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EX LIBRIS RUSSELL GRAY

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER

CAN YOU FORGIVE

HER

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

VOL, HI

NEW-YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

1906

;i.pv:^. t.n"

HARVARD

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

I. The Last of the Old Squire i

II. Showing how Alice was Punished 15

III. The Will 29

IV. Another Walk on the Fells 43

V. Showing how the Wild Beast got himself

BACK FROM THE MOUNTAINS 57

VI. The Pallisers at Breakfast 70

VII. The Duke of St. Bungay in Search of a

Minister 85

VIII. Alice Vavasor's Name gets into the Money

Market 99

IX. The Bills are made all Right 113

X. Going Abroad 123

XI. Mr. John Grey in Queen Anne Street 137

XII. The Rocks and Valleys 149

XIII. The First Kiss 167

XIV. Lady Monk's Plan 180

XV. The Last Kiss 193

XVI. From London to Baden 210

XVII. From Baden to Lucerne 224

XV'III. At Lucerne 238

VI CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

XIX. Showing how George Vavasor Received a

Visit 252

XX. Showing how George Vavasor Paid a Visit. 267
XXI. In which come Tidings of Great Moment

TO ALL THE PaLLISERS 279

XXII. Showing what happened in the Church-
yard 293

XXIII. Rouge et Noir ,. 306

XXIV. The Landlord's Bill 322

XXV. The Travellers return Home 334

XXVI. Mr. Cheesacre's Fate 347

XXVII. Diamonds are Diamonds 365

XXVIII. The Story is Finished within the Halls

OF THE Duke of Omnium 380

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

CHAPTER I.

THE LAST OF THE OLD SQUIRE.

In the meantime Kate Vavasor was living down in
Westmoreland, with no other society than that of her
grandfather, and did not altogether have a very pleas-
ant life of it. George had been apt to represent the
old man to himself as being as strong as an old tower,
which, though it be but a ruin, shows no sign of fall-
ing. To his eyes the squire had always seemed to be
full of life and power. He could be violent on occa-
sions, and was hardly ever without violence in his eyes
and voice. But George's opinion was formed by his
wish, or rather by the reverses of his wish. For years
he had been longing that his grandfather should die,
— had been accusing Fate of gross injustice in that
she did not snap the thread ; and with such thoughts
in his mind he had grudged every ounce which the
squire's vigour had been able to sustain. He had al-
most taught himself to believe that it would be a good
deed to squeeze what remained of hfe out of that vio-
ent old throat. But, indeed, the embers of life were
burning low ; and had George known all the truth, he

IK|

fte

'^^

' '%*

-fek

^—

THE LAST OF THE OLD SQUIRE'. 5

" I don't know where he got it," said Kate, lying.

" He has not had yours ; has he? "

" He would not take it, sir."

"And you offered it to him? "

" Yes, sir."

" And he has not had it ? "

" Not a penny of it, sir."

" And what made you offer it to him after what I
said to you? "

" Because it was my own," said Kate stoutly.

" You 're the biggest idiot that ever I heard of, and
you *11 know it yourself some day. Go away now, and
let me know when Gogram comes."

She went away, and for a time employed herself
about her ordinary household work. Then she sat
down alone in the dingy old dining-room, to think
what had better be done in her present circumstances.
The carpet of the room was worn out, as were also
the covers of the old chairs and the horsehair sofa
which was never moved from its accustomed i)lace
along the wall. It was not a comfortable squire's
residence, this old house at Vavasor. In the last twenty
years no money had been spent on furniture or em-
bellishments, and for the last ten years there had been
no painting, either inside or out. Twenty years ago
the squire had been an embarrassed man, and had
taken a turn in his life and had lived sparingly. It
could not be said that he had become a miser. His
table was kept plentifully, and there had never been
want in his house. In some respects, too, he had
behaved Hberally to Kate and to others, and he
had kept up the timber and fences on the property.
But the house had become wretched in its dull,

6 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

sombre, dirty darkness, and the gardens round it were
as bad.

What ought she now to do? She believed that her
grandfather's last days were coming, and she knew
that others of the family should be with him besides
herself. For their sakes, for his, and for her own, it
would be proper that she should not be alone there
when he died. But for whom should she send? Her
brother was the natural heir, and would be the head
of the family. Her duty to him was clear, and the
more so as her grandfather was at this moment speak-
ing of changes in his will. But it was a question to
her whether George's presence at Vavasor, even if he
would come, would not at this moment do more harm
than good to his own interests. It would make some
prejudicial change in the old man's will more probable
instead of less so. George would not become soft and
mild-spoken even by a death-bed side, and it would
be likely enough that the squire would curse his
heir with his dying breath. She might send for her
Uncle John ; but if she did so without telling George
she would be treating George unfairly ; and she knew
that it was improbable that her uncle and her brother
should act together in anything. Her Aunt Greenow,
she thought, would come to her, and her presence
would not influence the squire in any way with refer-
ence to the property. So she made up her mind at
last that she would ask her aunt to come to Vavasor,
and that she would tell her brother accurately all that
she could tell, — leaving him to come or stay, as he
might think. Alice would, no doubt, learn all the
facts from him, and her Uncle John would hear them
from Alice. Then they could do as they pleased.

THE LAST OF THE OLD SQUIRE. 7

As soon as Mr. Gogram had been there she would
write her letters, and they should be sent over to Shap
early on the following morning.

Mr. Gogram came and was closeted with the squire,
and the doctor also came. The doctor saw Kate,
and, shaking his head, told her that her grandfather
was sinking lower and lower every hour. It would be
infinitely better for him if he would take that port- wine
at four doses in the day, or even at two, instead of
taking it all together. Kate promised to try again,
but stated her conviction that the trial would be use-
less. The doctor, when pressed on the matter, said
that his patient might probably hve a week, not im-
probably a fortnight, — perhaps a month, if he would
be obedient, — and so forth. Gogram went away with-
out seeing Kate ; and Kate, who looked upon a will
as an awful and somewhat tedious ceremony, was in
doubt whether her grandfather would live to complete
any new operation. But, in truth, the will had been
made and signed and witnessed, — the parish clerk and
one of the tenants having been had up into the room
as witnesses. Kate knew that the men had been there,
but still did not think that a new will had been perfected.

That evening when it was dusk the squire came into
the dining-room, Tiaving been shuffling about the grand
sweep before the house for a quarter of an hour. The
day was cold and the wind bleak, but still he would
go out, and Kate had wrapped him up carefully in
mufflers and great-coats. Now he came in to what
he called dinner, and Kate sat down with him. He
had drank no wine that day, although she had brought
it to him twice during the morning. Now he attempted
to swallow a little soup, but failed ; and after that.

8 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

whilq Kate was eating her bit of chicken, had the de-
canter put before him. " I can't eat, and I suppose
it won't hurt you if I take my wine at once," he said.
It went against the grain with him, even yet, that he
could not wait till the cloth was gone from the table,
but his impatience for the only sustenance that he
could take was too much for him.

" But you should eat something, sir ; will you have
a bit of toast to sop in your wine ? "

The word " sop " was badly chosen, and made the
old squire angry. "Sopped toast! why am I to spoil
the only thing I can enjoy ? "

" But the wine would do you more good if you
would take something with it."

