 69. From Barton to Lucerne. The second week in July saw Mr. Pellis's party, carriage and all, established at Lucerne in Switzerland, safe beyond the reach of the German gambling-tables. Alice Vavasso was still with them, and the reader will therefore understand that that quarrel about Lady Glencora's wickedness had been settled without any rupture. It had been settled amicably, and by the time that they had reached Lucerne, Alice was inclined to acknowledge that the whole thing was not worth notice. But for many days her anger against Mr. Pellis had not been removed, and her intimacy with him had been much checked. It was now a month since the occurrence of that little scene in the salon at Barton, which was described in the last chapter. Since Mr. Pellis had marched off with his wife, leaving Alice to follow as she best could by herself. After that, as the reader may remember, he had almost told her that she was to be blamed because of his wife's indiscretion. And when she had declared her intention of leaving him, and making her way home to England by herself, he had answered her not at all, and had allowed her to go off to her own room under the full ban of his displeasure. Since that, he had made no apology to her. He had not, in so many words, acknowledged that he had wronged her. But Alice had become aware that he intended to apologize by his conduct, and she had been content so far to indulge his obstinacy, as to accept this conduct on his part in lieu of any outspoken petition for pardon. The acknowledgement of a mistake, and the asking for grace, is almost too much for any woman to expect, from such a man as Mr. Pelliser. Early on the morning, after the scene in question, Lady Glencora had gone into Alice's bedroom, and had found her cousin in her dressing-gown, packing up her things, all looking as though she intended to do so. "'You are not such a fool,' she said, as to think anything of what occurred yesterday.' Alice assured her that, whether fool or not, she did think a great deal of it. "'In point of fact,' said Alice, "'I can't stand it. He expects me to take care of you, and chooses to show himself offended, if you don't do just what he thinks proper. Whereas, as you know well enough, I have not the slightest influence over you.'" All these positions, Lady Glencora contradicted vigorously. Of course, Mr. Pelliser had been wrong in walking out of the assembly-rooms, as he had done, leaving Alice behind him. So much Lady Glencora admitted, but this had come of his intense anxiety. "'And you know what a man he is,' said his wife, "'how stiff and hard and unpleasant and he can be without meaning it. "'There is no reason why I should bear his unpleasantness,' said Alice. "'Yes, there is. Great reason. You are to do it for the sake of friendship, and as for my not doing what you tell me, you know that's not true. Did I not beg you to keep away from the table?' "'Of course you did, and of course I was naughty. But that was only once. Alice, I want you more than I ever wanted you before. I cannot tell you more now, but you must stay with me.' Alice consented to come down to breakfast without any immediate continuance of her active preparations for going, and at last, of course, she stayed. When she entered the breakfast-room, Mr. Pelliser came up to her and offered her his hand. She had no alternative but to take it, and then seated herself. That there was an intended apology in the manner in which she offered her toast and butter, she was convinced, and the special courtesy with which he handed her to the carriage, when she and Lady Glencora went out for their drive after dinner, was almost as good as a petition for pardon. So the thing went on, and by degrees, Mr. Pelliser and Ms. Favassa were again friends. But Alice never knew in what way the matter was settled between Mr. Pelliser and his wife, or whether there was any such settling. Probably there was none. "'Of course he understands that it didn't mean anything,' Lady Glencora had said. "'He knows that I don't want to gamble. But let that be as it might. Their sojourn at Barden was curtailed, and none of the party went up again to the assembly-rooms before their departure. Before establishing themselves at Lucerne, they made a little tour round by the falls of the Rhine and Zurich. In their preparations for this journey, Alice made a struggle, but a struggle in vain, to avoid a passage through Basel. It was only too clear to her that Mr. Pelliser was determined to go by Basel. She could not bring herself to say that she had recollections connected with that place which would make a return to it unpleasant to her. If she could have said as much, even to Glencora, Mr. Pelliser would no doubt have gone round, round by any more distant route that might have been necessary to avoid that eternal gateway into Switzerland. But she could not say it. She was very averse to talking about herself and her own affairs, even with her cousin. Of course Lady Glencora knew the whole story of Mr. John Gray and his rejection, and knew much also of that other story of Mr. George Favassa. And, of course, like all Alice's friends, she hated George Favassa, and was prepared to receive Mr. John Gray with open arms, if there were any possibility that her cousin would open her arms to him also. But Alice was so stubborn about her own affairs, that her friend found it almost impossible to speak of them. It is not that you trouble me, Alice once said, but that you trouble yourself about that which is of no use. It is all done and over. And though I know that I have behaved badly, very badly, yet I believe that everything has been done for the best. I am inclined to think that I can live alone, or perhaps with my cousin Kate, more happily than I could with any husband. Oh, that is such nonsense! Perhaps so, but at any rate I mean to try. Weavavassas don't seem to be good at marrying. You want someone to break your heart for you. That's what you want," said Lady Glencora. In saying this she knew but little of the state of her friend's heart, and perhaps was hardly capable of understanding it. With all the fuss that Lady Glencora made to herself, with all the tears that she had shed about her lost lover, and was so often shedding, with all her continual thinking of the matter, she had never loved Bergo Fitzgerald as Alice Vivassa had loved Mr. Gray. But her nature was altogether different to that of Alice. Had with her had in it a gleam of poetry, a spice of fun, a touch of self-devotion, something even of hero-worship. But with it all there was a dash of devoury and an aptitude almost for wickedness. She knew Bergo Fitzgerald to be escaped grace, and she liked him the better on that account. She despised her husband because he had no vices. She would have given everything she had to Bergo. Pouring her wealth upon him with a total disregard of herself had she been allowed to do so. She would have forgiven him sin after sin, and might perhaps have brought him round at last to some life not absolutely reckless and wretched. But in all that she might have done there would have been no thoughtfulness, no true care either for him or for herself. And now that she was married there was no thoughtfulness or care either for herself or for her husband. She was ready to sacrifice herself for him, if any sacrifice might be required of her. She believed herself to be unfit for him, and would have submitted to be divorced, or smothered out of the way for the matter of that, if the laws of the land would have permitted it. But she had never for a moment given to herself the task of thinking what conduct on her part might be the best for his welfare. But Alice's love had been altogether of another kind, and I am by no means sure that it was better suited for the work of this worker-day world than that of her cousin. It was too thoughtful. I will not say that there was no poetry in it, but I will say that it lacked romance. Its poetry was too hard for romance. There was certainly in it neither fun nor wickedness. Nor was there, I fear, so large a proportion of hero worship, as there always should be in a girl's heart, when she gives it away. But there was in it an amount of self-devotion, which none of those near to her had hitherto understood. Unless it were that no one to whom the understanding of it was of the most importance. In all the troubles of her love, of her engagements, and her broken promises, she had thought more of others than of herself. And indeed those troubles had chiefly come from that self-devotion. She had left John Gray because she feared that she would do him no good as his wife, that she would not make him happy, and she'd afterwards betrothed herself for a second time to her cousin, because she believed that she could serve him by marrying him. Of course she had been wrong. She had been very wrong to give up the man she did love, and more wrong again in suggesting to herself the possibility of marrying the man she did not love. She knew that she had been wrong in both, and was undergoing repentance with the very bitter inward sackcloth. But she said little of all this, even to her cousin. She went to Lucerne by Basel, and put up at the big hotel with the balcony over the Rhine, which Alistair remembered so well. On the first evening of her arrival she found herself again looking down upon the river, as though it might have been from the same spot which she had occupied together with George and Kate. But in truth that house is very large, and has many bedrooms over the water. Who has ever been through Basel, and not stood in one of them looking down upon the father of waters? Here on this very spot, in one of these balconies, was brought to her a letter from her cousin Kate, which was filled with tidings respecting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to her with his own hands, and she had no alternative but to read it in his presence. George has lost his election, the letter began. For one moment Alice thought of her money, and the vain struggle in which it had been