, Bergo, don't you give that fellow up the bill till you've got the money into your fist. You may be quite easy about that, I know their tricks. He and I will go to the bank together, and we shall squabble there at the door about four or five odd sovereigns, and at last I shall have to give him up two or three. Beastly old robber. I declare I think he's worse than I am myself. Then Bergo Fitzgerald took a little more brandy in water and went away. He was living at this time in the house of one of his relatives in Cavendish Square, north of Oxford Street. His uncles and his aunts, and all those who were his natural friends, had clung to him with a tenacity that was surprising, for he had never been true to any of them, and did not even pretend to like them. His father, with whom for many years he had not been on speaking terms, was now dead. But he had sisters whose husbands would still open their houses to him, either in London or in the country, would open their houses to him and lend him their horses, and provide him with every luxury which the rich enjoy, except ready money. When the uttermost stress of pecuniary embarrassment would come upon him, they would pay something to stave off the immediate evil. And so Bergo went on. Nobody now thought of saying much to reproach him. It was known to be a waste of words and trouble and vain. They were still fond of him because he was beautiful and never vain of his beauty, because in the midst of his recklessness there was always about him a certain kindliness which made him pleasant to those around him. He was soft and gracious with children, and would be very courteous to his lady-cousins. They knew that as a man he was worthless, but nevertheless they loved him. I think the secret of it was chiefly in this, that he seemed to think so little of himself. But now as he walked home in the middle of the night from Cecil Street to Cavendish Square, he did think much of himself. Indeed such self-thoughts come naturally to all men, be their outward conduct ever so reckless. Every man to himself is the center of the whole world, the axle on which it all turns. All knowledge is but his own perception of the things around him. All love and care for others, and solicitude for the world's welfare, are but his own feelings as to the world's wants and the world's merits. He had played his part as a center of all things very badly. Of that he was very well aware. He had sense enough to know that it should be a man's lot to earn his bread and butter after some fashion, and he often told himself that never as yet had he earned so much as a penny roll. He had learned to comprehend that the world's progress depends on the way in which men do their duty by each other, that the progress of one generation depends on the discharge of such duties by that which preceded it, and he knew that he, in his generation, had done nothing to promote such progress. He thoroughly despised himself, if there might be any good in that, but on such occasions as these, when the wine he had drunk was sufficient only to drive away from him the numbness of despair, when he was all alone of the cold night air upon his face, when the stars were bright above him and the world around him was almost quiet, he would still ask himself whether there might not yet be, even for him, some hope of a redemption, some chance of a better life in store for him. He was still young, wanting some years of thirty, could there be even for him some mode of extrication from his misery. We know what was the mode which now at this moment was suggesting itself to him. He was proposing to himself as the best thing that he could do to take away another man's wife and make himself happy with her. What he had said to Vavasor as to disregarding Lady Glencora's money had been perfectly true, that in the event of her going off with him some portion of her enormous wealth would still cling to her, he did believe. Seeing that she had no children, he could not understand where else it should all go. But he thought of this as it regarded her, not as it regarded him. When he had before made his suit to her, a suit which was then honourable, however disadvantageous it might have seemed to be to her, he had made in his mind certain calculations as to the good things which would result to him if he were successful. He would keep hounds and have three or four horses every day for his own riding, and he would have no more interviews with Magruin, waiting in that rogue's dinghy-backed parlor for many a weary wretched half-hour till the rogue should be pleased to show himself. So far he had been mercenary, but he had learned to love the girl and to care more for her than for her money, and when the day of disappointment came upon him, the day on which she had told him that all between them was to be over, forever, he had for a few hours felt the loss of his love more than the loss of his money. Then he had had no further hope, no such idea as that which now filled his mind had then come upon him. The girl had gone from him and married another man, and there was an end of it, but by degrees tidings had reached him that she was not happy, reaching him through the mouths of people who were glad to exaggerate all that they had heard. A whole tribe of his female relatives had been anxious to promote his marriage with Lady Glencora McCluskey, declaring that after all that was come and gone Bergo would come forth from his troubles as a man of great wealth. So great was the wealth of the heiress that it might withstand even his propensities for spending. That whole tribe had been bitterly disappointed, and when they heard that Mr. Palliser's marriage had given him no child and that Lady Glencora was unhappy, they made their remarks in triumph rather than in sorrow. I will not say that they looked forward approvingly to such a step as that which Bergo now wished to take, though as regarded his aunt, Lady Bunk, he himself had accused her. But they whispered that such things had been done and must be expected when marriages were made up as had been that marriage between Mr. Palliser and his bride. As he walked on, thinking of his project, he strove hard to cheat himself into a belief that he would do a good thing in carrying Lady Glencora away from her husband. But as had been his life he had never before done ought so bad as that. The more fixed his intention became, the more thoroughly he came to perceive how great and grievous was the crime which he contemplated. To elope with another man's wife no longer appeared to him to be a joke at which such men as he might smile. But he tried to think that in this case there would be special circumstances which would almost justify him and also her. They had loved each other, and had sworn to love each other with constancy. There had been no change in the feelings or even in the wishes of either of them, but cold people had come between them with cold calculations and had separated them. She had been, he told himself, made to marry a man she did not love. If they too loved each other truly would it still not be better that they should come together? Would not the sin be forgiven on account of the injustice which had been done to them? Had Mr. Palliser a right to expect more from a wife who had been made to marry him without loving him? Then he reverted to those dreams of a life of love in some sunny country of which he had spoken to Vavasor, and he strove to nourish them. Vavasor had laughed at him, talking of one and high day. But Vavasor, he said to himself, was a hard, cold man who had no touch of romance in his character. He would not be laughed out of his plan by such as he, nor would he be frightened by the threat of any Lambrough who might come after him, whether he might come in the guise of an indignant uncle or injured husband. He had crossed from Regent Street through Hanover Square, and as he came out by the iron gates into Oxford Street a poor wretched girl lightly clad in thin raiment into whose bones the sharp freezing air was penetrating asked him for money. Would he give her something to get drink so that for a moment she might feel the warmth of her life renewed? Such midnight petitions were common enough in his ears, and he was passing on without thinking of her. But she was urgent, and took hold of him. For love of God, she said, if it's only a penny to get a glass of gin, feel by hand how cold it is, and she strove to put it up against his face. He looked round at her and saw that she was very young, sixteen perhaps at the most, and that she had once, nay, very lately, been exquisitely pretty. There still lingered about her eyes some remains of that look of perfect innocencey and pure faith which had been hers not more than twelve months since, and now at midnight in the middle of the streets she was praying for a penny worth of gin as the only comfort she knew or could expect. You are cold, said he, trying to speak to her cheerly. Cold said she, repeating the word, and striving to wrap herself closer in her rags, as she shivered, O God, if you knew what it was to be as cold as I am, I have nothing in the world, not one penny, not a hole to lie in. We are alike, then, said Bergo, with a slight low laugh. I also have nothing. You cannot be poorer than I am. You poor, she said, and then she looked up into his face. How beautiful you are, such as you are never poor! He laughed again, in a different tone. He always laughed when anyone told him of his beauty. I am a deal poorer than you, my girl, he said. You have nothing. I have thirty thousand pounds worse than nothing. But come along, I will get you something to eat. Will you, said she, eagerly? Then looking up at him again she exclaimed, O you are so handsome. He took her to a public house and gave her bread and meat and beer, and stood by her while she ate it. She was shy with him then, and would feign have taken it to a corner by herself had he allowed her. He perceived this and turned his back to her, but still spoke