" Good! Nothing will do me any good any more.
As for eating, you know I can't eat. What 's the use
of bothering me? " Then he filled his second glass,
and paused awhile before he put it to his Hps. He
never exceeded four glasses, but the four he was de-
termined that he would have, as long as he could hft
them to his mouth.

Kate finished, or pretended to finish, her dinner
within five minutes, in order that the table might be
made to look comfortable for him. Then she poked
the fire, and brushed up the hearth, and closed the
old curtains with her own hands, moving about silently.
As she moved his eye followed her, and when she came
behind his chair, and pushed the decanter a little more
within his reach, he put out his rough, hairy hand,
and laid it upon one of hers which she had rested on
the table with a tenderness that was unusual with him.
" You are a good girl, Kate. I wish you had been a
boy, that 's all."

(t
tt

THE LAST OF THE OLD SQUIRE. 9

" If I had, I should n't, perhaps, have been here to
take care of you," she said, smUing.

" No ; you *d have been hke your brother, no doubt.
Not that I think there could have been two so bad as
he is."

** Oh, grandfather, if he has offended you, you
should try to forgive him."

"Try to forgive him! How often have I forgiven
him without any trying? Why did he come down here
the other day, and insult me for the last time? Why
did n*t he keep away, as I had bidden him? "
But you gave him leave to see you, sir."
I did n't give him leave to treat me like that.
Never mind; he will find that, old as I am, I can
punish an insult."

" You have n't done anything, sir, to injure him ? "
said Kate.

" I have made another will, that 's all. Do you
suppose I had that man here all the way from Penrith
for nothing? "

" But it is n't done yet ? "

" I tell you it is done. If I left him the whole
property it would be gone in two years' time. What 's
the use of doing it ? "

" But for his life, sir! You had promised him that
he should have it for his life."

"How dare you tell me that? I never promised
him. As my heir, he would have had it all, if he
would have behaved himself with common decency.
Even though I disliked him, as I always have done,
he should have had it."

And you have taken it from him altogether ? "
I shall answer no questions about it, Kate." Then

10 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

a fit of coughing came upon him, his four glasses of
wine having been all taken, and there was no further
talk about business. During the evening Kate read a
chapter of the Bible out loud. But the squire was
very impatient under the reading, and positively re-
fused permission for a second. ** There is n't any
good in so much of it, all at once," he said, using al-
most exactlv the same words which Kate had used to
him about the port- wine. There may have been good
produced by the small quantity to which he listened,
as there is good from the physic which children take
with wry faces, most unwillingly. Who can say?

P'or many weeks past Kate had begged her grand-
father to allow the clergyman of Vavasor to come to
him ; but he had positively declined. The vicar was a
young man to whom the living had lately been given
by the Chancellor, and he had commenced his career
by giving instant offence to the squire. This vicar's
predecessor had been an old man, almost as old as the
squire himself, and had held the living for forty
years. He had been a Westmoreland man, had read
the prayers and preached his one Sunday sermon in a
Westmoreland dialect, getting through the whole opera-
tion rather within an hour and a quarter. He had
troubled none of his parishioners by much advice, and
had been meek and obedient to the squire. Know-
ing the country well, and being used to its habits, he
had lived, and been charitable too, on the proceeds of
his living, which had never reached two hundred a
year. But the new-comer was a close-fisted man,
with higher ideas of personal comfort, who found it
necessary to make every penny go as far as possible,
"ho made up in preaching for what he could not give

THE LAST OF THE OLD SQUIRE. II

away in charity ; who established an afternoon service,
and who had rebuked the squire for saying that the
doing so was trash and nonsense. Since that the
squire had never been inside the church, except on
the occasion of Christmas day. For this, indeed, the
state of his health gave ample excuse, but he had posi-
tively refused to see the vicar, though that gentleman
had assiduously called, and had at last desired the ser-
vant to tell the clergyman not to come again unless he
were sent for. Kate's task was, therefore, difficult,
both as regarded the temporal and spiritual wants of
her grandfather.

When the reading was finished, the old man dozed
in his chair for half an hour. He would not go
up to bed before the enjoyment of that luxury. He
was daily implored to do so, because that sleep in the
chair interfered so fatally with his chance of sleeping
in bed. But sleep in his chair he would and did.
Then he woke, and after a fit of coughing, was in-
duced, with much ill-humour, to go up to his room.
Kate had never seen him so weak. He was hardly
able, even with her assistance and that of the old ser-
vant, to get up the broad stairs. But there was still
some power left to him for violence of language after
he got to his room, and he rated Kate and the old
woman loudly, because his slippers were not in the
proper place. " Grandfather," said Kate, " would you
like me to stay in the room with you to-night? " He
rated her again for this proposition, and then, with as-
sistance from the nurse, he was gotten into bed and
was left alone.

After that Kate went to her own room and wrote
her letters. The first she wrote was to her Aunt

12 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Greene w. That was easily enough written. To Mrs.
Greenow it was not necessary that she should say
anything about money. She simply stated her belief
that her grandfather's last day was near at hand, and
begged her aunt to come and pay a last visit to the old
man. " It will be a great comfort to me in my dis-
tress," she said ; " and it will be a satisfaction to you
to have seen your father again." She knew that her
aunt would come, and that task was soon done.

But her letter to her brother was much more diffi-
cult. What should she tell him, and what should she
not tell him ? She began by describing her grandfather's
state, and by saying to him, as she had done to Mrs.
Greenow, that she believed the old man's hours were
well-nigh come to a close. She told him that she had
asked her aunt to come to her ; " not," she said, " that
I think her coming will be of material service, but I
feel the loneliness of the house will be too much for
me at such a time. I must leave it for you to decide,"
she said, " whether you had better be here. If any-
thing should hap>pen," — people when writing such let-
ters are always afraid to speak of death by its proper
name, — " I will send you a message, and no doubt
you would come at once." Then came the question
of the will. Had it not occurred to her that her own
interests were involved she would have said nothing
on the subject ; but she feared her brother, — feared
even his misconstruction of her motives, even though
she was willing to sacrifice so much on his behalf, —
and therefore she resolved to tell him all that she knew.
He might turn upon her hereafter if she did not do
so, and accuse her of a silence which had been prejudi-
cial to him.

THE LAST OF THE OLD SQUIRE. 1 3

So she told it all, and the letter became long in the
telling. " I write with a heavy heart," she said, " be-
cause I know it will be a great blow to you. He gave
me to understand that in this will he left everything
away from you. I cannot declare that he said so di-
rectly. Indeed I cannot remember his words; but
that was the impression he left on me. The day be-
fore he had asked me what I should do if he gave me
the estate ; but of course I treated that as a joke. I
have no idea what he put into this will. I have not
even attempted to guess. But now I have told you
all that I know." The letter was a very long one, and
was not finished till late ; but when it was completed
she had the two taken out into the kitchen, as the boy
was to start with them before daylight.