wasted. For one moment something like regret for the futility of the effort she had made came upon her. But it passed away at once. It was worth our while to try it, she said to herself, and then went on with her letter. I and Aunt Greenow are up in London, the letter went on to say, and have just heard the news. Though I have been here for three days and have twice sent word to him to say so, he has not been near me. Perhaps it is best that he should stay away, as I do not know how any words could pass between us that would be pleasant. The poll was finished this afternoon, and he lost his election by a large majority. There were five candidates altogether for the two seats, three liberals and two conservatives. The other two liberals were seated, and he was the last of the five. I continue to hear tidings about him from day to day, or rather my aunt hears them and tells them to me, which fill me full of fears as to his future career. I believe that he has abandoned his business, and that he has now no source of income. I would willingly share what I have with him, or I would do more than that. After keeping back enough to repay you gradually what he owes you, I would give him all my share of the income out of the estate. But I cannot do this while we are presumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer as to some steps which he is taking to upset Grandpa's will. The lawyer says that it is all nonsense and that George's lawyer is not really in earnest, but I cannot do anything till the matter is settled. Dear Alice, though so much of your money is for a time gone, I am bound to congratulate you on your safety, on what I may more truly call your escape. You will understand what my own feelings must be in writing this. After all that I did to bring you and him together, after all my hopes and ambition respecting him. As for the money, it shall be repaid. I do not think I shall ever dare to indulge in any strong desire again. I think you will forgive me the injury I have done you, and I know that you will pity me. I am here to see the London lawyer, but not only for that. Aunt Greenow is buying her wedding clothes, and Captain Belfield is in lodgings near to us, also buying his trousseau, or, as I should more properly say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh inwardly when she discusses before me the state of his wardrobe, and proposes economical arrangements, greatly to his disgust. At present she holds him very tightly in hand, and makes him account for all his hours as well as all his money. Of course he'll run wild directly he's married, she said to me yesterday, and of course they'll always be a fight about it, but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he'll be by and by. And though I dare say I shall stolt him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him. I have no doubt all that is true. But what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man! She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself, if a sacrifice it were to be, when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say, and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the captain. They have settled with your father to take Vivasa Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being without any tie to any person or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me. And as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds. Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr. Gray had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Gray's courtship, John Gray would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute, and had finally acted with false judgment. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. She mistakes me, Alice thought, as she put up her letter. She is not the enemy who has wounded me. Mr. Pelliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony. And while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers, which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of the times in his hand, open to its full extent, for he had been too impatient to cut the paper, and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. Sophie tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge. She said at last. Who? I? Oh yes, I'm returned. Said Mr. Pelliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with the chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons, let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the reform bill. The House of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that seat should be seriously disputed, hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Pelliser. The Pellisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. Yes, I have been returned, said Mr. Pelliser. I'm sorry to seem as vassal that your cousin has not been so fortunate. So I find, said Alice, it will be a great misfortune to him. Ah, I suppose so. Those metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times. This has been the third time with him, said Alice, and he is a poor man. Dear, dear, said Mr. Pelliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes, I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the house has been thrown out. Who is that unfortunate? asked Lady Glencora. Mr. Bott, said the unthinking husband. Mr. Bott, out! exclaimed Lady Glencora. Mr. Bott, thrown out! Oh, I'm so glad! Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man that used to stand about, you know, at matching. He's lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose you'll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire now. A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr. Pelliser's face became black beneath the Times newspaper. I did not know, said he, that my friend Mr. Bott and Miss Vavasa were enemies. Enemies? I don't suppose they were enemies, said Glencora. But he was a man whom no one could help observing and disliking. He was a man I specially disliked, said Alice, with great courage. He may be very well in Parliament, but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy. Bravo, Alice! said Lady Glencora. I hope he did nothing at matching to begin Mr. Pelliser, apologetically. Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Pelliser, except that he had a way that I especially disliked, of trying to make little secret confidences. And then he was so ugly, said Lady Glencora. I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief, said Alice. Of course he did, said Lady Glencora, and he had habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable. Mr. Pelliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier, as the loss which Mr. Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. I suppose he will remain now among his own people, said Mr. Pelliser. Let us hope he will, said Lady Glencora, and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence. Then there was nothing more said about Mr. Bott. It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices, the quick passage of the boats, the uprising some half a dozen times of the men's hands above the surface, and then they were gone down the river, out of sight, like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly. Oh! how I wish I could do that! said Lady Glencora. It seems to be very dangerous, said Mr. Pelliser. I don't know how they can stop themselves. Why should they want to stop themselves? said Lady Glencora. Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn't try it. As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it, but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasa was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr. Gray. On the day after that Mr. Pelliser and his party went on to Lucerne, making that journey, as I have said, by slow stages, taking Shaffhausen and Zurich in their way. At Lucerne they established themselves for some time, occupying nearly a dozen rooms in the great hotel which overlooks the lake. Here they came to them a visitor, of whose arrival I will speak in the next chapter. End of Chapter 69. Chapter 70 of Can You Forgive Her? Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 70. At Lucerne. I am inclined to think that Mr. Pelliser did not much enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first reached Lucerne, there was no one there with whom he could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation capable of making his time run easily. He did not care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to be had in Europe, but it was nothing to him. Had he been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper time of the year for such a journey, when the business of the session was over, and a little change of air needed, he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way, looking about him passing on and knowing that it was good for him to be there at that moment. But he had none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of that positive joy in the heather, which would have compensated many another man for the loss of all that Mr. Pelliser was losing. His mind was ever at home in the House of Commons, or in that Auguste Assembly which men called a cabinet, and of the meetings of which he read from week to week the simple records. Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to whom fortune had been so much kinder, and she had been to him, and he envied them. He took short solitary walks about the town, over the bridges, and along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which he would have made to full houses had not his wife brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured to himself the glorious successes which probably never would have been his had he remained in London, so did he prophecy to himself an absolute and irremediable downfall from all political power as the result of his absence, having in truth no sufficient cause for such despair. As yet he was barely thirty, and had he been able to judge his own case as keenly as he could have judged the case of another, he would have known that a short absence might probably raise his value in the estimation of others rather than lower it. But his personal annoyance was too great to allow of his making such calculations a right. So he became fretful and unhappy. And though he spoke no word of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she had robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious by his manner that she had brought him to this miserable condition. Lady Glencora herself had a love for the mountains and lakes, but it was a love of that kind which requires to be stimulated by society, and which is keenest among cold chickens, picnic pies, and the flying of champagne corks. When they first entered Switzerland she was very enthusiastic, and declared her intention of climbing up all the mountains and going through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce her husband to promise that she should be taken up Mont Blanc, and I think she would have carried this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc, had Mr. Pallas' aspirations been congenial. But they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon lost all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settled at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores, and had almost learnt to hate the lake which she declared always made her wet through when she got into a small boat, and seasick when she put her foot in a large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances, Mr. Pallas' being a man not apt to new friendships. They did not even dine at the public table, though Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr. Pallas' did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora gave way. There were moreover some marital passages which were not pleasant to a third person. They did not scold each other, but Lady Glencora would make little speeches of which her husband disapproved. She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone of badenage, and then Mr. Pallas' would become fettful, and would look as though the cares of the world were too many for him. I cannot therefore say that Alice had much to make the first period of her sojourn at Lucerne a period of enjoyment. But when they had been there about a fortnight, a stranger arrived, whose coming at any rate lent the grace of some excitement to their lives. Their custom was to breakfast at nine, or as near nine as Lady Glencora could be induced to appear, and then Mr. Pallas' would read till three. At that hour he would walk forth by himself, after having handed the two ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven about for two hours. How I do hate this carriage! Lady Glencora said one day. I do so wish it would come to grief and be broken to pieces. I wonder whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be driven about here for ever. There were moments, however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would alter the monotony of their lives. Alice, however, would not press her for her secret. If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell it? Alice once said. You were so hard! said Lady Glencora. So you tell me very often, Alice replied, and it is not complementary. But hard or soft I won't make a petition for your confidence. Then Lady Glencora said something savage, and the subject was dropped for a while. But we must go back to the stranger. Mr. Pallas' had put the ladies into their carriage, and were standing between the front door of the hotel and the lake on a certain day, doubting whether he would walk up the hill to the left or turn into the town on the right. When he was accosted by an English gentleman, who, raising his hat, said that he believed that he spoke to Mr. Pallas'er. I am Mr. Pallas'er, said our friend, very courteously, returning the salute and smiling as he spoke. But though he smiled, and though he was courteous, and though he raised his hat, there was something in his look and voice which would not have encouraged any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Pallas'er was not a man with whom it was easy to open an acquaintance. My name is John Gray, said the stranger. Then the smile was dropped. The look of extreme courtesy disappeared. The tone of Mr. Pallas' voice was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew enough of Mr. John Gray's history to be aware that Mr. John Gray was a man with whom he might permit himself to become acquainted. After the interchange of a very few words, the two men started off for a walk together. Perhaps you don't wish to meet the carriage, said Mr. Pallas'er. If so, we had better go through the town and up the river. They went through the town and up the river, and when Mr. Pallas'er on his return was seen by Alice and Lady Glencora, he was alone. They dined together, and nothing was said. Together they sauntered out in the evening, and together came in and drank their tea. But still nothing was said. At last Alice and her cousin took their candles from Mr. Pallas'er's hands and left the sitting room for the night. Alice! said Lady Glencora, as soon as they were in the passage together. I have been dying for this time to come. I could not speak before, or I should have made blunders, and so would you. Let us go into your room at once. Who do you think is here at Lucerne in this house at this very moment? Alice knew at once who it was. She knew immediately that Mr. Gray had followed her, though no word had been written to her or spoken to her on the subject since that day on which he himself had told her that they would meet abroad. But though she was quite sure, she did not mention his name. Who is it, Glencora? she asked very calmly. Whom in all the world would you best like to see? said Glencora. My cousin Kate, certainly, said Alice. Then it is not your cousin Kate, and I don't believe you, or else you're a fool. Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode of talking, and therefore did not think much of this. Perhaps I am a fool, she said. Only I know you're not, but I'm not at all so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you show a little excitement at any rate? When Pentagenot told me just before dinner, I almost jumped out of my shoes. He was going to tell you himself after dinner, in the politest way in the world, no doubt, and just as the servants were carrying away the apples. I thought it best to save you from that, but I declare I believe I might have left him to do it. It would have had no effect upon you. Who is it that has come, do you suppose? Of course I know now, said Alice very calmly, that Mr. John Gray has come. Yes! Mr. John Gray has come. He is here in this house of this minute, or more probably, waiting outside by the lake, till he shall see a light in your bedroom. And Lady Glencora paused for a moment, waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice said nothing. Well? said Lady Glencora, rising up from her chair. Well? Well, said Alice, have you nothing to say? Is it the same to you as though Mr. Smith had come? No, not exactly the same. I am quite alive to the importance of Mr. Gray's arrival, and shall probably lie awake all night thinking about it, if it will do you any good to know that. But I don't feel that I have much to say about it. I wish I had let Mr. Pelliser tell you in an ordinary way before all the servants. I do indeed. It would not have made much difference. Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether you ever did care for anybody in your life, for him, or for that other one, or for anybody. For nobody, I believe, except your cousin Kate. Still waters they say run deep, and sometimes I think your waters run too deep for me to fathom. I suppose I may go now, if you have got nothing more to say. What do you want me to say? Of course I know why he has come here. He told me he should come. And you never said a word about it. He told me he should come, and I thought it better not to say a word about it. He might change his mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to come, and it would have been much better that he should have remained away. Why? Why? Why? Would it be better? Because his being here will do no good to any one. No good? It seems to me impossible that it should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice. If you do not altogether make it up with him before to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly heartless. Had I been you, I should have been in his arms before this. I'll go now, and leave you to lie awake, as you say you will. Then she left the room, but returned in a moment to ask another question. What is Plantagenet to say to him about seeing you to-morrow? Of course he has asked permission to come and call. He may come, if he pleases. You don't think I have quarrelled with him, or would refuse to see him? And may we ask him to dine with us? Oh, yes. And make up a picnic, and all the rest of it? In fact, he is to be regarded as only an ordinary person. Well, good night. I don't understand you, that's all. It may be doubted whether Alice understood herself. As soon as her friend was gone she put out her candle and seated herself at the open window of her room, looking out upon the moonlight as it played upon the lake. Would he be there, thinking of her, looking up, perhaps, as Glencora had hinted, to see if he could distinguish her light among the hundred that would be flickering across the long front of the house? If it were so, at any rate he should not see her. So she drew the curtain, and sat there watching the lake. It was a pity that he should have come, and yet she loved him dearly for coming. It was a pity that he should have come, as his coming could lead to no good result. Of this she assured herself over and over again, and yet she hardly knew why she was so sure of it. Glencora had called her hard, but her conviction on that matter had not come from hardness. Now that she was alone, her heart was full of love, of the soft romance of love towards this man, and yet