to her a word or two as she ate. The woman at the bar who served him looked at him wonderingly, staring into his face, and the pot boy woke himself thoroughly that he might look at Bergo, and the water-man from the cab stand stared at him, and women who came in for gin looked almost lovingly up into his eyes. He regarded them all not at all, showing no feeling of disgrace at his position, and no desire to carry himself as a ruffler. He quietly paid what was due when the girl had finished her meal, and then walked with her out of the shop. And now, said he, what must I do with you? If I could give you a shilling can you get a bed? She told him that she could get a bed for six pence, then keep the other six pence for your breakfast, said he. But you must promise me that you will buy no gin to-night. She promised him, and then he gave her his hand as he wished her good night, his hand which had been the dearest wish of a Lady Glencora to call her own. She took it and pressed it to her lips. I wish I might once see you again, she said, because you are so good and so beautiful. He laughed again cheerily, and walked on, crossing the street towards Coventry Square. She stood looking at him till he was out of sight, and then, as she moved away, let his hope to the bed which his bounty had provided, and not to a gin-shop, she exclaimed to herself again and again, gracious how beautiful he was. He's a gooden, the woman of the public house had said, as soon as he left it. But, my, did you ever see a man's face handsome as that fellow's? Poor Bergo, all who had seen him since life had begun with him, had loved him and striven to cherish him. And with it all, to what estate had he come? Poor Bergo, had his eyes been less brightly blue, at his face less godlike in form, it may be that things would have gone better with him. A sweeter tempered man than he never lived, nor one who was of a kinder nature. At this moment he had barely money about him to take him down to his aunt's house at Monkshade, and as she had promised to be there before Christmas Day he was bound to start on the next morning, before help from Mr. Magruin was possible. Nevertheless, out of his very narrow funds he had given half a crown to comfort the poor creature who had spoken to him in the street. CHAPTER XXXVIII of Can You Forgive Her? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jason Mayov. Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollop, CHAPTER XXXV. 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 behavior 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 spend-thrift, 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. 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, love of absolute independence in his thoughts as well as actions, which were antagonistic to marriage. He was also 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 forever. 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. 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. Gray, 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 Gray the prize which John Gray 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 is a man of courage, and dared to do most things, but he would not have dared to commence the teaching of such a lesson to her. 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 breath towards danger in reputation. Just 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 tell her that he wanted to spend all her money in the first year or two of their married life. He was still in his armchair, 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, Dear Alice! 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. Had 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, that 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. 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. Gray, 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 Basil 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. 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 mind than any other consideration, but we have both reached that time of life when it is possible 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 tomorrow 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 co-operation, 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 have never kissed any other rod. You cannot accuse my love. Since the time in which I might sit with my arm around your waist I have sat with it around no other waist. Since your lips were mine no other lips have been dear to me. Since you were my counsellor I have a 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 had been the natural result of the loss which I have suffered. Providence has hitherto been very good to me, and not having made that loss irremediable by your marriage with Mr. Gray. I wish you now to consider the matter well, and to tell me whether you can pardon me and still love me. So I flatter myself when I feel that I doubt your pardon almost more than I doubt your love. 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 your own. It is because this was not so as recorded him whose suit you had accepted that you found yourself at last obliged apart 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. This will reach you at Vavasor. Well 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 endeavor 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 were there. But I am galloping on ahead 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. 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. Dear Alice, will you be my wife? As in any event, most affectionately, George Vavasor. 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 toward 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. The next morning was the morning of Christmas Eve, and 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 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, where upon 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. 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 Bergo. 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 to me, as I don't want to go up to town again before the thing comes off? You're a Trump, and we'll do the best you can. Don't let that rogue offer 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. Oh, Mr. Vavasor, said Mr. Magruin. Really, this is no morning for business. Time and tide wait for no man, Mr. Magruin, and my friend wants his money tomorrow. Oh, Mr. Vavasor, tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. If time and tide won't wait, neither will love. Come, Mr. Magruin, out with your checkbook, and don't let's have any nonsense. But is the lady sure, Mr. Vavasor? asked Mr. Magruin anxiously. Ladies never are sure, said Vavasor, hardly more sure than bills made over to moneylenders. I'm not going to wait here all day. Are you going to give him the money? Christmas day, Mr. Vavasor, there's no getting money in the city today. But Vavasor, before he left, did get the money from Mr. Magruin, a hundred and twenty-two pounds ten shilling for which an acceptance at two months for five hundred pounds was given in exchange, and carried it off in triumph. Do tell him to be punctual, said Mr. Magruin, when Vavasor took his leave. I do so like young men to be punctual, but I really think Mr. Fitzgerald is the most unpunctual young man I ever did know yet. I think he is, said George Vavasor, as he went away. He ate his Christmas dinner in absolute solitude at an eating-house near his lodgings. It may be supposed that no man dares to dine at his club on Christmas day. He at any rate did not so dare, and after dinner he wandered about through the streets, wondering within his mind how he would endure the restraints of married life, and the same dull monotony of his days was continued for a week during which he waited, not impatiently, for an answer to his letter. And before the end of the week the answer came. CHAPTER XXXI. Alice came down to breakfast, on that Christmas morning at Vavasor Hall, without making any sign as to the letter she had received. The party there consisted of her grandfather, her father, her cousin Kate, and herself. They all made their Christmas salutations, as is usual, and Alice received and made hers, as did the others, without showing that anything had occurred to disturb her tranquility. Kate remarked that she had heard that morning from Aunt Greenow, and promised to show Alice the letter after breakfast. But Alice had no word of her own letter. Why didn't your aunt come here to eat her Christmas dinner? said the squire. Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her, said Kate, standing close to her grandfather, for the old man was somewhat deaf. And why didn't you ask her? That is, if she stands upon asking to come to her old home. Nay, sir, but I couldn't do that without your bidding. We Vavasors are not always fond of meeting each other. Hold your tongue, Kate. I know what you mean, and you should be the last to speak of it. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I am much obliged to you for coming down all this way to see your old grandfather at Christmas. I am indeed. I only wish you had brought better news about your sweetheart. She'll think better of it before long, sir, said her father. Papa, you shouldn't say that. You would not wish me to marry against my own judgment. I don't know much about ladies' judgments, said the old man. It does seem to me that when a lady makes a promise, she ought to keep it. According to that, said Kate, if I were engaged to a man and found that he was a murderer, I still ought to marry him. But Mr. Gray is not a murderer, said the squire. Pray, pray, don't talk about it, said Alice. If you do, I really cannot sit and hear it. I have given over saying anything on the subject, said John Vavasor, speaking as though he had already expended upon it a vast amount of paternal eloquence. He had, however, never said more than has been recorded in these pages. Alice, during this conversation, sat with her cousin's letter in her pocket, and as yet had not even begun to think what should be the nature of her reply. The squire of Vavasor Hall was a stout old man with a red face and gray eyes which looked fiercely at you and with long gray hair and a rough gray beard which gave him something of the appearance of an old lion. He was passionate, unreasoning, and especially impatient of all opposition. But he was affectionate, prone to forgive when asked to do so, unselfish and hospitable. He was, moreover, guided strictly by rules, which he believed to be rules of right. His grandson, George, had offended him very deeply, had offended him and never asked his pardon. He was determined that such pardon never be given unless it were asked for with almost bended knees. But nevertheless this grandson should be his heir. That was his present intention. The right of primogeniture could not, in accordance with his theory, be abrogated by the fact that it was, in George Vavasor's case, protected by no law. The squire could leave Vavasor Hall to whom he pleased. But he could not have hoped to rest quietly in his grave should it be found that he had left it to anyone but the eldest son of his own eldest son. Though violent and even stern, he was more prone to love than to anger, and though none of those around him dared to speak to him of his grandson, yet he longed in his heart for some opportunity of being reconciled to him. The whole party went to church on this Christmas morning. The small parish church of Vavasor, an unpretending wooden structure with a single bell which might be heard tinkling for a mile or two over the fells, stood all alone about half a mile from the squire's gate. Vavasor was a parish situated on the intermediate ground between the mountains of the lake country and the plains. Its land was unproductive, ill-drained, and poor, and yet it possessed little or none of the beauty which tourists go to see. It was all amidst the fells and very dreary. There were long skirtings of dark pines around a portion of the squire's property, and at the back of the house there was a thick wood of firs running up the top of what was there called the Beacon Hill. Through this there was a wild steep walk which came out upon the moorland, and from hence there was a track across the mountain to Hawes Water and Nadal, and on over many miles did the further beauties of bonus and windermere. They who knew the country and whose legs were of use to them could find some of the grandest scenery in England within reach of a walk from Vavasor Hall. But to others the place was very desolate. For myself I can find I know not what of charm in wandering over open unadorned moorland. It must be more in the softness of the grass to the feet, and the freshness of the air to the lungs than in anything that meets the eye. You might walk from miles and miles to the northeast or east or southeast of Vavasor without meeting any object to arrest the view. The great road from Lancaster to Carlisle crossed the outskirts of the small parish about a mile from the church, and beyond that the fell seemed to be interminable. Towards the north it rose, and towards the south it fell, and it rose and fell very gradually. Here and there some slight appearance of a valley might be traced which had been formed by the action of the waters, but such breakings of ground were inconsiderable and did not suffice to interrupt the stern sameness of the everlasting moorland. The daily life at Vavasor was melancholy enough for such a one as the squire's son, who regarded London as the only place on the earth's surface in which a man could live with comfort. The moors offered no charms to him, nor did he much appreciate the only comforts of the hall. For the house, though warm, was old-fashioned and small, and the squire's cook was nearly as old as the squire himself. John Vavasor's visits to Vavasor were always visits of duty rather than of pleasure. But it was not so with Alice. He could be very happy there with Kate. For like herself, Kate was a good walker and loved the mountains. Their regard for each other had grown and become strong because they had gone together o'er the river and moor, and because they had together disregarded those impediments of mud and wet which frightened so many girls away from the beauties of nature. On this Christmas day they all went to church, the squire being accompanied by Alice in a vehicle which in Ireland is called an inside jaunting car and which is perhaps the most uncomfortable kind of vehicle yet invented, while John Vavasor walked with his niece. But the girls had arranged that immediately after church they would start for a walk up the Beacon Hill across the fells towards Haweswater. They always dined at the hall at the vexatious hour of five, but as their church service with the sacrament included would be completed soon after twelve, and as lunch was a meal which the squire did not himself attend, they could have full four hours for their excursion. This had all been planned before Alice received her letter. But there was nothing in that to make her change her mind about the walk. Alice, my dear, said the old man to her when they were together in the jaunting car, you ought to get married. The squire was hard of hearing, and under any circumstances an inside jaunting car is a bad place for conversation, as your teeth are nearly shaken out of your head by every movement which the horse makes. Alice therefore said nothing but smiled faintly in reply to her grandfather. On returning from church he insisted that Alice should again accompany him, telling her specially that he desired to speak to her. My dear child, he said, I have been thinking a great deal about you, and you ought to get married. Well, sir, perhaps I shall some day. Not if you quarrel with all your suitors, said the old man. You quarreled with your cousin, George, and now you have quarreled with Mr. Gray. You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in that way. Why should I be married more than Kate? Oh, Kate, I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wish you'd think of what I say. If you don't get married before long, perhaps you'll never get married at all. Gentlemen won't stand that kind of thing forever. The two girls took a slice of cake each in her hand and started on their walk. We shan't be able to get to the lake, said Kate. No, said Alice, but we can go as far as the big stone on Swindell fell, where we can sit down and see it. Do you remember the last time we sat there, said Kate? It is nearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all was to be over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was and how I screamed in my sorrow? I sometimes wonder at myself and my own folly. How is it that I can never get of any interest about my own belongings? And then we got soaking wet through coming home. I remember that very well. And how dark it was. That was in September, but we had dined early. If we go as far as Swindell, we shall have it very dark coming home today. But I don't mind that through the beaked wood, because I know my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark. Oh, no, said Alice. Yes, I do remember that day. Well, it's all for the best, I suppose, and now I must read you my aunt's letter. Then, while they were still in the wood, Kate took out the letter from her aunt and read it, while they still walked slowly up the hill. It seemed that hitherto neither of her two suitors had brought the widow to terms. Indeed she continued to write of Mr. Cheesaker, as though that gentleman were inconsolable for the loss of Kate and gave her niece much serious advice as to the expedience of returning to Norfolk in order that she might secure so eligible a husband. You must understand all the time, Alice, said Kate, pausing as she read the letter, that the dear man has never given me the slightest ground for the faintest hope, and that I note to a certainty that he makes an offer to her twice a week, that is, on every market day. You can't enjoy half the joke if you won't bear that in mind. Alice promised that she would bear it all in mind, and then Kate went on with her reading. Poor Bellefield was working very hard at his drill, Mrs. Greenough went on to say, so hard that sometimes she really thought the fatigue would be too much for his strength. He would come in sometimes of an evening and just take a cup of tea, generally on Mondays and Thursdays. These are not market days at Norwich, said Kate, and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided. He comes in, said Mrs. Greenough, and takes a little tea, and sometimes I think that he will faint at my feet. That he kneels there on every occasion, said Kate, and repeats his offer also twice a week, I have not the least doubt in the world. And will she accept him at last? Really I don't know what to think of it. Sometimes I fancy that she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide awake to put herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money, because he wants it sadly and she is very generous. She gives him money, I feel sure, but takes his receipt on stamp paper for every shilling. That's her character all over. The letter then went on to say that the writer had made up her mind to remain at Norwich, certainly through the winter and spring, and that she was anxiously desirous that her dear Kate should go back to her. Come and have one other look at Oilymead, said the letter, and then, if you make up your mind that you don't like it or him, I won't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a very honest fellow. Did you ever know such a woman, said Kate? With all her faults I believe she would go through fire and water to serve me. I think she'd lend me money without any stamp paper. Then Aunt Greenough's letter was put up and the two girls had come out upon the open fell. It was a delicious afternoon for a winter's walk. The air was clear and cold, but not actually frosty. The ground beneath their feet was dry, and the sky, though not bright, had that appearance of enduring weather which gives no foreboding of rain. There is a special winter's light, which is very clear, though devoid of all brilliancy, through which every object strikes upon the eye with well-marked lines, and under which almost all forms of nature seem graceful to the sight, if not actually beautiful. But there is a certain melancholy which ever accompanies it. It is the light of the afternoon, and gives token of this speedy coming of the early twilight. It tells of the shortness of the day, and contains even in its clearness a promise of the gloom of night. It is absolute light, but it seems to contain the darkness which is to follow it. I do not know that it is ever to be seen and felt so plainly as on the wide moorland where the eye stretches away over miles and sees at the world's end the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselves upon the horizon. Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, and both the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the big stone on Swindale Fell, from which they intended to look down upon the loveliness of Hawes' water. As they went up through the wood there had been some laughter between them over Aunt Greenow's letter, and they had discussed almost with Murth the merits of oily mead at Mr. Cheesaker, but as they got further on to the Fell, and as the half-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, their words became less light, and after a while they almost ceased to speak. Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had placed it there when she came down to breakfast, and had carried it with her since. She had come to no resolution, as yet, as to her answer to it, nor had she resolved whether or no she would show it to Kate. Kate had ever been regarded by her as her steadfast friend. In all these affairs she had spoken openly to Kate. We know that Kate had in part betrayed her, but Alice suspected no such treason. She had often quarreled with Kate, but she had quarreled with her not on account of any sin against the faith of their friendship. She believed in her cousin perfectly, though she found herself often called upon to disagree with her almost violently. Why should she not show this letter to Kate, and discuss it in all its bearings before she replied to it? This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the Fell. The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclined to give way, and to join her lot to that of her cousin George. Alas, yes. The reader will be right in his surmise, and yet it was not her love for the man that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. Had it been so, I think that it would be easier to forgive her. She was beginning to think that love, the love of which she had once thought so much, did not matter. Of what use was it, and to what had it led? What had love done for her friend Glencora? What had love done for her? Had she not loved John Gray, and had she not felt that with all her love life with him would have been distasteful to her? It would have been impossible for her to marry a man whom personally she disliked, but she liked her cousin George. Well, enough, as she said to herself almost indifferently. Upon the whole it was a grievous task to her in these days, this having to do something with her life. Was it not all vain and futile? As for that girl's dream of the joys of love which she had once dreamed that had gone from her slumbers never to return. How might she best make herself useful, useful in some sort that one might gratify her ambition? That was now the question which seemed to her to be of most importance. Her cousin's letter to her had been very crafty. He had studied the whole of her character accurately as he wrote it. When he had sat down to write it he had been indifferent to the result, but he had written it with that care to attain success which a man uses when he is anxious not to fail in an attempt. Whether or no he cared to marry his cousin was a point so little interesting to him that Chance might decide it for him. But when Chance decided that he did wish it, it was necessary for his honour that he should have that for which he condescended to ask. His letter to her had been clever and very crafty. At any rate he does me justice, she said to herself when she read those words about her money and the use which he proposed to make of it. He is welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether he has it as my friend or as my husband. Then she thought of Kate's promise of her little might and declared to herself that she would be not less noble than her cousin Kate and would it not be well that she should be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather. George was the representative of the family, of a family so old that no one now knew which had first taken the ancient titular name of some old Saxon landowner, the parish or the man. There had been in old days some worthy Vavasors as Chaucer calls them whose rank and bearing had been adopted on the moorland side. Of these things Alice thought much and felt that it should be her duty so to act, that future Vavasors might at any rate not be less in the world than they who had passed away. In a few years at furthest George Vavasor must be Vavasor of Vavasor. Would it not be right that she should help him to make that position honourable? They walked on, exchanging now and again a word or two till the distant Cumberland mountains began to form themselves in groups of beauty before their eyes. There's Helvelin at last, said Kate, I'm always happy when I see that. And isn't that Kid Stuy Pike? asked Alice. No, you don't see Kid Stuy yet, but you will when you get up to the bank there, that's Scoffel on the left, the round distant top. I can distinguish it, though I doubt whether you can. Then they went on again, and were soon at the bank from whence the sharp top of the mountain which Alice had named was visible. And now we are on Swindale, and in five minutes we shall get to the stone. In less than five minutes they were there, and then, but not till then, the beauty of the little lake lying down below them in the quiet bosom of the hills disclosed itself. A lake should, I think, be small, and should be seen from above to be seen in all its glory. The distance should be such that the shadows of the mountains on its surface may just be traced, and that some faint idea of the ripple on the waters may be present to the eye. And the form of the lakes should be irregular, curving round from its base among the lower hills, deeper and still deeper into some close nook up among the mountains from which its head water spring. It is thus that a lake should be seen, and it was thus that Hawswater was seen by them from the flat stone on the side of Swindale fell. The basin of the lake has formed itself into the shape of the figure three, and the top section of the figure lies embosomed among the very wildest of the Westmoreland mountains. Altogether it is not above three miles long, and every point of it was to be seen from the spot on which the girl sat themselves down. The water beneath was still as death, and as dark, and looked almost as cold, but the slow clouds were passing over it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed themselves with gradual changes, and though no movement was visible, there was ever and again in places a slight sheen upon the lake which indicated the ripple made by the breeze. "'I'm so glad I've come here,' said Alice, seating herself. "'I cannot bear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes, at least.' "'We'll get over to Windermere one day,' said Kate. "'I don't think we shall. I don't think it possible that I should stay long. Kate, I've got a letter to show you.' And there was that in the tone of her voice which instantly put Kate upon her metal. Kate seated herself also, and put up her hand for the letter. "'Is it for Mr. Gray?' she asked. "'No,' said Alice. "'It is not for Mr. Gray.' And she gave her companion the paper. Kate, before she had touched it, had seen that it was from her brother George, and as she opened it looked anxiously into Alice's face. "'Has he offended you?' Kate asked. "'Read it,' said Alice. And then we'll talk of it afterwards as we go home.' Then she got up from the stone, and walked a step or two towards the brow of the fell, and stood there looking down upon the lake while Kate read the letter. "'Well,' she said, when she returned to her place. "'Well,' said Kate. "'Alice, Alice, it will indeed be well if you listen to him. Oh, Alice, may I hope—Alice, my own Alice, my darling, my friend—say that it shall be so.' And Kate knelt at her friend's feet upon the heather, and looked up into her face with eyes full of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false as she had been, and yet could be so true?' Alice made no immediate answer, but still continued to gaze down over her friend upon the lake. "'Alice,' continued Kate, "'I did not think I should be made so happy this Christmas day. You could not have the heart to bring me here and show me this letter in this way, and bid me read it so calmly, and then tell me that it is all for nothing. No, you could not do that. Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this place. I hated it before.' And then she put her face down upon the boulder stone and kissed it. Still Alice said nothing, but she began to feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It was almost impossible for her now to say that her answer to George must be a refusal. Then Kate again went on speaking. But is it not a beautiful letter? Say, Alice, is it not a letter of which, if you were not his brother, you would feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage, who will yet do manly things. Here out in the mountain, with nobody near us, with nature all around us, I ask you on your solemn word as a woman, do you love him?' "'Love him,' said Alice. "'Yes, love him, as a woman should love her husband, is not your heart his?' Alice, there need be no lies now. If it be so, it should be your glory to say so, here to me, as you hold that letter in your hand. I can have no such glory, Kate. I have ever loved my cousin, but not so passionately as you seem to think. Then there can be no passion in you. Perhaps not, Kate. I would sometimes hope that it is so, but come, we shall be late, and you will be cold sitting there. I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would be as I would have it, but Alice, at any rate, you shall tell me before I move what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him, but make me happy by saying so with your own lips. I cannot tell you before you move, Kate. And why not? Because I have not, as yet, resolved." "'Ah, that is impossible. That is quite impossible. On such a subject, and under such circumstances, a woman must resolve at the first moment. You had resolved. No, before you had half read the letter, though perhaps it may not suit you to say so. You were quite mistaken. Come along and let us walk, and I will tell you all. Then Kate arose, and they turned their back to the lake, and began to make their way homewards. I have not made up my mind as to what answer I will give him, but I have shown you his letter in order that I might have someone with whom I might speak openly. I knew well how it would be, and that you would strive to hurry me into an immediate promise. No, no, I want nothing of the kind. But yet I could not deny myself the comfort of your friendship. No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do not wish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Has it not been the longing of all my life? Have I not passed my time plotting and planning and thinking of it till I have had time to think of nothing else? Do you know what I suffered when, through George's fault, the engagement was broken off? Was it not martyrdom to me, that horrid time in which your chryton from Cambridgeshire was in the ascendant? Did I not suffer the torches of purgatory while that went on? And yet, on the whole, did I not bear them with patience? And now can you be surprised that I am wild with joy when I begin to see that everything will be as I wish, for it will be as I wish, Alice? It may be that you have not resolved to accept him, but you would have resolved to refuse him instantly had that been your destined answer to his letter. There was but little more said between them on the subject as they were passing over the fell. But when they were going down the path through the beacon wood, Kate again spoke. You will not answer him without speaking to me first, said Kate? I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you, said Alice. And you will let me see it? Nay, said Alice, I will not promise that. But if it is unfavorable, I will show it to you. Then I shall never see it, said Kate, laughing. But that is quite enough for me. I, by no means, wish to criticize the love-sweet words in which you tell him that his offences are all forgiven. I know how sweet they will be, O heavens, how I envy him. Then they were at home, and the old man met them at the front door, glowering at them angrily from out his old Leonine eyes, because the roast beef was already roasted. He had his great uncouth silver watch in his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and he pointed at it fiercely, showing them the minute hand at ten minutes past the hour. But, Grandpa Pa, you are always too fast, said Kate. And you are always too slow, Miss, said the hungry old squire. Indeed, it is not five yet, is it, Alice? And how long are you going to be dressing? Not ten minutes, are we, Alice? And Grandpa Pa, pray, don't wait. Don't wait, that's what they always say, he muttered, peevishly, as if one would be any better waiting for them after the meat is on the table. But neither Kate nor Alice heard this, as they were already in their rooms. Some more was said that evening between Alice and Kate about the letter, but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night inside her bedroom door, spoke to her just one word. Pray for him tonight, she said, as you pray for those you love best. Alice made no answer, but we may believe that she did, as she was desired to do. CHAPTER XXXII CONTAINING AN ANSWER TO THE LOVE LETTER Alice had had a week allowed to her to write her answer, but she sent it off before the full week was passed. Why should I keep him in suspense, she said, if it is to be so, there can be no good in not saying so at once. Then she thought or say that if this were to be her destiny, it might be well for Mr. Gray that all his doubts on the matter should be dispelled. She had treated him badly, very badly. She had so injured him that the remembrance of the injury must always be a source of misery to her. But she owed him above everything to let him know what were her intentions as soon as they were settled. She tried to console herself by thinking that the wound to him would be easy to cure. He also is not passionate, she said. But in so saying she deceived herself. He was a man in whom love could be very passionate, and was, moreover, one in whom love could hardly be renewed. Each morning Kate asked her whether her answer was written, and on the third day after Christmas, just before dinner, Alice said that she had written it and that it was gone. But it isn't post-day, said Kate, for the post-illuminated verbesa but three days a week. I have given a boy sixpence to take it to Shaps at Alice blushing. And what have you said, asked Kate, taking hold of the other's arm? I have kept my promise at Alice, and do you keep yours by asking no further questions. My sister, my own sister, said Kate, and then as Alice met her embrace there was no longer any doubters to the nature of the reply. After this there was, of course, much close discussion between them as to what other steps should now be taken. Kate wanted her cousin to write immediately to Mr. Gray, and was somewhat frightened when Alice declined to do so till she had received a further letter from George. You have not proposed any horrid stipulations to him, exclaimed Kate. I don't know what you may call horrid stipulations, said Alice gravely. My conditions have not been very hard, and I do not think you would have disapproved them. But he—he is so impetuous, will he disapprove them? I have told him—but Kate, this is just what I did not mean to tell you. Why should there be secrets between us, said Kate? There shall be none, then, I have told him that I cannot bring myself to marry him instantly, that he must allow me twelve months to wear off, if I can in that time, much of sadness and of self-approach which has fallen to my lot. Twelve months, Alice? Listen to me, I have said so, but I have told him also that if he wishes it still, I will at once tell Papa and Grand-Papa that I hold myself as engaged to him, so that he may know that I bind myself to him as far as it is possible that I should do so. And I have added something else, Kate. She continued to say, after a slight pause, something else which I can tell you, though I could tell it to no other person, I can tell you because you would do, and will do, the same. I have told him that any portion of my money is at his service, which may be needed for his purposes before that twelve months is over. Oh, Alice! No! No! You shall not do that! It is too generous! And Kate perhaps felt at the moment that her brother was a man to whom such an offer could hardly be made with safety. But I have done it. Mercury, with six pence in his pocket, is already posting my generosity at chap, and to tell the truth, Kate, it is no more than fair. He has honestly told me that while the old squire lives he will want my money to assist him in a career of which I do much more than approve. It has been my earnest wish to see him in Parliament. It will now be the most earnest desire of my heart. The one thing as to which I shall feel an intense anxiety. How then can I have the face to bid him wait twelve months for that which is specially needed in six months' time? It would be like the workhouses which are so long in giving bread that in the meantime the wretches starve. But the wretch shan't starve, said Kate, my money, small as it is will carry him over the spout, I have told him that he shall have it, and that I expect him to spend it, moreover I have no doubt that Aunt Greenow would lend him what he wants. But I should not wish him to borrow from Aunt Greenow, she would advance him the money, as you say, upon stamped paper, and then talk of it. He shall have mine, said Kate. And who are you, said Alice, laughing, you are not going to be his wife. He shall not touch your money till you are his wife, said Kate, very seriously. I wish you would consent to change your mind about this stupid tedious year, and then you might do as you pleased. I have no doubt such a settlement might be made as to the property here, when my grandfather hears of it, as would make you ultimately safe. And do you think I care to be ultimately safe, as you call it? Kate, my dear, you do not understand me. I suppose not, and yet I thought that I had known something about you. It is because I do not care for the safety of which you speak, that I am now going to become your brother's wife. Do you suppose that I do not see that I must run much risk? You prefer the excitement of London to the tranquillity, may I say, of Cambridgeshire? Exactly, and therefore I have told George that he shall have my money whenever he wants it. Kate was very persistent in her objection to this scheme till George's answer came. His answer to Alice was accompanied by a letter to his sister, and after that Kate said nothing more about the money question. She said no more then, but it must not therefore be supposed that she was less determined than she had been, that no part of Alice's