Early on the next morning she crept silently into
her grandfather's room, as was her habit ; but he was
apparently sleeping, and then she crept back again.
The old servant told her that the squire had been
awake at four, 'and at five, and at six, and had called
for her. Then he had seemed to go to sleep. Four
or five times in the course of the morning Kate went
into the room, but her grandfather did not notice her.
At last she feared he might already have passed away,
and she put her hand upon his shoulder, and down
his arm. He then gently touched her hand with his,
showing her plainly that he was not only alive, but
conscious. She then offered him food, — the thin por-
ridge, — which he was wont to take, and the medicine.
She ofiFered him some wine too, but he would take
nothing.

At twelve o'clock a letter was brought to her, which
had come by the post. She saw that it was from

14 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Alice, and opening it found that it was very long. At
that moment she could not read it, but she saw words
in it that made her wish to know its contents as quickly
as possible. But she could not leave her grandfather
then. At two o'clock the doctor came to him, and
remained there till the dusk of the evening had com-
menced. At eight o'clock the old man was dead.

CHAPTER II.

SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED.

Poor Kate's condition at the old Hall on that night
was very sad. The presence of death is always a
source of sorrow, even though the circumstances of
the case are of a kind to create no agony of grief.
The old man who had just passed away upstairs was
fully due to go. He had lived his span all out, and
had himself known that to die was the one thing left
for him to do. Kate also had expected his death, and
had felt that the time had come in which it would be
foolish even to wish that it should be arrested. But
death close to one is always sad as it is solemn.

And she was quite alone at Vavasor Hall. She had
no acquaintance within some miles of her. From the
young vicar, though she herself had not quarrelled
with him, she could receive no comfort, as she hardly
knew him ; nor was she of a temperament which would
dispose her to tiam to a clergyman at such a time for
comfort, unless to one who might have been an old
friend. Her aunt and brother would probably both
come to her ; but they could hardly be with her for a
day or two, and during that day or two it would be
needful that orders should be given which it is dis-
agreeable for a woman to have to give. The servants,
moreover, in the house were hardly fit to assist her
much. There was an old butler, or footman, who had

l6 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

lived at the Hall for more than fifty years, but he was
crippled with rheumatism, and so laden with maladies,
that he rarely crept out of his own room. He was
simply an additional burden on the others. There
was a boy who had lately done all the work which the
other should have done, and ever so much more be-
side. There, is no knowing how much work such a boy
will do when properly drilled, and he was now Kate's
best minister in her distress. There was the old nurse,
— but she had been simply good for nursing, and there
were two rough Westmoreland girls who called them-
selves cook and housemaid.

On that first evening, — the very day on which her
grandfather had died, — Kate would have been more
comfortable had she really found something that she
could do. But there was in truth nothing. She hov-
ered for an hour or two in and out of the room, con-
scious of the letter which she had in her pocket, and
very desirous in heart o£, reading it, but restrained by
a feeling that at such a moment she ought to think only
of the dead. In this she was wrong. Let the living
think of the dead when their thoughts will travel that
way whether the thinker wish it or no. Grief taken
up because grief is supposed to be proper, is only one
degree better than pretended grief. When one sees it,
one cannot but think of the lady who asked her friend,
in confidence, whether hot roast fowl and bread-sauce
were compatible with the eariiest state of weeds ; or
of that other lady, — a royal lady she, — who was much
comforted in the tedium of her trouble when assiu^ed
by one of the lords about the court that piquet was
mourning.

It was late at night, near eleven, before Kate took

SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED. 1 7

out her letter and read it. As something of my story
hangs upon it, I will give it at length, though it was
a long letter. It had been written with great struggles,
and with many tears, and Kate, as she read it to the
end, almost forgot that her grandfather was lying dead
in the room above her.

" Queen Anne Street, April, 186^.

"Dearest Kate, — I hardly know how to write to
you — what I have to tell, and yet I must tell it. I
must tell it to you, but I shall never repeat the story
to any one else. I should have written yesterday,
when it occmred, but I was so ill that I felt myself
unable to make the exertion. Indeed, at one time,
after your brother had left me, I almost doubted
whether I should ever be able to collect my thoughts
again. My dismay was at first so great that my rea-
son for a time deserted me, and I could only sit and
cry like an idiot.

" Dear Kate, I hope you will not be angry with me
for telling you. I have endeavoured to think about it
as calmly as I can, and I believe that I have no alter-
native. The fact that your brother has quarrelled with
me cannot be concealed from you, and I must not
leave him to tell you of the manner of it. He came
to me yesterday in great anger. His anger then was
nothing to what it became afterwards ; but even when
he first came in he was full of wrath. He stood up
before me, and asked me how it had come to pass
that I had sent him the money which he had asked of
me through the hands of Mr. Grey. Of course I had
not done this, and so I told him at once. I had
spoken of the matter to no one but papa, and he had

1 8 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

managed it for me. Even now I know nothing of it,
and as I have not yet spoken to papa I cannot under-
stand it. George at once told me that he disbeheved
me, and when I sat quiet under this insult, he used
harsher words,- and said that I had conspired to lower
him before the world.

" He then asked me whether I loved him. Oh,
Kate, I must tell it you all, though it is dreadful to
me that I should have to write, it. You remember how
it came to pass when we were in Westmoreland to-
gether at Christmas ? Do not think that I am blaming
you, but I was very rash then in the answers which I
made to him. I thought that I could be useful to him
as his wife, and I had told myself that it would be good
that I should be of use in some way. When he asked
me that question yesterday, I sat silent. Indeed, how
could I have answered it in the affirmative, when he
had just used such language to me, — while he was
standing opposite to me, looking at me in that way
which he has when he is enraged? Then he spoke
again and demanded of me that I should at once send
back to Mr. Grey all presents of his which I had kept,
and at the same time took up and threw across the
table on to the sofa near me, a little paper-knife which
Mr. Grey once gave me. I could not allow myself to
be so ordered 6y him ; so I said nothing, but put the
knife back upon the table. He then took it again and
threw it beneath the grate. ' I have a right to look
upon you as my wife,* he said, * and, as such, I wiU
not allow you to keep that man's things about you.'
I think I told him then that I should never become his
wife, but though I remember many of his words, I re-
member none of my own. He swore, I know, with a

SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED. 1 9

great oath, that if I went back a second time from my
word to him he would leave me no peace, — that he
would punish me for my perfidy with some fearful pun-
ishment Oh, Kate, I cannot tell you what he looked
Hke. He had then come quite close to me, and I
know that I trembled before him as though he were
going to strike me. Of course I said nothing. What
could I say to a man who behaved to me in such a
manner ? Then, as far as I can remember it, he sat
down and began to talk about money. I forget what
he said at first, but I know that I assured him that he
might take what he wanted so long as enough was left
to prevent my being absolutely a burden on papa.
* That, madam, is a matter of course,* he said. I re-
member those words so well. Then he explained that
after what had passed between us, I had no right
to ruin him by keeping back from him money which
had been promised to him, and which was essential to
his success. In this, dear Kate, I think he was mainly
right. But he could not have been right in putting it
to me in that hard, cruel manner, especially as I had
never refused anything that he had asked of me in re-
spect of money. The money he may have while it
lasts ; but then there must be an end of it all between
us, even though he should have the power of punish-
ing me, as he says he will do. Punishing me, indeed !
What punishment can be so hard as that which he has
already inflicted?