she felt that she ought not to marry him, even though he might still be willing to take her. That he was still willing to take her, that he desired to have her for his wife in spite of all the injury she had done him, there could be no doubt. Why else had he followed her to Switzerland? And she remembered, now at this moment, how he had told her at Cheltenham that he would never consider her to be lost to him, unless she should, in truth, become the wife of another man. Why then, should it not be as he wished it? She asked herself the question, and did not answer it, but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no right to such happiness after the evil that she had done. She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which she herself could not pardon, and having done it she could not bring herself to accept the position which should have been the reward of good conduct. She could not analyze the causes which made her feel that she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her. She could not clearly read her own thoughts, but the causes were, as I have said, and such was the true reading of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand after she had once accepted it, had she refused it, and then again changed her mind, she could have brought herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done so much more than this, and so much worse. She had afian-sayed herself to another man, since she had belonged to him. Since she had been his, as his future wife. What must he not think of her, and what not suspect? Then she remembered those interviews which she had had with her cousin, since she had written to him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her in Queen Anne Street, she had shrunk from all outward signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been no caress between them. She had not allowed him to touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the nature of that mad engagement between her and her cousin, George, should ever be made known to Mr. Gray. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as she looked for his figure among the figures by the lakeside. But, as she sat there, she promised herself no happiness from his coming. Oh, reader, can you forgive her in that she had sinned against the softness of her feminine nature? I think that she may be forgiven, in that she had never brought herself to think lightly of her own fault. If you were there by the lakeside, she did not see him. I think we may say that John Gray was not a man to console himself in his love by looking up at his lady's candle. He was one who was capable of doing as much as most men in the pursuit of his love, as he proved to be the case, when he followed Alice to Cheltenham, and again to London, and now again to Lucerne. But I doubt whether a glimmer from her bedroom window, had it been unmistakably her own glimmer, and not that of some ugly old French woman who might chance to sleep next to her, would have done him much good. He had come to Lucerne with a purpose, which purpose, if it might be possible, he meant to carry out. But I think he was already in bed, being tired with long travel, before Lady Glencora had left Alice's room. At breakfast the next morning nothing was said for a while about the new arrival. At last Mr. Palliser ventured to speak. Glencora has told you, I think, that Mr. Gray is here. Mr. Gray is an old friend of yours, I believe. Alice, keeping her countenance as well as she was able, said Mr. Gray had been, and indeed was, a very dear friend of hers. Mr. Palliser knew the whole story, and what was the use of any little attempt at dissimulation? I shall be glad to see him, if you will allow me," she went on to say. Glencora suggests that we should ask him to dinner, said Mr. Palliser, and then that matter was settled. But Mr. Gray did not wait till dinner time to see Alice. Early in the morning his card was brought up, and Lady Glencora, as soon as she saw the name, immediately ran away. Indeed, you need not go, said Alice. Indeed, I shall go, said her ladyship. I know what's proper on these occasions, if you don't. So she went, whisking herself along the passages with a little run, and Mr. Gray, as he was shown into her ladyship's usual sitting-room, saw the skirt of her ladyship's dress as she whisked herself off towards her husband. I told you I should come," he said, with his ordinary sweet smile. I told you that I should follow you, and here I am. He took her hand and held it, pressing it warmly. She hardly knew with what words first to address him, or how to get her hand back from him. I am very glad to see you, as an old friend," she said. But I hope—well, you hope what? I hope you have had some better cause for travelling than a desire to see me. No, dearest, no. I have had no better cause, and indeed none other. I have come on purpose to see you, and had Mr. Pelliser taken you off to Asia or Africa, I think I should have felt myself compelled to follow him. You know why I follow you? Hardly," said she, not finding at the moment any other word that you could say. Because I love you. You see what a plain-spoken John Bull I am, and how I come to the point at once. I want you to be my wife, and they say that perseverance is the best way when a man has such a want as that. You ought not to want it," she said, whispering the words as though she were unable to speak them out loud. But I do, you see. And why should I not want it? I am not fit to be your wife. I am the best judge of that, Alice. You have to make up your mind whether I am fit to be your husband. You would be disgraced, if you were to take me, after all that has passed, after what I have done. What would other men say of you when they knew the story? Other men, I hope, would be just enough to say that when I had made up my mind, I was tolerably constant in keeping to it. I do not think they could say much worse of me than that. They would say that you had been jilted, and had forgiven the jilt. As far as the forgiveness goes, they would tell the truth. But indeed, Alice, I don't very much care what men do say of me. But I care, Mr. Gray. And though you may forgive me, I cannot forgive myself. Indeed, I know now, as I have known all along, that I am not fit to be your wife. I am not good enough. And I have done that which makes me feel that I have no right to marry anyone. These words, she said, jerking out the different sentences almost at convulsions. And when she had come to the end of them, the tears were streaming down her cheeks. I have thought about it. And I will not. I will not. After what has passed, I know that it will be better, more seemingly, that I should remain as I am. Soon after that she left him. Not, however, till she had told him that you would meet him again at dinner, and had begged him to treat her simply as a friend. In spite of everything, I hope that we may always be friends, dear friends, she said. I hope we may, he answered, the very dearest. And then he left her. In the afternoon he again encountered Mr. Pelliser. And having thought over the matter since his interview with Alice, he resolved to tell his whole story to his new acquaintance. Not in order that he might ask for counsel from him, for in this matter he wanted no man's advice, but that he might get some assistance. So the two men walked off together up the banks of the clear flowing ruse, and Mr. Pelliser felt the comfort of her having a companion. I have always liked her, said Mr. Pelliser, though to tell the truth I have twice been very angry with her. I have never been angry with her, said the lover. And my anger was in both instances unjust. You may imagine how great is my confidence in her, when I have thought she was the best companion my wife could have for a long journey, taken under circumstances that were, but I need not trouble you with that. So great had been the desolation of Mr. Pelliser's life, since his banishment from London, that he almost felt tempted to tell the story of his troubles to this absolute stranger. But he bethought himself of the blood of the Pellisers, and refrained. There are comforts which royalty may never enjoy, and luxuries in which such men as pantaginate Pelliser may not permit themselves to indulge. About her and her character I have no doubt in the world, said Gray. In all that she has done, I think that I have seen her motives. And though I have not approved of them, I have always known them to be pure and unselfish. She has done nothing that I did not forgive as soon as it was done. Had she married that man, I should have forgiven her even that, though I should have known that all her future life was destroyed, and much of mine also. I think I can make her happy if she will marry me, but she must first be taught to forgive herself. Living as she is with you and with your wife, she may, perhaps, just now be more under your influence in your wife's, and she can possibly be under mine. Whereupon Mr. Pelliser promised that he would do what he could. I think she loves me, said Mr. Gray. Mr. Pelliser said that he was sure she did, though what ground he had for such assurance I am quite unable to surmise. He was probably desirous of saying the most civil thing which occurred to him. The little dinner party that evening was pleasant enough, and nothing more was said about love. Lady Glencora talked nonsense to Mr. Gray, and Mr. Pelliser contradicted all the nonsense which his wife talked. But this was all done in such a way that the evening passed away pleasantly. It was tacitly admitted among them that Mr. Gray was to be allowed to come among them as a friend, and Lady Glencora managed to say one word to him aside, in which she promised to give him her most cordial cooperation. End of Chapter 70 We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London during this summer, so that the reader may understand Mr. Gray's position when he reached Lucen. He had undergone another quarrel with George Vavasor, and something of the circumstances of that quarrel