fortune should be sacrificed to her brother's once, at any rate before Alice should become her brother's wife. But her brother's letter for the moment stopped her mouth. It would be necessary that she should speak to him before she again spoke to Alice. In what words Alice had written her assent it will be necessary that the reader should know, in order that something may be understood of the struggle which she made upon the occasion, but they shall be given presently, when I come to speak of George Vivace's position as he received them. George's reply was very short and apparently very frank. He deprecated the delay of twelve months, and still hoped to be able to induce her to be more lenient to him. He advised her to write to Mr. Gray at once, and as regarded the squire he gave her carte blanche to act as she pleased. If the squire required any kind of apology, expression of sorrow, and asking for pardon or such like—he, George, would, under the circumstances as they now existed, comply with the requisition most willingly. He would regard it as simple form, may necessary by his coming marriage. As to Alice's money he thanked her heartily for her confidence. If the nature of his coming contest at Chelsea should make it necessary, he would use her offer as frankly as it had been made. Such was his letter to Alice. What was contained in his letter to Kate Alice never knew. Then came the business of telling this new love tale, the third which poor Alice had been forced to tell her father and grandfather, and a grievous task it was. In this matter she feared her father much more than her grandfather, and therefore she resolved to tell her grandfather first, or rather she determined that she would tell the squire, and that in the meantime Kate should talk to her father. Grand-papa, she said to him in the morning after she had received her cousin's second letter. The old man was in the habit of breakfasting alone in a closet of his own, which was called his dressing-room, but in which he kept no appurtenances for dressing, but in lieu of them a large collection of old spuds and sticks and horses-bits. There was a broken spade here, and a hoe or two, and a small table in the corner was covered with the debris of tradesmen's bills from Penrith, and dirty scraps which he was wont to call his farm-accounts. Grand-papa said Alice rushing away at once into the middle of her subject. You told me the other day that you thought I ought to be married. Did I, my dear? Well, yes, so I did. And so you ought. I mean to that Mr. Gray. That is impossible, sir. Then what's the use of your coming and talking to me about it? This made Alice's task not very easy, but nevertheless she persevered. I am come, Grand-papa, to tell you of another engagement. Another, said he, and by the tone of his voice he accused his granddaughter of having a large number of favoured suitors than ought to fall to the lot of any young lady. It was very hard upon her, but still she went on. You know, said she, that some years ago I was to have been married to my cousin George, and then she paused. Well, said the old man. And I remember you told me then that you were much pleased. So I was, George was doing well then, or, which is more likely, had made us believe that he was doing well. Have you made it up with him again? Yes, sir. And that's the meaning of your jilting, Mr. Gray, is it? Poor Alice! It is hard to explain how heavy a blow fell upon her from the open utterance of that word. Of all words in the language it was the one which she now most dreaded. She had called herself a jilt, with that inaudible voice which one uses in making self-accusations, but hitherto no lips had pronounced the odious word to her ears. Poor Alice! She was a jilt, and perhaps it may have been well that the old man should tell her so. Grand-papa, she said, and there was that in the tone of her voice which somewhat softened the squire's heart. Well, my dear, I don't want to be ill-natured, so you are going at last to marry George, are you? I hope he'll treat you well, that's all. Does your father approve of it? I have told you first, sir, because I wish to obtain your consent to seeing George again here as your grandson. Never, said the old man, snarling, never. If he has been wrong, he will beg your pardon. If he has been wrong, didn't he want to squander every shilling of the property, property which has never belonged to him, property which I could give to Tom, Dick or Harry to Mario if I liked, if he has been wrong? I am not defending him, sir, but I thought that, perhaps on such an occasion as this, a Tom fools occasion, you've got money of your own, he'll spend all that now. He will be less likely to do so if he will recognise him as your heir. Pray believe, sir, that he is not the sort of man that he was. He must be a very clever sort of man, I think, when he has talked you out of such a husband as John Gray. It's astounding to me, with that ugly mug of his, well, my dear, if your father approves of it, and if George will ask my pardon, but I don't think he ever will. He will, sir. I am his messenger for as much as that. Oh, you are, are you? Then you may also be my messenger to him, and tell him that, for your sake, I will let him come back here. I know he'll insult me the first day, but I'll try and put up with it, for your sake, my dear. Of course, I must know what your father thinks about it. It may be imagined that Kate's success was even less than that which Alice achieved. I knew it would be so, said John Vevasa, when his niece first told him, and as he spoke he struck his hand upon the table. I knew all along how it would be. And why should it not be so, Uncle John? He is your brother, and I will not tell you why. You think that he is a spendthrift? I think that he is as unsafe a man as ever I knew to be entrusted with the happiness of any young woman, that is all. You are hard upon him, Uncle. Perhaps so. Tell Alice this from me, that as I have never yet been able to get her to think anything of my opinion, I do not at all expect that I should be able to induce her to do so now. I will not even make the attempt. As my son-in-law I will not receive George Vevasa. Tell Alice that. Alice was told her father's message, but Kate, in telling it, felt no deep regret. She well knew that Alice would not be turned back from her present intention by her father's wishes, nor would it have been very reasonable that she should. Her father had for many years relieved himself from the burden of her father's cares, and now had hardly the right to claim her father's privileges. We will now go once again to George Vevasa's room in Cecil Street, in which he received Alice's letter. He was dressing when it was first brought to him, and when he recognized the handwriting he put it down on his toilet table unopened. He put it down and went on brushing his hair, as though he were determined to prove to himself that he was indifferent as to the tidings which it might contain. He went on brushing his hair and cleaning his teeth and tying his cravat carefully over his turned-down collar, while the unopened letter lay close to his hand. Of course he was thinking of it, of course he was anxious, of course as I went to it from moment to moment. But he carried it with him into the sitting-room still unopened, and so it remained until after the girl had brought him his tea and his toast. And now, said he as he threw himself into his armchair, let us see what the girl of my heart says to me. The girl of his heart said to him as follows, My dear George, I feel great difficulty in answering your letter. Could I have my own way, I should make no answer to it at present, but leave it for the next six months, so that then such answer might hereafter be made as circumstances should seem to require. This will be little flattering to you, but it is less flattering to myself. Whatever answer I may make, how can anything in this affair be flattering either to you or to me? We have been like children who have quarreled over our game of play till now, at the close of our little day of pleasure, we are fain to meet each other in tears, and acknowledge that we have looked for delights where no delights were to be found. Kate, who is here, talks to me of passionate love. There is no such passion left to me, nor as I think to you either. It would not now be possible that you and I should come together on such terms as that. We could not stand up together as man and wife with any hope of a happy marriage, unless we had both agreed that such happiness might be had without passionate love. You will see from all this that I do not refuse your offer. Without passion I have for you a warm affection, which enables me to take a livelier interest in your career than in any other of the matters which are around me. Of course if I become your wife that interest will be still closer and dearer, and I do feel that I can take in it that concern which a wife should have in her husband's affairs. If it suits you I will become your wife, but it cannot be quite at once. I have suffered much from the past conflicts of my life, and there has been very much with which I must reproach myself. I know that I have behaved badly. Sometimes I have to undergo the doubly bitter self-accusation of having behaved in a manner which the world will call unfeminine. You must understand that I have not passed through this unscathed, and I must beg you to allow me some time for a cure. A perfect cure I may never expect, but I think that in twelve months from this time I may so far have recovered my usual spirit and ease of mind as to enable me to devote myself to your happiness. Dear George, if you will accept me under such circumstances, I will be your wife, and will endeavour to do my duty by you faithfully. I have said that even now, as your cousin, I take a lively interest in your career. Of course I mean your career as a politician, and especially in your hopes of entering Parliament. I understand, accurately