" He then desired me to write a letter to him which
he might show to the lawyer, — to our own lawyer, I
think he meant, — in order that money might be raised
to pay back what Mr. Grey had advanced, and give
him what he now required. I think he said it was to

20 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

be five thousand pounds. When he asked this I did
not move. Indeed,. I was unable to move. Then he
spoke very loud, and swore at me again, and brought
me pen and ink, demanding that I should write the let-
ter. I was so frightened that I thought of running to
the door to escape, and I would have done so had I
not distrusted my own power. Had it been to save
my life I could not have written the letter. I believe I
was now crying, — at any rate I threw myself back and
covered my face with my hands. Then he came and
sat by me, and took hold of my arms. Oh, Kate ; I
cannot tell it you all. He put his mouth close to my
ear, and said words which wfere terrible, though I did
not understand them. I do not know what it was he
said, but he was threatening me with his anger if I did
not obey him. Before he left me, I believe I found my
voice to tell him that he should certainly have the
money which he required. And so he shall. I will
go to Mr. Round myself, and insist on its being done.
My money is my own, and I may do with it as I
please. But I hope, — I am obliged to hope, that I may
never be made to see my cousin again.

*' I will not pretend to express any opinion as to the
cause of all this. It is very possible that you will not
believe all I say, — that you will think that I am mad
and have deluded myself. Of course your heart will
prompt you to accuse me rather than him. If it is so,
and if there must therefore be a division between us,
my grief will be greatly increased ; but I do not know
that I can help it. I cannot keep all this back from
you. He has cruelly ill-used me and insulted me.
He has treated me as I should have thought no man
could have treated a woman. As regards money, I

SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED. 21

did all that I could do to show that I trusted him
thoroughly, and my confidence has only led to sus-
picion. I do not know whether he understands that
everything must be over between us; but, if not, I
must ask you to tell him so. And I must ask you to
explain to him tiiat he must not come again to Queen
Anne Street. If he does, nothing shall induce me to
see him. Tell him also that the money that he wants
shall assuredly be sent to him as soon as I can make
Mr. Round get it.

" Dearest Kate, good-bye. I hope you will feel for
me. If you do not answer me I shall presume that
you think yourself bound to support his side, and to
believe me to have been wrong. It will make me
very unhappy ; but I shall remember that you are his
sister, and I shall not be angry with you.

" Yours always affectionately,

"Alice Vavasor."

Kate, as she read her letter through, at first quickly,
and then very slowly, came by degrees almost to forget
that death was in the house. Her mind, and heart,
and brain, were filled with thoughts and feelings that
had exclusive reference to Alice and her brother, and
at last she found herself walking the room with quick,
impetuous steps, while her blood was hot with indig-
nation.

All her sympathies in the matter were with Alice.
It never occurred to her to disbelieve a word of the
statement made to her, or to suggest to herself that it
had been coloured by any fears or exaggerations on
the part of her correspondent. She knew that Alice
was true. And, moreover, much as she loved her

22 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

brother, — ^willing as she had been and would still be
to risk all that she possessed, and herself also, on his
behalf,— she knew that it would be risking and not
trusting. She loved her brother, such love having
come to her by nature, and having remained with her
from of old; and in his intellect she still believed.
But she had ceased to have belief in his conduct. She
feared everything that he might do, and lived with a
consciousness that though she was willing to connect
all her own fortunes with his, she had much reason to
expect that she might encounter ruin in doing so. Her
sin had been in this, — that she had been anxious to
subject Alice to the same danger, — ^that she had in-
trigued, sometimes very meanly, to bring about the ob-
ject which she had at heart, — that she had used all her
craft to separate Alice from Mr. Grey. Perhaps it may
b'e alleged in her excuse that she had thought, — ^had
hoped rather than thought, — that the marriage which
she contemplated would change much in her brother
that was wrong, and bring him into a mode of Hfe that
would not be dangerous. Might not she and Ahce to-
gether so work upon him, that he should cease to stand
ever on the brink of some half-seen precipice ? To risk
herself for her brother was noble. But when she used
her cunning in inducing her cousin to share that risk
she was ignoble. Of this she had herself some con-
sciousness, as she walked up and down the old dining-
room at midnight, holding her cousin's letter in her
hand.

Her cheeks became tinged with shame as she thought
of the scene which Alice had described, — the toy
thrown beneath the grate, the loud curses, the whis-
pered threats, which had been more terrible than

SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED. 23

curses, the demand for money, made with something
worse than a cut-throat*s violence, the strong man*s
hand placed upon that woman's arm in anger and in
rage, those eyes glaring, and the gaping horror of that
still raw cicatrice, as he pressed his face close to that
of his victim! Not for a moment did she think of
defending him. She accused him to herself vehemently
of a sin over and above those sins which had filled
Alice with dismay. He had demanded money from
the girl whom he intended to marry ! According to
Kate's idea, nothing could excuse or palhate this sin.
Alice had accounted it as nothing, — had expressed her
opinion that the demand was reasonable ; — even now,
after the ill-usage to which she had been subjected, she
had declared that the money should be forthcoming,
and given to the man who had treated her so shame-
fully. It might be well that Alice should so feel and
so act, but it behoved Kate to feel and act very differ-
ently. She would tell her brother, even in that house
of death, should he come there, that his conduct was
mean and unmanly. Kate was no coward. She de-
clared to herself that she would do this even though
he should threaten her with all his fury, — though he
should glare upon her with all the horrors of his coun-
tenance.

One o'clock, and two o'clock, still found her in the
dark, sombre parlour, every now and then pacing the
floor of the room. The fire had gone out, and though
it was now the middle of April, she began to feel the
cold. But she would not go to bed before she had
written a line to Alice. To her brother a message by
telegraph would of course be sent the next morning ;
as also would she send a message to her aunt. But to

24 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Alice she would write, though it might be but a line.
Cold as she was, she found her pens and paper, and
wrote her letter that night. It was very short.

" Dear Alice, — ^To-day I received your letter, and to-
day our poor old grandfather died. Tell my Uncle
John, with my love, of his father's death. You will
understand that I cannot write much now about that
other matter ; but I must tell you, even at such a mo-
ment as this, that there shall be no quarrel between you
and me. There shall be none at least on my side. I
cannot say more till a few days shall have passed by.
He is lying upstairs, a corpse. I have telegraphed to
George, and I suppose he will come down. I think
my Aunt Greenow will come also, as I had written to
her before, seeing that I wanted the comfort of having
her here. Uncle John will of course come or not as he
thinks fitting. I don't know whether I am in a position
to say that I shall be glad to see him ; but I should be
very glad. He and you will know that I can, as yet,
tell you nothing further. The lawyer is to see the men
about the funeral. Nothing, I suppose, will be done
till George comes.

" Your own cousin and friend,

** Kate Vavasor."

And then she added a line below.

" My own Alice, — If you will let me, you shall be
my sister, and be the nearest to me and the dearest."

Alice, when she received this, was at the first moment
so much struck, and indeed surprised, by the tidings of
her grandfather's death, th^t sh^ was forced, in spite of

SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED. 25

the Still existing violence of her own feelings, to think
and act chiefly with reference to that event. Her
father had rtot then left his room. Slie therefore went
to him, and handed him Kate's letter.

"Papa," she said, "there is news from Westmore-
land ; bad news, which you hardly expected yet."