must be told. It has been already said that George Vavasor lost his election for the Chelsea districts, after all the money which he had spent, money which he had been so ill able to spend, and on which he had laid his hands in a manner so disreputable. He had received £2,000 from the bills which Alice had executed on his behalf, or rather had received the full value of three out of the four bills, and a part of the value of the fourth, on which he had been driven to raise what immediate money he had wanted by means of a due bill discounter. £1,000 he had paid over at once into the hands of Mr. Scrubby, his parliamentary election agent, towards the expenses of his election, and when the day of polling arrived had exactly in his hands the sum of £500. Where he was to get more than this was gone he did not know. If he were successful, if the enlightened constituents of the Chelsea districts contented with his efforts on behalf of the riverbank should again send him to Parliament, he thought that he might still carry on the war. A sum of ready money he would have in hand, and as to his debts he would be grandly indifferent to any consideration of them. Then there might be pickings in the way of a member of Parliament of his calibre. Companies, mercantile companies, would be glad to have him as a director, paying him a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour's attendance. Railways, in what advice Chairman, might bid for his services, and in the city he might turn that MP, which belonged to him to good account in various ways. With such a knowledge of the city world as he possessed he thought that he could pick up a living in London if only he could retain his seat in Parliament. But what was he to do if he could not retain it? No sooner had Mr Scrubby got the £1000 into his clutches than he pressed for still more money. George Babasar, with some show of justice on his side, pointed out to this all-devouring agent that the sum demanded had already been paid. This Mr Scrubby admitted, declaring that he was quite prepared to go on without any further immediate remittance, although by doing so might subject himself to considerable risk. But another £500, paid at once, would add greatly to the safety of the seat, whereas £800, judiciously thrown in at the present moment, would make the thing quite secure. But Babasar swore to himself that he would not part with another shilling, never had he felt such love for money as he did for that £500, which he now held in his pocket. It's no use, he said to Mr Scrubby, I have done what you asked, and would have done more had you asked for more at that time. As it is, I cannot make another payment before the election. Mr Scrubby shrugged his shoulders, and said that he would do his best. But George Babasar soon knew that the man was not doing his best, that the man had, in truth, abandoned his cause. The landlord of the handsome man jeered him when he went there canvassing. Laws, Mr Babasar, said the landlord of the handsome man, you're not at all the fellow for us chaps along the river, you wait, you're afraid to come down with the Stumpy, that's what you are. George put his hand upon his purse, and acknowledged to himself that he had been afraid to come down with the Stumpy. For the last five days of the affair George Babasar knew that his chance was gone. Mr Scrubby's face, manner, and words told the result of the election as plainly as any subsequent figures could do. He would be absent when Babasar called, or the clerk would say that he was absent. He would answer in very few words, constantly shrugging his shoulders. He would even go away and leave the anxious candidate while he was in the middle of some discussion as to his plans. It was easy to see that Mr Scrubby no longer regarded him as a successful man, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr Scrubby had been. George Babasar was rejected, that he still had his five hundred pounds in his pocket. Of course he was subject to that mortification, which a man feels when he reflects that some little additional outlay would have secured his object. Whether it might have been so or not, who can say, but there he was with the gateway between the lamps barred against him, ex-member of parliament for the Chelsea districts, with five hundred pounds in his pocket, and little or nothing else that he could call his own. What was he to do with himself? After trying to make himself heard upon the hustings when he was rejected, and pledging himself to stand again at the next election, he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and endeavored to consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost his inheritance, he had abandoned one profession after another, and was now beyond the pale of another chance in that direction. His ambition had betrayed him, and there were no longer possible to him any hopes of political activity. He had estranged from himself every friend that he had ever possessed. He had driven from him with violence, the devotion even of his sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intended to marry over money, and had so insulted her that no feeling of amity between them was any longer possible. He had nothing now but himself and that five hundred pounds, which he still held in his pocket. What should he do with himself and his money? He thought over it all without a calmness for a while, as he sat there in his armchair. From the moment in which he had first become convinced that the election would go against him, and that he was therefore ruined on all sides, he had resolved that he would become amidst his ruin. Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing at his own position. Mr. Bott's day of rejection had come before his own, and he had written to Mr. Bott a drolling note of consolation and mock sympathy. He had shaken hands with Mr. Scrubby and had poked his fun at the agent, bidding him be sure to send in his little bill soon to all who accosted him. He replied in a suprisive tone, and he banded Call to Jones, whose seat was quite sure, till Call to Jones began to have fears that were quite unnecessary. And now, as he sat himself down, intending to come to some final decision as to what he would do, he maintained the same calmness. He smiled in the same way, though there was no one there to see the smile. He laughed even audibly, once or twice, as he vainly endeavoured to persuade himself that he was able to regard the world and all that belonged to it as a bubble. There came to him a moment in which he laughed out very audibly, ha ha, he shouted, rising up from his chair, and he walked about the room, holding a large paper knife in his hand, ha ha. Then he threw the knife away from him, and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, laughed again, ha ha. He stood still in the centre of the room, and the laughter was very plainly visible on his face, had there been anybody there to see it. But suddenly there was a change upon his face, as he stood there all alone, and his eyes became fierce, and the psychotrists that marred his countenance grew to be red and ghastly. And he grinned with his teeth, and he clenched his fists as he still held them within his pockets. Curse him, he said out loud, curse him, now and forever. He had broken down in his calmness, when he thought of that old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at his death. May all the eagles which the dead can feel cling to him forever and ever. His laughter was all gone, and his assumed tranquility had deserted him. Walking across the room, he struck his foot against a chair. Upon this he took the chair in his hands and threw it across the room. But he hardly arrested the torrent of his maledications, as he did so. What good was it that he should lie to himself by that mock tranquility or that false laughter? He lied to himself no longer, but uttered a song of despair that was true enough. What should he do? Where should he go? From what fountain should he attempt to draw such small drafts of the water of comfort as might support him at the present moment? Unless a man have some such fountain to which he can turn, the burden of life cannot be borne. For the moment, Vavasor tried to find such fountain in a bottle of brandy which stood near him. He half filled a tumbler, and then, dashing some water on it, swallowed it greedily. By, he said, I believe it is the best thing a man can do. But where was he to go? To whom was he to turn himself? He went to a high desk which stood in one corner of the room, and unlocking it took out a revolving pistol, and for a while carried it about with him in his hand. He turned it up and looked at it and tried the lock and snatched it without caps to see that the barrel went round fairly. It's a beggarly thing to do, he said, and then he turned the pistol down again, and if I do do it, I'll use it first for another purpose. Then he poured out for himself more brandy and water, and having drunk it, he threw himself upon the sofa and seemed to sleep. But he did not sleep, and by and by there came a slight single knock at the door, which he instantly answered. But he did not answer it in the usual way by bidding the comer to come in. Who's there? he said. Then the comer attempted to enter, turning the handle of the door. But the door had been locked and the key was on Vavasil's side. Who's there? he asked again, speaking out loudly, but in an angry voice. It is I, said a woman's voice. The asian, said George Vavasil. The woman heard him, but she made no sign of having heard him. She simply remained standing where she was, till something further should be done with him. She knew the man well, and knew that she must bide his time. She was very patient, and for the time was meek, though it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasil, when he had heard her voice, and knew who was there, had again thrown himself on the sofa. There flashed across his mind another thought or two as to his future career, another idea about the pistol, which still