as I think, what you have said about my fortune, and I perfectly appreciate your truth and frankness. If I had nothing of my own, you in your circumstances could not possibly take me as your wife. I know, moreover, that your need of assistance from my means is immediate rather than prospective. My money may be absolutely necessary to you within this year, during which, as I tell you most truly, I cannot bring myself to become a married woman. But my money shall be less cross-grained than myself. You will take it as frankly as I mean it when I say that whatever you want for your political purposes shall be forthcoming at your slightest wish. Dear George, let me have the honour and glory of marrying a man who has gained a seat in the Parliament of Great Britain. Of all positions which a man may attain that, to me is the grandest. I shall wait for a further letter from you before I speak either to my father or to my grandfather. If you can tell me that you accede to my views, I will at once try to bring about a reconciliation between you and the squire. I think that that will be almost easier than inducing my father to look with favour upon our marriage. But I need hardly say that should either one or the other oppose it, or should both do so, that would not turn me from my purpose. I also wait for your answer to write a last line to Mr. Gray, your affectionate cousin, Alice Vevasa. George Vevasa, when he had read the letter, threw it carelessly from him onto the breakfast table, and began to munch his toast. He threw it carelessly from him as though taking a certain pride in his carelessness. Very well said he, so be it, it is probably the best thing that I could do whatever the effect may be on her. Then he took up his newspaper. But before the day was over he had made many plans, plans made almost unconsciously, as to the benefit which might cruder him from the offer which he had made of her money, and before night he had written that reply to her of which we have heard the contents, and had written also to his sister Kate, a letter of which Kate had kept the contents to herself. CHAPTER XXXIII. When the first of the New Year came round, Lady Glencora was not keeping her appointment at Lady Monk's house. She went to gather him castle, and let us hope that she enjoyed the magnificent Christmas hospitality of the Duke. But when the time came for moving on to Monkshade she was indisposed, and Mr. Palacere went thither alone. Lady Glencora returned to matching and remained at home, while her husband was away in company with the two Miss Palacers. When the tidings reached Monkshade that Lady Glencora was not to be expected, Bergo Fitzgerald was already there, armed with such pecuniary assistance as George of Avisore had been able to wrench out of the hands of Mr. McGrewen. Bergo said his aunt, catching him one morning near his bedroom door, as he was about to go downstairs in hunting trim. Bergo, your old flame, Lady Glencora, is not coming here. Lady Glencora, not coming, said Bergo, betraying by his look and the tone of his voice too clearly that this change in the purpose of a married lady was to him of more importance than it should have been. Such betrayal, however, through Lady Monk, was not perhaps matter of much moment. No, she is not coming. It can't be matter of any moment to you now. But by heavens it is," said he, putting his hand up to his forehead, and leaning back against the wall of the passage as though in despair. It is matter of moment to me. I am the most unfortunate devil that ever lived. Fie, Bergo, fie! You must not speak in that way of a married woman. I begin to think it is better that she should not come. At this moment another man, Buddha Dense Bird, came down the passage, upon whom Lady Monk smiled sweetly, speaking some pretty little word as he passed. Bergo spoke never a word, but still stood leaning against the wall, with his hand to his forehead, showing that he had heard something which had moved him greatly. Come back into your room, Bergo, said his aunt, and they both went in at the door that was nearest to them, for Lady Monk had been on the lookout for him, and had caught him as soon as he appeared in the passage. If this does annoy you, you should keep it to yourself. What will people say? How can I help what they say? But you would not wish to injure her, I suppose. I thought it best to tell you, for fear you should show any special sign of surprise if you heard of it first in public. It is very weak in you to allow yourself to feel that sort of regard for a married woman. If you cannot constrain yourself, I shall be afraid to let you meet her in Brook Street." Bergo looked for a moment into his aunt's face without answering her, and then turned away towards the door. "'You can do as you please about that,' said he, but you know as well as I do what I have made up my mind to do." "'Nonsense, Bergo, I know nothing of the kind. But do you go downstairs to breakfast? And don't look like that when you go among the people there.' Lady Monk was a woman now about fifty years of age, who had been a great beauty, and who was still handsome in her advanced age. Her figure was very good. She was tall and a fine proportion. Though by no means verging to that state of body which our excellent American friend and critic Mr. Hawthorne has described as beefy, it has declared to be the general condition of English ladies of Lady Monk's age. Lady Monk was not beefy. She was a comely, handsome, upright dame, one of whom, as regards her outward appearance, England might be proud, and of whom Sir Cosmo Monk was very proud. She had come of the family of the Worcestershire Fitzgeralds, of whom it used to be said that there never was one who was not beautiful and worthless. Looking at Lady Monk, you would hardly think that she could be a worthless woman. But there were one or two who professed to know her, and who declared that she was a true scion of the family to which she belonged, that even her husband's ample fortune had suffered from her extravagance, that she had quarreled with her only son, and had succeeded in marrying her daughter to the greatest fool in the peerage. She had striven very hard to bring about a marriage between her nephew and the great heiress, and was a woman not likely to pardon those who had foiled her. At this moment Bergo felt very certain that his aunt was aware of his purpose, and could not forgive her for pretending to be innocent of it. In this he was most ungrateful, as well as unreasonable, and very indiscreet also. Had he been a man who ever reflected he must have known that such a woman as his aunt could only assist him as long as she might be presumed to be ignorant of his intention. But Bergo never reflected. The Fitzgeralds never reflected till they were nearer forty than thirty, and then people began to think worse of them than they had thought before. When Bergo reached the dining-room there were many men there, but no ladies. Sir Cosmo Monk, a fine bald-headed, hail-man of about sixty, was standing up at the side-board, cutting a huge game pie. He was a man also who did not reflect much, but who contrived to keep straight in his course through the world without much reflection. "'Palacere is coming without her,' he said in his loud, clear voice, thinking nothing of his wife's nephew. "'She's ill,' she says. "'I'm sorry for it,' said one man. She's a deal the better fellow of the two. She has twice more go in her than Planty Pal,' said another. "'Plenty is no fool. I can tell you,' said Sir Cosmo, coming to the table with his plate full of pie. We think he's about the most rising man we have.' Sir Cosmo was the member for his county and was a liberal. He had once, when a much younger man, been at the treasury, and had since always spoken of the Whig government as though he himself were in some sort a part of it. "'Bergo, do you hear that Palacere is coming without his wife?' said one man, a very young man, who hardly knew what had been the circumstances of the case. The others, when they saw Bergo enter, had been silent on the subject of Lady Glencora. "'I have heard, and be dead to him,' said Bergo. Then there was suddenly a silence in the room, and everyone seemed to attend assiduously to his breakfast. It was very terrible this clear expression of a guilty meaning with reference to the wife of another man. Bergo regarded neither his plate nor his cup, but, thrusting his hands into his breeches' pockets, sat back in his chair, with the blackness as of a thunder-cloud upon his brow. "'Bergo, you had better eat your breakfast,' said Sir Cosmo. "'I don't want any breakfast.' He took, however, a bit of toast, and crumbling it up in his hand as he put a morsel into his mouth, went away to the side-board and filled for himself a glass of cherry brandy. "'If you don't eat any breakfast, the less of that you take the better,' said Sir Cosmo. "'I'm all right now,' said he, and coming back to the table went through some form of making a meal with a roll and a cup of tea. They who were then present used afterwards to say that they should never forget that breakfast. There had been something,' they declared, in the tone of Bergo's voice when he uttered his curse against Mr. Palacere, which had struck them all with dread. "'There had, too,' they said, been a blackness in his face, so terrible to be seen, that it had taken from them all the power of conversation.' Sir Cosmo, when he had broken the ominous silence, had done so with a manifest struggle. The loud clatter of glasses, with which Bergo had swallowed his dram, as though resolved to show that he was regardless who might know that he was drinking, added to the feeling. It may easily be understood that there was no further word spoken at that breakfast-table about Plancy Pal or his wife. On that day Bergo Fitzgerald startled all those who saw him by the mad way in which he rode. Early in the day there was no excuse for any such rashness. The hounds went from wood to wood, and men