" My father is dead," said John Vavasor. Where-
upon Alice gave him Kate's letter, that he might read
it. " Of course I shall go down," he said, as he came
to that part in which Kate had spoken of him.
" Does she think I shall not follow my father to the
grave, because I dislike her brother ? What does she
mean by saying that there shall be no quarrel between
you and her ? "
" I will explain that at another time," said Alice.
John Vavasor asked no further questions then, but
declared at first that he should go to Westmoreland on
the following day. Then he altered his purpose.
" I '11 go by the mail train to-night," he said. " It will
be very disagreeable, but I ought to be there when the
will is opened." There was very little more said in
Queen Anne Street on the subject till the evening, —
till a few moments before Mr. Vavasor left his house.
He indeed had thought nothing more about that
quarrelling, or rather that promise that there should be
no quarrelling, between the girls. He still regarded
his nephew George as the man who, unfortunately, was
to be his son-in-law, and now, during this tedious sad
day, in which he felt himself compelled to remain at
home, he busied his mind in thinking of George and
Alice, as living together at the old Hall. At six, the
father and daughter dined, and soon after dinner Mr.
Vavasor went up to his own room to prepare himself

26 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

for his journey. After a while Alice followed him, —
but she did not do so till she knew that if anything
was to be told before the journey no further time
could be lost.

" Papa," she said, as soon as she had shut the door
behind her, " I think I ought to tell you before you go
that everything is over between me and George."

" Have you quarrelled with him too ? " said her
father, with uncontrolled surprise.

" I should perhaps say that he has quarrelled with
me. But, dear papa, pray do not question me at pres-
ent. I will tell you all when you come back, but I
thought it right that you should know this before you
went."

" It has been his doing then ? "

" I cannot explain it to you in a hurry like this.
Papa, you may understand something of the shame
which I feel, and you should not question me now."

" And John Grey ? "

" There is nothing different in regard to him."

*' I '11 be shot if I can understand you. George, you
know, has had two thousand pounds of your money,
— of yours or somebody else's. Well, we can't talk
about it now, as I must be off. Thinking as I do of
George, I 'm glad of it, — that *s all." Then he went,
and Alice was left alone, to comfort herself as best she
might by her own reflections.

George Vavasor had received the message on the
day previous to that on which Alice's letter had reached
her, but it had not come to him till late in the day.
He might ha,ve gone down by the mail train of that
night, but there were one or two persons, his own at-
torney especially, whom he wished to see before the

SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED. 27

reading of his grandfather's will. He remained in town,
therefore, on the following day, and went down by the
same train as that which took his uncle. Walking along
the piatform, looking for a seat, he peered into a car-
riage and met his uncle's eye. The two saw each other,
but did not speak, and George passed on to another
carriage. On the following morning, before the break
of day, they met again in the refreshment-room, at the
station at Lancaster.

"So my father has gone, George," said the uncle,
speaking to the nephew. They must go to the same
house, and Mr. Vavasor felt that it would be better
that they should be on speaking terms when they
reached it.

" Yes," said George ; " he has gone at last. I won-
der what we shall find to have been his last act of in-
justice." The reader will remember that he had re-
ceived Kate's first letter, in which she had told him
of the squire's altered will.

John Vavasor turned away disgusted. His finer
feelings were perhaps not very strong, but he had no
thoughts or hopes in reference to the matter which
were mean. He expected nothing himself, and did
not begrudge his nephew the inheritance. At this
moment he was thinking of the old squire as a father
who had ever been kind to him. It might be natural
that George should have no such old affection at his
heart, but it was unnatural that he should express him-
self as he had done at such a moment.

The uncle turned away, but said nothing. George
followed him with a little proposition of his own.
"We shan't get any conveyance at Shap," he said.
" Had n't we better go over in a chaise from Kendal ? "

28 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

To this the uncle assented, and so they finished their
journey together. George smoked all the time that
they were in the carriage, and very few words were
spoken. As they drove up to the old house, they
found that another arrival had taken place before
them, — Mrs. Greenow having reached the house in
some vehicle from the Shap station. She had come
across from Norwich to Manchester, where she had
joined the train which had brought the uncle and
nephe\v'from London.

CHAPTER III.

THE WILL.

The coming of Mrs. Greenow at this very moment
was a great comfort to Kate. Without her she would
hardly have known how to bear herself with her uncle
and her brother. As it was, they were all restrained
by something of the courtesy which strangers are bound
to show to each other. George had never seen his
aunt since he was a child, and some sort of introduc-
tion was necessary between them.

" So you are George," said Mrs. Greenow, putting
out her hand and smiling.

" Yes ; I *m George," said he.

" And a member of Parliament! " said Mrs. Greenow.
"It 's quite an honour to the family. I felt so proud
when I heard it!" She said this pleasantly, meaning
it to be taken for truth, and then turned away to her
brother. " Papa's time was fully come," she said,
" though, to tell the truth, I had no idea that he was
so weak as Kate describes him to have been."

" Nor I, either," said John Vavasor. ** He went to
church with us here on Christmas Day."

"Did he, indeed? Dear, dear! He seems at last
to have gone off just like poor Greenow." Here she
put her handkerchief up to her face. " I think you
did n't know Greenow, John? "

" I met him once," said her brother.

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

"Ah! he was n't to be known and understood hi
that way. I *m aware there was a little prejudice,
because of his being in trade, but we won't talk of that
now. Where should I have been without him, trades-
man or no tradesman? "

"I Ve no doubt he was an excellent man."
" You may say that, John. Ah, well! we can't keep
everything in this life forever." It may, perhaps, be
as well to explain now that Mrs. Greenow had told
Captain Bellfield at their last meeting before she left
Norwich, that, under certain circumstances, if he be-
haved himself well, there might possibly be ground of
hope. Whereupon Captain Bellfield had immediately
gone to the best tailor in that city, had told the man
of his coming marriage, and had given an extensive
order. But the tailor had not as yet supplied the
goods, waiting for more credible evidence of the cap-
tain's good forutne. " We 're all grass of the field,"
said Mrs. Greenow, lightly brushing a tear from her
eye, " and must be cut down and put into the oven in
our turns." Her brother uttered a slight sympathetic
groan, shaking his head in testimony of the uncertainty
of human affairs, and then said that he would go out
and look about the place. George, in the meantime,
had asked his sister to show him his room, and the two
were already together upstairs.

Kate had made up her mind that she would say
nothing about Alice at the present moment, — nothing,
if it could be avoided, till after the funeral. She led
the way upstairs, almost trembling with fear, for she
knew that that other subject of the will would also give
rise to trouble and sorrow, — perhaps, also, to deter-
mined quarrelling.

THE WILL. 31

"What has brought that woman here? ** was the first
question that George asked.
"I asked her to come," said Kate.

"And why did you ask her to come here?" said

George angrily. Kate immediately felt that he was

speaking as though he were master of the house, and

also as though he intended to be master of her. As

regarded the former idea, she had no objection to it.

She thoroughly and honestly wished that he might be

the master ; and though she feared that he might find

himself mistaken in his assumption, she herself was

not disposed to deny any appearance of right that he

might take upon himself in that respect. But she had

ab*eady begun to tell herself that she must not submit

herself to his masterdom. She had gradually so taught

herself since he had compelled her to write the first

letter in which Alice had been asked to giVe her

money.