lay upon the table. Why should he let the intruder in, and undergo the nuisance of a disagreeable interview, if the end of all things might come in time to save him from such trouble? There he lay for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard again. He jumped upon his feet, and his eyes were full of fire. He knew that it was useless to bid her go, and leave him. She would sit there, if it were through the whole night, should he open the door, and strangle her, and pass out over her with the pistol in his hand, so that he might make that other reckoning which he desired to accomplish, and then never come back any more. He took a turn through the room, and then walked gently up to the door, and undid the lock. He did not open the door, nor did he bid his visitor enter, but having made the way easy for her, if she choose to come in. He walked back to the sofa, and threw himself on it again. As he did so, he passed his hand across the table, so as to bring the pistol near to himself, at the place where he would be lying. She paused a moment after she had heard the sound of the key, and then she made her way into the room. He did not at first speak to her. She closed the door very gently, and then, looking around, came up to the foot of the sofa. She paused a moment, waiting for him to address her. But as he said nothing but lay there looking at her, she was the first to speak. George, she said, what am I to do? She was a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed poorly in old garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at feminine prettiness. There were flowers in the bonnet on her head, though the bonnet had that unmistakable look of age, which is quite as distressing to bonnets, as it is to women, and the flowers themselves were battered and faded. She had long black ringlets on each cheek, hanging down much below her face, and brought forward so as to hide in some degree the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar brightness, but now they left on those who looked at her curiously no special impression as to their colour. They had been blue, that dark violet blue, which is so rare, but is sometimes so lovely. Her forehead was narrow, her mouth was small, and her lips were thin, that her nose was perfect in its shape, and by the delicacy of its modelling had given a peculiar grace to her face in the days when things had gone well with her, when her cheeks had been full with youth and good living, and had been dimpled by the softness of love and mirth. There were no dimples there now, and all the softness which still remained was that softness which sorrow and continual melancholy give to suffering women. On her shoulders she wore a light shawl, which was fastened to her bosom with a large clasp brooch. Her faded dress was supported by a wide crinoline, but the undergarment had lost all the grace of its ancient shape, and now told that woman's tale of poverty and taste for dress which is to be read in their outward garb of so many of Eve's daughters. The whole story was told so that those who ran might read it. When she left her home this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that something of the charm of apparel might be left to her, but she had known of her own failure at every twist that she had given to her gown, and at every jerk with which she had settled her shawl. She had despaired at every push she had given to her old flowers, vainly striving to bring them back to their old forms, but still she had perceived. With long tedious care she had mended the old gloves, which would hardly hold her fingers. She had carefully hidden the rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shriveled collar and had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a separate grief to her that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists, and yet she knew that no cuffs could have availed her anything. Nothing could avail her now. She expected nothing from her visit, yet she had come forth anxiously, and would have waited there throughout the whole night, had access to his room, been barred to her. George, she said, standing at the bottom of the sofa, what am I to do? As he lay there with his face turned towards her, the windows were at her back, and he could see her very plainly. He saw and appreciated the little struggles she had made to create by her appearance some reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of the long winglets, which had once been softer than silk. He saw the six-penny brooch on her bosom, where he had once placed a jewel, the price of which would now have been important to him. He saw it all, and lay there for a while, silently reading it. Don't let me stand here, she said, without speaking a word to me. I don't want you to stand there, he said. That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to stand here. I know you don't want to see me ever again. Never. I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to go for money? Even you would not wish that. I should starve. That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should be delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink and plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the most, after all. It was only for your sake, because you liked it. Well, I did like it. But that has come to an end. As have all my other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you. What good do you do yourself by coming here to annoy me? Have I not told you over and over again that you were never to look for me here? Is it likely that I should give you money now, simply because you have disobeyed me? Where else was I to find you? Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. I shall give you nothing, not a penny. You know very well that we've had all that out before. When I put you into business, I told you that we were to see no more of each other. Business, she said. I never could make enough out of the shop to feed a bird. That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred pounds, and you consented to take the place. I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my other home away from me. Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you, and more than most men would have done when all things are considered. Then he got up from the sofa and stood himself on the hearth rug, with his back to the fireplace. At any rate, you may be sure of this, Joan, that I shall do nothing more. You have come here to torment me, but you shall get nothing by it. I have come here because I am starving. I have nothing for you. Now go. And he pointed to the door. Nevertheless, for more than three years of his life, this woman had been his closest companion, his nearest friend, the being with whom he was most familiar. He had loved her according to his fashion of loving, and certainly she had loved him. Go, he said, repeating the word very angrily. Do as I bid you, or it will be the worst for you. Will you give me a sovereign? No, I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to me here, and I will not pay for you coming. Then I will not go, and the woman sat down upon a chair at the foot of the table. I will not go till you have given me something to buy food. You may put me out of the room if you can, but I will lie at the door of the stairs, and if you get me out of the house, I will sit upon the doorstep. If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you. Let them. It has come to that with me, that I care for nothing. Out of this I will not go till you give me money unless I am put out. And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending her gloves and darning her little fragments of finery. He stood looking at her, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking at her and thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence. If he even quite resolved to take that little final journey, of which we have spoken, with the pistol in his hand, why should he not go and leave her there? Or, for the matter of that, why should he not make her his heir to all remainder of his wealth? What he still had left was sufficient to place her in a seventh heaven of the earth. He cared but little for her, and was at this moment angry with her, but there was no one for whom he cared more, and no friend with whom he was less angry. But then his mind was not quite made up, as to that final journey. Therefore he desired to rid himself and his room of the nuisance of her presence. Jane, he said, looking at her again with that assumed tranquillity of which I have spoken, he took a starving and had been ruined. I am starving, I have not a shilling in the world. Perhaps it may be a comfort to you in your troubles to know that I am, at any rate, as badly off as you are. I won't say that I am starving because I could get food to eat at this moment if I wanted it. But I am utterly ruined. My property, what should have been mine, has been left away from me. I have lost the Trumpery seat in Parliament for which I have paid so much. All my relations have turned their backs upon me. Are you not going to be married? She asked, rising quickly from her chair, and coming close to him. Married? No. But I am going to blow my brains out. Look at that pistol, my girl. Of course you won't think that I am in earnest, that I am. She looked up into his face piteously. Oh George, she said, you won't do that. But I shall do that. There is nothing else left for me to do. You talk to me about starving. I tell you that I should have no objection to be starved, and so be put an end to in that way. It's not so bad as some other ways when it comes gradually. You and I, Jane, have not played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we've been beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd better go somewhere else and begin a new game. Go where? said she. Ah, that's just what I can't tell you. George, she said, I'll go anywhere with you. If what you say is true, if you're not going to be married, and will let me come to you, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I'm poorly looking now. My girl, where I'm going, I shall not want any slave. And as for your looks, when you go there too, they'll be of no matter as far as I am able to judge. But George, where are you going? Wherever people do go when their brains are knocked out of them, or rather, when they have knocked out their own brains, if that makes any difference. George, she came up to him now, and took hold of him by the front of his coat, and for the moment he allowed her to do so. George, you frighten me. Do not do that. Say that you will not do that. But I am just saying that I will. Are you not afraid of God's anger? You and I have been very wicked. I have, my poor girl. I don't know much about your wickedness. I've been like Topsy. Indeed, I am a kind of second Topsy myself. But what's the good of whimpering when it's over? It isn't over. It isn't over at any rate for you. I wish I knew how I could begin again, but all this is nonsense, Jane, and you must go. You must tell me first that you are not going to kill yourself. I don't suppose I shall do it tonight, or perhaps not tomorrow. Very probably, I may allow myself a week so that your staying here can do no good. I merely wanted to make you understand that you are not the only person who has come to grief. And you are not going to be married? No, I'm not going to be married, certainly. And I must go now. Yes, I think you'd better go now. Then she rose and went, and he let her leave the room without giving her a shilling. His bantering tone, in speaking of his own position, had been successful. It had caused her to take herself off quietly. She knew enough of his usual manner to be aware that his threats of self-destruction were probably unreal, but nevertheless what he had said had created some feeling in her heart which had induced her to yield to him and go away in peace. End of Chapter 71 Chapter 72 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. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 72. Showing how George Vavasor paid a visit. It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening, a hot July evening, when the woman went from Vavasor's room and left him there alone. It was necessary that he should immediately do something. In the first place he must dine, unless he meant to carry out his threat, and shoot himself at once. But he had no such intention as that, although he stood for some minutes with the pistol in his hand. He was thinking then of shooting someone else. But he resolved that, if he did so at all, he would not do it on that evening, and he locked up the pistol again in the standing desk. After that he took up some papers, referring to steam packets, which were lying on his table. They contained the programs of different companies, and showed how one vessel went on one day to New York, and another, on another day, would take out a load of immigrants for New Zealand and Australia. That's a good line, said he, as he read a certain prospectus. They generally go to the bottom, and save a man from any further trouble on his own account. Then he dressed himself, putting on his boots and coat, and went out to his club for dinner. London was still fairly full, that is to say. The West End was not deserted, although Parliament had been broken up two months earlier than usual, in preparation for the new elections. Many men who had gone down into the country were now back again in town, and the dining room at the club was crowded. Men came up to him condoling with him, telling him that he was well rid of a great nuisance, that the present members of the Chelsea districts would not sit long, or that there would be another general election in a year or two. To all these little speeches, he made cheerful replies, and was declared by his acquaintance to bear his disappointment well. Calder Jones came to him and talked hunting talk, and Vavasor expressed his intention of being at Rowery in November. You had better join our club, said Calder Jones, in answer to which Vavasor said that he thought he would join the club. He remained in the smoking room till nearly 11. Then he took himself home, and remained up half the night, destroying papers. Every written document on which he could lay his hands, he destroyed. All the pigeon holes of his desk were emptied out, and their contents thrown into the flames. At first he looked at the papers before he burned them, but the trouble of doing so soon tied him, and he condemned them all, as he came to them without examination. Then he selected a considerable amount of his clothes, and packed up two portminters, folding his coats with care, and inspecting his boots narrowly, so that he might see which, out of the large number before him, it might be best worth his while to take with him. When that was done, he took from his desk a bag of sovereigns, and pouring them out upon the table, he counted them out into parcels of 25 each, and made them up carefully into rulers with paper. These, when complete, he divided among the two portminters, an addressing bag which he had also packed, and a travelling desk, which he filled with papers, pens, and the like. But he put into it no written document. He carefully looked through his linen, and anything that had been marked with more than his initials he rejected. Then he took out a bundle of printed cards, and furnished a card case with them. On these cards was inscribed the name of Gregory Vance. When all was finished, he stood for a while with his back to the fireplace, contemplating his work. After all, he said to himself, I know that I shall never start, and if I do, nobody can hinder me, and my own name would be as good as any other. As for a man with such a face as mine not being known, that is out of the question, but still he liked the arrangements which he had made, and when he had looked at them for a while he went to bed. He was up early the next morning, and had some coffee brought to him by the servant of the house, and as he drunkered he had an interview with his landlady. He was going, he said, going that very day. It might be possible that he would change his mind, but as he would desire to start without delay, if he did go he would pay her then what he owed her, and what would be due for her lodgings under a week's notice. The woman stared, and curtsy, and took her money. Faber saw, though he had lately been much pressed for money, had never been so foolish as to owe debts where he lived. There will be some things left about, Mrs Bunsby, he said, and I will get you to keep them till I call or send. Mrs Bunsby said that she would, and then looked to her last at him. After that interview she never saw him again. When he was left alone he put on a rough morning coat, and taking up his pistol, placed it carefully in his pocket, and sell it forth. It was manifest enough that he had some decided scheme in his head, for he turned quickly towards the west when he reached the strand, went across Trafalgar Square to Palmel East, and then turned up Suffolk Street. Just as he reached the clubhouse at the corner he paused and looked back, facing first one way and then the other. The chances are that I shall never see anything of it again, he said to himself. Then he laughed in his own silent way, shook his head slightly, and turning again quickly on his heel, walked up the street till he reached the house of Mr Jones. The pugilistic tailor, the reader, no doubt, has forgotten all he ever knew of Mr Jones. The pugilistic tailor, it can soon be told again, at Mr Jones's house, John Gray Lodge, when he was in London, and he was in London at this moment. Vavasor rang the bell, and as soon as the servant came he went quickly into the house, and passed her in the passage. Mr Gray is at home, he said. I will go up to him. The girl said that Mr Gray was at home, but suggested that she had better announced the gentleman. But Vavasor was already halfway up the stairs, and before the girl had reached the first landing, he had entered Mr Gray's room and closed the door behind him. Gray was sitting near the open window in a dressing-gown, and was reading. The breakfast things were on the table, but he had not as yet breakfasted. As soon as he saw George Vavasor, he rose from his chair quickly and put down his book. Mr Vavasor, he said, I hardly expected to see you in my lodgings again. I daresay not, said Vavasor, but nevertheless here I am. He kept his right hand in the pocket, which held the pistol, and held his left hand under his waistcoat. May I ask why you have come, said Gray. I intend to tell you, at any rate, whether you ask me or not. I have come to declare in your own hearing, as I am in the habit of doing occasionally behind your back, that you are a Black Guard, to spit in your face and defy you. As he said this, he suited his action to his words, but without any serious result. I have come here to see if you are man enough to resent any insult that I can offer you, but I doubt whether you are. Nothing that you can say to me, Mr Vavasor, will have any effect upon me, except that you can, of course, annoy me. And I mean to annoy you too, before I have done with you. Will you fight me? Fight a duel with you, with pistols? Certainly not. Then you are a coward, as I supposed. I should be a fool if I were to do such a thing as that. Look here, Mr Gray. You managed to worm yourself into an intimacy with my cousin, Miss Vavasor, and to become engaged to her. When she found out what you were, how paltry and mean and vile she changed her mind and made you to leave her. Are you here at her request? I am here as her representative, self-appointed, I think. Then, sir, you think wrong. I am at this moment her a financed husband, and I find that, in spite of all that she has said to you, which was enough, I should have thought, to keep any man a spirit out of her presence. You still persecute her by going to her house and forcing yourself upon her presence. Now, I give you two alternatives. You shall either give me your