went in troops along the forest sides as they do on such occasions. But Bergo was seen to cram his horse at impracticable places, and to ride at gates and rails as though resolved to do himself and his uncle's steed a mischief. This was so apparent, that some friend spoke to Sir Cosmo Monk about it. "'I can do nothing,' said Sir Cosmo. He is a man whom no one's words will control. Something has ruffled him this morning, and he must run his chance till he becomes quiet. In the afternoon there was a good run, and Bergo again rode as hard as he could make his horse carry him. But then there was the usual excuse for hard riding, and such riding in a straight run is not dangerous, as it is when the circumstances of the occasion do not warrant it. But be that as it may, Bergo went on to the end of the day without accident. And as he went home, assured Sir Cosmo, in a voice which was almost cheery, that his mare Spinster was by far the best thing in the Monkshade stables. Indeed, Spinster made quite a character that day, and was sold at the end of the season for three hundred guineas on the strength of it. I am, however, inclined to believe that there was nothing particular about the mare. Horses always catch the temperament of their riders, and when a man wishes to break his neck, he will generally find a horse willing to assist him in appearance, but able to save him in the performance. Bergo, at any rate, did not break his neck, and appeared at the dinner table in a better humor than that which he had displayed in the morning. On the day appointed Mr. Palacere reached Monkshade. He was, in a manner, canvassing for the support of the Liberal Party, and it would not have suited him to show any indifference to the invitation of so influential a man as Sir Cosmo. Sir Cosmo had a little party of his own in the house, consisting of four or five other respectable country gentlemen who troubled themselves little with thinking, and who mostly had bald heads. Sir Cosmo was a man with whom it was quite necessary that such an aspirant as Mr. Palacere should stand well, and therefore Mr. Palacere came to Monkshade, although Lady Glencora was unable to accompany him. "'We are so sorry,' said Lady Monk. "'We have been looking forward to having Lady Glencora with us beyond everything.' Mr. Palacere declared that Lady Glencora herself was overwhelmed with grief, in that she should have been debarred from making this special visit. She had, however, been so unwell at Gatheram, the anxious husband declared, as to make it unsafe for her to go again away from home. "'I hope it is nothing serious,' said Lady Monk. With a look of grief so well arranged that any stranger would have thought that all the Palaceres must have been very dear to her heart. Then Mr. Palacere went on to explain that Lady Glencora had unfortunately been foolish. During one of those nights of hard frost she had gone out among the ruins at Matching, to show them by moonlight to a friend. The friend had thoughtlessly, foolishly, and in a manner which Mr. Palacere declared to be very reprehensible, allowed Lady Glencora to remain among the ruins till she had caught cold. How very wrong! said Lady Monk, with considerable emphasis. "'It was very wrong,' said Mr. Palacere, speaking of poor Alice almost maliciously. However, she caught a cold which, unfortunately, has become worse at my uncle's, and so I was obliged to take her home.' Lady Monk perceived that Mr. Palacere had in truth left his wife behind, because he believed her to be ill, and not because he was afraid of Bergo Fitzgerald. So accomplished a woman as Lady Monk felt no doubt that the wife's absence was caused by fear of the lover, and not by any cold caught in viewing ruins by moonlight. She was not to be deceived in such a matter. But she became aware that Mr. Palacere had been deceived. As she was right in this we must go back for a moment and say a word of things as they went on at matching, after Alice Vavasor had left that place. Alice had told Miss Palacere that steps ought to be taken, whatever might be their cost, to save Lady Glencora from the peril of a visit to Monkshade. To this Miss Palacere had assented, and, when she left Alice, was determined to tell Mr. Palacere the whole story. But when the time for doing so had come, her courage failed her. She could not find words in which to warn the husband that his wife would not be safe in the company of her old lover. The task with Lady Glencora herself, bad as that would be, might be easier, and this task she at last undertook, not without success. Glencora, she said, when she found a fitting opportunity, you won't be angry, I hope, if I say a word to you? That depends very much upon what the word is, said Lady Glencora. And here it must be acknowledged that Mr. Palacere's wife had not done much to ingratiate herself with Mr. Palacere's cousins. Not perhaps so much as she should have done, seeing that she found them in her husband's house. She had taught herself to think that they were hard, stiff, and too proud of bearing the name of Palacere. Perhaps some little attempt may have been made by one or both of them to teach her something, and it need hardly be said that such an attempt, on the part of a husband's unmarried female relations, would not be forgiven by a young bride. We had undoubtedly been ungracious, and of this Mr. Palacere was well aware. Well, the word shall be as little unpleasant as I can make it, said Mr. Palacere, already appreciating fully the difficulty of her task. But why say anything that is unpleasant? However, if it is to be said, let us have it over at once. You are going to monk-shade, I believe, with Plantagenet? Well, and what of that? Dear Glencora, I think you had better not go. Do you not think so yourself? Who has been talking to you? said Lady Glencora, turning upon her very sharply. Nobody has been talking to me. Not in the sense you mean. Plantagenet has spoken to you? Not a word, said Miss Palacere. You may be sure that he would not utter a word on such a subject to any one, unless it were to yourself. But dear Glencora, you should not go there. I mean it in all kindness and love. I do indeed. Saying this, she offered her hand to Glencora, and Glencora took it. Perhaps you do, said she, in a low voice. Indeed I do. The world is so hard and cruel in what it says. I do not care too straws for what the world says. But he might care. It is not my fault. I do not want to go to Monkshade. Lady Monk was my friend once. But I do not care if I never see her again. I did not arrange this visit. It was Plantagenet who did it. But he will not take you there if you say you do not wish it. I have said so, and he told me that I must go. He will hardly believe me. But I condescended even to tell him why I thought it better to remain away. He told me in answer that it was a silly folly which I must live down, and that it did not become me to be afraid of any man. Of course you are not afraid, but I am afraid. That is just the truth. I am afraid. But what can I do more than I have done? This was very terrible to Miss Palacere. She had not thought that Lady Glencora would say so much, and she felt a true regret in having been made to hear words which so nearly amounted to a confession. But for this there was no help now. There were not many more words between them, and we already know the result of the conversation. Lady Glencora became so ill from the effects of her imprudent lingering among the ruins that she was unable to go to Monkshade. Mr. Palacere remained three days at Monkshade, and cemented his political alliance with Sir Cosmo much in the same way as he had before done with the Duke of St. Bungay. There was little or nothing said about politics, and certainly not a word that could be taken as any definite party understanding between the men. But they sat at dinner together at the same table, drank a glass of wine or two out of the same decanters, and dropped a chance word now and again about the next session of Parliament. I do not know that anything more had been expected, either by Mr. Palacere or by Sir Cosmo, but it seemed to be understood, when Mr. Palacere went away, that Sir Cosmo was of opinion that that young Zion of a Ducal house ought to become the future Chancellor of the Exchequer in the Whig Government. I can't see there so much in him," said one young member of Parliament to Sir Cosmo. I rather think that there is, all the same, said the Baronet. There's a good deal in him, I believe. I daresay he's not very bright, but I don't know that we want brightness. A bright financier is the most dangerous man in the world. We've had enough of that already. Some of me sound common sense, with just enough of the gab and a man to enable him to say what he's got to say. We don't want more than that nowadays. From which it became evident that Sir Cosmo was satisfied with the new political candidate for high place. Lady Monk took an occasion to introduce Mr. Palacere to Bergo Fitzgerald, with what object it is difficult to say, unless she was anxious to make mischief between the men. Bergo scowled at him, but Mr. Palacere did not notice the scowl, and put out his hand to his late rival most affably. Bergo was forced to take it, and as he did so made a little speech. I'm sorry that we have not the pleasure of seeing Lady Glencora with you," said he. She is, unfortunately, indisposed, said Mr. Palacere. I am sorry for it, said Bergo. Very sorry indeed. Then he turned his back and walked away. The few words he had spoken, and the manner in which he had carried himself, had been such as to make all those around them notice it. Each of them knew that Lady Glencora's name should not have been in Bergo's mouth, and all felt a fear not easily to be defined, that something terrible would come of it. But Mr. Palacere himself did not seem to notice anything, or to fear anything, and nothing terrible did come of it during that visit of his to Monkshade. CHAPTER XXXIII Recording by Laura Koskinen