'* I asked her, George, before my poor grandfather's
death, when I thought that he would linger perhaps
for weeks. My life here alone with him, without any
other woman in the house beside the servants, was
very melancholy."

•* Why did you not ask Alice to come to you? "

** Alice could not have come," said Kate, after a
short pause.

** I don't know why she should n't have come. I
won't have that woman about the place. She dis-
graced herself by marrying a blacksmith "

" Why, George, it was you yourself who advised me
to go and stay with her."

"That 's a very different thing. Now that he 's
dead, and she 's got his money, it 's all very well that

32 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

you should go to her occasionally ; but I won't have
her here."

"It *s natural that she should come to her father's
house at her father's death-bed."

" I hate to be told that things are natural. It al-
ways means humbug. I don't suppose she cared for
the old man any more than I did, — or than she cared
for the other old man who married her. People are
such intense hypocrites. There 's my Uncle John, pull-
ing a long face because he has come into this house,
and he will pull it as long as the body lies up there ;
and yet for the last twenty years there 's nothing on
earth he has so much hated as going to see his father.
When are they going to bury him ? "

" On Saturday, the day after to-morrow."

" Why could n't they do it to-morrow, so that we
could get away before Sunday ? "

"He only died on Monday, George," said Kate
solemnly.

" Psha! Who has got the will ? "
. " Mr. Gogram. He was here yesterday, and told
me to tell you and Uncle John that he would have it
with him when he came back from the funeral."

"What has my Uncle John to do with it?" said
George sharply. " I shall go over to Penrith this after-
noon and make Gogram give it up to me."

" I don't think he '11 do that, George."

" What right has he to keep it ? What right has he
to it at all ? How do I know that he has really got
the old man's last will? Where did my grandfather
keep his papers ? "

"In that old secretary, as he used to call it ; the one
that stands in the dining-room. It is sealed up."

THE WILL. 33

"Who sealed it?"

"Mr. Gogram did, — Mr. Gogram and I together."
" What the deuce made you meddle with it? "
"I merely assisted him. But I believe he was quite
nght. I think it is usual in such cases."

" Balderdash ! You are thinking of some old trum-
pery of former days. Till I know to the contrary,
ever3rthing here belongs to me as heir-at-law, and I do
not mean to allow of any interference till I know for
certain that my rights have been taken from me. And
I won't accept a death-bed will. What a man chooses
to write when his fingers will hardly hold the pen, goes
for nothing."

" You can't suppose that I vmti to interfere with
your rights? "
" I hope not."
"Oh, George!"

" Well ; I say, I hope not. But I know there are
those who would. Do you think my Uncle John would

not interfere with me if he could ? By ! if he does,

he shall find that he does it to his cost. I *11 lead him
such a life through the courts, for the next two or three
years, that he '11 wish that he had remained in Chan-
cery Lane, and had never left it."

A message was now brought up by the nurse, saying
that Mrs. Greenow and Mr. Vavasor were going into
the room where the old squire was lying. " Would Miss
Kate and Mr. George go with them? "

"Mr. Vavasor!" shouted out George, making the
old woman jump. She did not understand his meaning
in the least. " Yes, sir, the old squire," she said.
" Will you come, George ? " Kate asked.
" No; what should I go there for? Why should I

34 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

pretend an interest in the dead body of a man whom I
hated, and who hated me ; — whose very last act, as far
as I know as yet, was an attempt to rob me? I won't
go and see him."

Kate went, and was glad of an opportunity of getting
away from her brother. Every hour the idea was be-
coming stronger in her mind that she must in some way
separate herself from him. There had come upon him
of late a hard ferocity which made him unendurable.
And then he carried to such a pitch that hatred, as he
called it, of conventional rules, that he allowed himself
to be controlled by none of the ordinary bonds of so-
ciety. She had felt this heretofore, with a nervous
consciousness that she was doing wrong in endeavour-
ing to bring about a marriage between him and Ahce ;
but this demeanour and mode of talking had now so
grown upon him that Kate began to feel herself thank-
ful that Ahce had been saved.

Kate went up with her uncle and aunt, and saw the
face of her grandfather for the last time. " Poor, dear
old man!" said Mrs. Greenow, as the easy tears ran
down her face. " Do you remember, John, how he
used to scold me, and say that I should never come
to good? He has said the same thing to you, Kate, I
dare say ? "

" He has been very kind to me," said Kate, standing
at the foot of the bed. She was not one of those
whose tears stand near their eyes.

" He was a fine old gentleman," said John Vavasor ;
— " belonging to days that are now gone by, but by
no means the less of a gentleman on that account. I
don't know that he ever did an unjust or ungenerous
act to any one. Come, Kate, we may as well go

THE WILL. 35

down." Mrs. Greenow lingered to say a word or two
to the nurse, of the manner in which Greenow's body
was treated when Greenow was lying dead, and then
she followed her brother and niece.

George did not go into Penrith, nor did he see Mr.
Gogram till that worthy attorney came out to Vavasor
Hall on the morning of the funeral. He said nothing
more on the subject, nor did he break the seals on the
old upright desk that stood in the parlour. The two
days before the funeral were very wretched for all the
party, except, perhaps, for Mrs. Greenow, who affected
not to understand that her nephew was in a bad hu-
mour. She called him " poor George," and treated all
his incivility to herself as though it were the effect of
his grief. She asked him questions about Parliament,
which, of course, he did n't answer, and told him little
stories about poor dear Greenow, not heeding his ex-
pressions of unmistakable disgust.

The two days at last went by, and the hour of the
funeral came. There was the doctor and Gogram, and
the uncle and the nephew, to follow the corpse, — the
nephew taking upon himself ostentatiously the fore-
most place, as though he could thereby help to main-
tain his pretensions as heir. The clergyman met them
at the little wicket-gate of the churchyard, having, by
some reasoning, which we hope was satisfactory to him-
self, overcome a resolution which he at first formed, that
he would not read the burial service over an unrepent-
ant sinner. But he did read it, having mentioned his
scruples to none but one confidential clerical friend in
the same diocese.

" I 'm told that you have got my grandfather's will,"
George said to the attorney as soon as he saw him.

36 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" I have it in my pocket,- said Mr. Goirram ''
purpose to read it as soon as we return from chiircJ^!

- Is it usual to take a will away from a mJ^l.
in that way ? " George asked. "^^^ « ^^^

" Quite usual," said the attorney ; " and in thi«
it was done at the express desire of the t^stator^ ^^^

" I think it is the conunon practice," said TrA
Vavasor. ' J^"

George upon this turned round at his uncle as th
about to attack him, but he restrained himself and^^^H
nothing, though he showed his teeth. ^^^

The funeral was very plain, and not a word
spoken by George Vavasor during the journev tlT^
and back. John Vavasor asked a few qu^tions of S^
doctor as to the last weeks of his father's life; and '
was incidentally mentioned, both by the doctor d
by the attorney, that the old squire's intellect had
mained unimpaired up to the last moment that he had
been seen by either of them. When they returned t
the hall Mrs. Greenow met them with an invitation t^
lunch. They all went to the dining-room, and drank
each a glass of sherry. George took two or three
glasses. The doctor then withdrew, and drove himself
back to Penrith, where he lived.