written promise never to go near her again, or you shall fight me. I shall do neither one nor the other, as you know very well yourself. Stop till I have done, sir. If you have courage enough to fight me, I will meet you in any country. I will fight you here in London, or if you are afraid of that, I will go over to France, or to America, if that will suit you better. Nothing of the kind will suit me at all. I don't want to have anything to do with you. Then you are a coward. Perhaps I am, but your saying so will not make me one. You are a coward and a liar and a black guard. I have given you the option of behaving like a gentleman, and you have refused it. Now, look here. I have come here with arms, and I do not intend to leave this room without using them, unless you will promise to give me the meeting that I have proposed, and he took the pistol out of his pocket. Do you mean that you are going to murder me? Gray asked. There were two windows in the room, and he had been sitting near to that which was furthest removed from the fireplace, and consequently furthest removed from the bell, and his visitor was now standing immediately between him and the door. He had to think what steps he might best take, and to act upon his decision instantly. He was by no means a timid man, and was, moreover, very little prone to believe in extravagant action. He did not think, even now, that this disappointed, ruined man had come there with any intention of killing him. But he knew that a pistol in the hands of an angry man is dangerous, and that it behoved him to do his best to rid himself of the nuisance which now encumbered him. Do you mean that you are going to murder me? he had said. I mean that you shall not leave this room alive unless you promise to meet me and fight it out. Upon hearing this, Gray turned himself towards the bell. If you move a step, I will fire at you, said Vavasor. Gray paused a moment and looked him full in the face. I will, said Vavasor again. That would be murder, said Gray. Don't think that you will frighten me by ugly words, said Vavasor. I am beyond that. Gray had stopped for a moment to fix his eyes on the other man's face. But it was only for a moment, and then he went on to the bell. He had seen that the pistol was pointed at him, and had once thought of rushing across the room at his adversary, calculating that a shot fired at him as he did so might miss him, and that he would then have a fair chance of disarming the madman. But his chief object was to avoid any personal conflict, to escape the indignity of a scramble for the pistol, and especially to escape the necessity of a consequent appearance at some police office, where he would have to justify himself and answer the questions of a lawyer hired to cross-question him. He made, therefore, towards the bell, trusting that Vavasor would not fire at him, but having some little thought also as to the danger at the moment. It might be that everything was over for him now, that the fatal hour had come, and that eternity was close upon him. Something of the spirit of a prayer flashed across his mind as he moved. Then he heard the clip of the pistol's hammer as it fell, and was aware that his eyes were dazzled. Though he was unconscious of seeing any flame, he felt something in the air, and knew that the pistol had been fired, but he did not know whether the shot had struck him or had missed him. His hand was out for the bell handle, and he had pulled it, before he was sure that he was unhurt. De-ation exclaimed the murderer, but he did not pull the trigger again. Though the weapon had a blade been so often in his hands, he forgot, in the agitation of the moment, that his missing once was but of small matter if he chose to go on with his purpose. Were there not five other barrels for him, each making itself ready by the discharge of the other, but he had paused, forgetting in his excitement the use of his weapon, and before he had bethought himself that the man was still in his power, he heard the sound of the bell. De-ation, he exclaimed. Then he turned round, left the room, hurried down the stairs, and made his way out into the street, having again passed the girl on his way. Gray, when he perceived that his enemy was gone, turned round to look for the bullet or its mark. He soon found the little hole in the window shutter, and probing it with the point of his pencil, came upon the morsel of lead, which might now just as readily have been within his own brain. There he left it for the time, and then made some not inaccurate calculation as to the narrowness of his own escape. He had been standing directly between Babasul and the shutter, and he found from the height of the hole that the shot must have passed close beneath his ear. He remembered to have heard the click of the hammer, but he could not remember the sound of the report, and when the girl entered the room, he perceived at once from her manner that she was unaware that firearms had been used. Has that gentleman left the house? Gray asked. The girl said that he had left the house. Don't admit him again, said he. That is, if you can avoid it. I believe he is not in his right senses. Then he asked for Mr Jones, his landlord, and in a few minutes the pugilistic tailor was with him. During those few minutes he had been called upon to resolve what he would do now. Would he put the police at once upon the track of the murderer, who was, as he remembered too well, the first cousin of the woman whom he still desired to make his wife, the cross-examination which he would have to undergo at the police office, and again probably in an assized court in which all his relations with the Babasul family would be made public, was very vivid to his imagination, that he was called upon by duty to do something he felt almost assured. The man who had been allowed to make such an attempt once with impunity might probably make it again, but he resolved that he need not now say anything about the pistol to the pugilistic tailor, unless the tailor said something to him. Mr Jones, he said, that man whom I had to put out of the room once before has been here again. Has there been another tussle, sir? No, nothing of that kind, but we must take some steps to prevent his getting in again, if we can help it. Jones promised his aid and offered to go at once to the police, to this, however, Mr Gray demude, saying that he should himself seek assistance from some magistrate. Jones promised to be very vigilant as to watching the door, and then John Gray sat down to his breakfast. Of course, he thought much of what had occurred. It was impossible that he should not think much of so narrow an escape. He had probably been as near death as a man, may well be without receiving any injury, and the more he thought of it, the more strongly he was convinced that he could not allow the thing to pass by without some notice or some precaution as to the future. At eleven o'clock he went to Scotland Yard and saw some officer great in power over policemen, and told him all the circumstances confidentially. The powerful officer recommended an equally confidential reference to a magistrate, and towards evening a very confidential policeman in plain clothes paid a visit to Bavislaw's lodgings in Cecil Street. But Bavislaw lodged there no longer. Mrs Funsby, who was also very confidential, and at her wit's end because she could not learn the special business of the stranger who called, stated that Mr George Bavislaw left her house in a cab at ten o'clock that morning. Having taken with him such luggage as he had packed, and having gone, she was afraid for good, as Mrs Funsby expressed it. He had gone for good, and at that moment in which the policeman was making the inquiry in Cecil Street, was leaning over the side of an American steamer which had just got up her steam and weighed her anchor in the Mersey. He was on board at six o'clock. It was not till the next day that the cabman was traced who had carried him to Houston Square Station. Of course it was soon known that he had gone to America, but it was not thought worthwhile to take any further steps towards arresting him. Mr Gray himself was decidedly opposed to any such attempt, declaring his opinion that his own evidence would be insufficient to obtain a conviction. The big men in Scotland Yard were loathe to let the matter drop. Their mouths watered after the job, and they had very numerous and very confidential interviews with John Gray. But it was decided that nothing should be done. Pity said one enterprising superintendent in answer to the condolings of a brother superintendent. Pity's no name for it. It's the greatest shame as ever I knew since I joined the force. A man, as was a member of parliament only last session, as belongs to no end of swell clubs, a gent as well known in London as any gent about the town, and I'd have had him back in three months, as sure as my name's Walker. And that superintendent felt that his profession and his country were alike disgraced. And now George Babasaur vanishes from our pages, and will be heard of no more. Roeberry knew him no longer, nor Palmel, nor the Chelsea districts. His disappearance was a nine days wonder, but the world at large knew nothing of the circumstances of that attempt in Suffolk Street. Mr Gray himself told the story to no one, till he told it to Mr Palliser at Lucen. Mr Scrubby complained vitally of the way in which Babasaur had robbed him. But I doubt whether Scrubby, in truth, lost much by the transaction. To Kate, down in Westmoreland, no tidings came of her brother, and her sojourn in London with her aunt had nearly come to an end before she knew that he was gone. Even then, the rumour reached her through Captain Bellfield, and she learned what few facts she knew from Mrs Bunsby in Cecil Street. He was always mysterious, said Mrs Greno, and now he has vanished. I hope mysteries, and as for myself, I think it will be much better that he should not come back again. Perhaps Kate was of the same opinion, but if so, she kept it to herself.