'' Shall we go into the other room now? " said the
attorney.

The three gendemen then rose. up, and went across
to the drawing-room, George leading the way. The
attorney followed him, and John Vavasor closed the
door behind them. Had any observer been there to
watch them he might have seen by the faces of the two
latter that they expected an unpleasant meeting. Mr.
Gogram, as he had walked acrossr the hall, had pulled

THE WILL. 37

a document out of his pocket, and held it in his hand

as he took a chair. John Vavasor stood behind one

of the chairs which had been placed at the table, and
leaned upon it, looking across the room, up at the ceil-
ing. George stood on the rug before the fire, with his
hands in the pockets of his trousers, and his coat tails
over his arms.

" Gentlemen, will you sit down ? " said Mr. Gogram.

John Vavasor immediately sat down.

"I prefer to stand here," said George.

Mr. Gogram then opened the document before him.

" Before that paper is read," said George, " I think
it right to say a few words. I don't know what it
contains, but I believe it to have been executed by my
grandfather only an hour or two before his death."

" On the day before he died, — early in the day,"
said the attorney.

" Well, — the day before he died ; it is the same thing,
—while he was dying, in fact. He never got out of
bed afterwards."

"He was not in bed at the time, Mr. Vavasor. Not
that it would have mattered if he had been. And he
came down to dinner on that day. I don't understand,
however, why you make these observations."

" If you '11 listen to me you will understand. I
make them because I deny my grandfather's fitness to
make a will in the last moments of his existence, and
at such an age. I saw him a few weeks ago, and he
was not fit to be trusted with the management of
property then."

** I do not think this is the time, George, to put for-
ward such objections," said the uncle.

"I think it is," said George. *'I believe that that

38 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

paper purports to be an instrument by which I should
be villainously defrauded if it were allowed to be held
as good. Therefore I protest against it now, and shall
question it at law if action be taken on it. You can
read it now, if you please."

" Oh yes, I shall read," said Mr. Gogram ; " and I
say that it is as valid a will as ever a man signed."

" And I say it *s not. That 's the difference between
us."

The will was read amidst sundry interjections and
expressions of anger from George, which it is not nec-
essary to repeat. Nor need I trouble my readers with
the will at length. It began by expressing the testa-
tor's great desire that his property might descend in his
own family, and that the house might be held and in-
habited by some one bearing the name of Vavasor. He
then declared that he felt himself obliged to pass over
his natural heir, believing that the property would not
be safe in his hands ; he therefore left it in trust to his
son John Vavasor, whom he appointed to be sole ex-
ecutor of his will. He devised it to George's eldest
son, — should George ever marry and have a son, — as
soon as he might reach the age of twenty-five. In the
meantime the property should remain in the hands of
John Vavasor for his use and benefit, with a lien on it
of five hundred a year to be paid annually to his grand-
daughter Kate. In the event of George haying no son,
the property was to go to the eldest son of Kate, or
failing that to the eldest son of his other granddaughter
who might take the name of Vavasor. All his personal
property he left to his son, John Vavasor.

** And, Mr. Vavasor," said the attorney, as he finished
his reading, *' you will, I fear, get very little by that lat-

THE WILL. 39

ter clause. The estate now owes nothing ; but I doubt
whether the squire had fifty pounds in his banker's
hands when he died, and the value of the property
about the place is very small. He has been unwilling
to spend anything during the last ten years, but has
paid off every shilling that the property owed."

" It is as I supposed," said George. His voice was
very unpleasant, and so was the fire of his eyes and
the ghastly rage of his scarred face. " The old man
has endeavoured in his anger to rob me of everything
because I would not obey him in his wickedness'j.^hen
I was here with him a short while before he &ed*
Such a will as that can stand nowhere." \ r

" As to that I have nothing to say at present," said
the attorney.

" Where is his other will, — the one he made before
that ? "

" If I remember rightly we executed two before this."

"And where are they? "

"It is not my business to know, Mr. Vavasor. I
believe that I saw him destroy one ; but I have no ab-
solute knowledge. As to the other, I can say nothing."

" And what do you mean to do? " said George, turn-
ing to his uncle.

" Do ! I shall carry out the will. I have no alter-
native. Your sister is the person chiefly interested
under it. She gets five hundred a year for her life ;
and if she marries and you don*t, or if she has a son
and you don't, her son will have the whole property."

George stood for a few moments thinking. Might
it not be possible that by means of Alice and Kate to-
gether, — by marrying the former, — perhaps, he might
still obtain possession of the property? But that

40 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

which he wanted was the command of the property at
once — the power of raising money upon it instantly.
The will had been so framed as to make that impos-
sible in any way. Kate's share in it had not been left
to her unconditionally, but was to be received even by
her through the hands of her Uncle John. Such a will
shut him out from all his hopes. " It is a piece of
d d roguery," he said.

" What do you mean by that, sir ? " said Gogram,
turning round towards him.

"I mean exactly what I say. It is a piece of

d d roguery. Who was in the room when that

thing was written ? "

" The signatm-e was witnessed by "

" I don*t ask as to the signature. Who was in the
room when the thing was written ? "

" I was here with your grandfather."

" And no one else? "

" No one else. The presence of any one else at
such a time would be very unusual."

" Then I regard the document simply as waste paper."
After saying this, George Vavasor left the room, and
slammed the door after him.

" I never was insulted in such a way before," said
the attorney, almost with tears in his eyes.

" He is a disappointed and I fear a ruined man,"
said John Vavasor. " I do not think you need regard
what he says."

" But he should not on that account insult me. I
have only done my duty. I did not even advise his
grandfather. It is mean on his part and unmanly.
If he comes in my way again I shall tell him so."

tHE WILL. 41

"He probably will not put himself in your way
again, Mr. Gogram."

Then the attorney went, having suggested to Mr.
Vavasor that he should instruct his attorney in London
to take steps in reference to the proving of the will.
" It 's as good a will as ever was made," said Mr.
Gogram. " If he can set that aside, I '11 give up mak-
ing wills altogether."

Who was to tell Kate? That was John Vavasor's
first thought when he was left alone at the hall-door,
after seeing the lawyer start away. And how was he
to get himself back to London without further quar-
relling with his nephew? And what was he to do at
once with reference to the immediate duties of propri-
etorship which were entailed upon him as executor ?
It was by no means improbable, as he thought, that
George might assume to himself the position of master
of the house ; that he might demand the keys, for in-
stance, which no doubt were in Kate's hands at pres-
ent, and that he would take possession with violence.
What should he do under such circumstances? It was
clear that he could not run away and get back to his
club by the night mail train. He had duties there at
the Hall, and these duties were of a nature to make
him almost regret the position in which his father's
will had placed him. Eventually he would gain some
considerable increase to his means, but the immediate
effect would be terribly troublesome. As he looked
up at the melancholy pines which were slowly waving
their heads in the wind before the door he declared to
himself that he would sell his inheritance and his ex-
ecutorship very cheaply ; if such a sale were possible.

42 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

In the dining-room he found his sister alone. " Well,
John," said she ; " weU ? How is it left ? "

" Where is Kate ? " he asked.

" She has gone out with her brother."
Did he take his hat ? "

Oh yes. He asked her to walk, and she went
with him at once."

" Then I suppose he will tell her," said John Vava-
sor. After that he explained the circumstances of the
will to Mrs. Greenow.

" Bravo! " exclaimed the widow. " I 'm delighted.
I love Kate dearly; and now she can marry almost
whom she pleases.'

CHAPTER IV.

ANOTHER WALK ON THE FELLS.

George, when he left the room in which he had in-
sulted the lawyer, went immediately across to the par-
lour in which his aunt and sister were sitting. " Kate,"
said he, " put on your hat and come and walk with
me. That business is over." Kate's hat and shawl
were in the room, and they were out of the house to-
gether within a minute.

They walked down the carriage-road, through the
desolate, untenanted grounds, to the gate, before either
of them spoke a word. Kate was waiting for George
to tell her of the will, but did not dare to ask any
question. George intended to tell her of the will, but
was not disposed to do so without some preparation.
It was a thing not to be spoken of open-mouthed, as a
piece of ordinary news.

" Which way shall we go? " said Kate, as soon as
they had passed through the old rickety gate which
swung at the entrance of the place.

"Up across the Fell," said George; "the day is
fine, and I want to get away from my uncle for a time."
She turned round, therefore, outside the hill of firs, and
led the way back to the Beacon Wood through which
she and Alice had walked across to Hawes Water upon
a memorable occasion. They had reached the top of
the Beacon Hill, and were out upon the Fell, before

44 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

•

George had begun his story. Kate was half beside
herself with curiosity, but still she was afraid to ask.

" Well," said George, when they paused a moment as
they stepped over a plank that crossed the boimdary
ditch of the wood ; " don't you want to know what
that dear old man has done for you? " Then he looked
into her face very steadfastly. " But perh^s you know
already," he added. He had come out determined
not to quarrel with his sister. He had resolved, in that
moment of thought which had been allowed to him,
that his best hope for the present required that he
should keep himself on good terms with her, at any rate
till he had settled what line of conduct he would pur-
sue. But he was, in truth, so sore with anger and dis-
appointment, — he had become so nearly mad with that
continued, unappeased wrath in which he now indulged
against all the world, that he could not refrain him- ^
self from bitter words. He was as one driven by the
Furj*ies, and was no longer able to control them in
their driving of him.

" I know nothing of it," said Kate. '* Had I known I

should have told you. Your question is unjust to me."

"I am beginning to doubt," said he, "whether a

man can be safe in trusting any one. My grandfather

has done his best to rob me of the property altogether."

I told you that I feared he would do so."

And he has made you his heir."
"Me?"

Yes; you."

He told me distinctly that he would not do that."

But he has, I tell you."

Then, George, I shall do that which I told him I
should do in the event of his making such a will ; for

t(
tt
tt
tt

ANOTHER WALK ON THE FELLS. 45

he asked me the question. I told him I should restore
the estate to you, and upon that he swore that he
would not leave it to me.'*

" And what a fool you were," said he, stopping her
in die pathway, " What an ass ! Why did you tell
him that? You knew that he would not, on that ac-
count, do justice to me."

" He asked me, George."

"Psha! now you have ruined me, and you might
have saved me."

" But I will save you still, if he has left the estate
to me. I do not desire to take it from you. As God
in heaven sees me, I have never ceased to endeav-
our to protect your interests here at Vavasor. I will
sign anything necessary to make over my right in
the property to you." Then they walked on over the
Fell for some minutes without speaking. They were
still on the same path, — ^that path which Kate and
Alice had taken in the winter, — and now poor Kate
could not but think of all that she had said that day
on George's behalf ; — how had she mingled truth and
falsehood in her efforts to raise her brother's character
in her cousin's eyes! It had all been done in vain.
At this very moment of her own trouble Kate thought
of John Grey, and repented of what she had done.
Her hopes in that direction were altogether blasted.
She knew that her brother had ill-treated Alice, and
that she must tell him so if Alice's name were men-
tioned between them. She could no longer worship
her brother, and hold herself at his command in all
things. But, as regarded the property to which he
was naturally the heir, if any act of hers could give it
to him, that act would be done.

46 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" If the will is as you say, George, I will make over
my right to you."

" You can make over nothing," he answered. " The
old robber has been too cunning for that ; he has left

it all in the hands of my Uncle John. D him.

D them both."

'* George! George! he is dead now."

" Dead ; of course he is dead. What of that ? I
wish he had been dead ten years ago,— or twenty. Do
you suppose I am to forgive him because he is dead?
I *11 heap his grave with curses, if that can be of avail
to punish him."

" You can only punish the living that way."

" And I will punish them ; — but not by cursing them.
My Uncle John shall have such a life of it for the next
year or two that he shall bitterly regret the hour in
which he has stepped between me and my rights."

" I do not believe that he has done so."

" Not done so ! What was he down here for at
Christmas? Do you pretend to think that that make-
believe will was concocted without his knowledge ? "

" I *m sure that he knew nothing of it. I don't
think my grandfather's mind was made up a week be-
fore he died."

" You '11 have to swear that, remember, in a court.
I *m not going to let the matter rest, I can tell you.
You '11 have to prove that. How long is it since he
asked you what you would do with the estate if he left
it to you? "

Kate thought for a moment before she answered.
"It was only two days before he died, if I remember
rightly."

" But you must remember rightly. You '11 have to

ANOTHER WALK ON THE FELLS. 47

swear to it. And now. tell me this honestly : do you
believe, in your heart, that he was in a condition fit
for making a will? "
" I advised him not to make it."
"Why? why? What reason did you give?"
"I told him that I thought no man should alter
family arrangements when he was so ill."

" Exactly. You told him that. And what did he
say?"

" He was very angry, and made me send for Mr.
Gogram."

*' Now, Kate, think a little before you answer me
again. If ever you are to do me a good turn, you
must do it now. And, remember this, I don*t at all
want to take anything away from you. Whatever you
think is fair you shall have."

He was a fool not to have known her better than
that.

" I want nothing," she said, stopping, and stamping
with her foot upon the crushed heather. " George, you
don't understand what it is to be honest."

He smiled, — with a slight provoking smile that
passed very rapidly from his face.* The meaning of
the smile was to be read, had Kate been calm enough
to read it. " I can't say that I do." That was the
meaning of the smile. " Well, never mind about that,"
said he ; " you advised my grandfather not to make his
will, — thinking, no doubt, that his mind was not clear
enough? "

She paused a moment again before she answered
him. " His mind was clear," she said ; " but I thought
that he should not trust his judgment while he was so
weak."

48 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" Look here, Kate ; I do believe that you at any
rate have no mind to assist in this robbery. That it
is a robbery you can*t have any doubt. I said he had
left the estate to you. That is not what he has done.
He has left the estate to my Uncle John."

'* Why tell me, then, what was untrue? "

" Are you disappointed? "

" Of course I am ; Uncle John won't give it you.
George, I don't understand you ; I don't indeed."

" Never mind about that, but listen to me. The
estate is left in the hands of John Vavasor ; but he
has left you five hundred a year out of it till somebody
is twenty-five years old who is not yet bom, and prob-
ably never will be bom. The will itself shows the old
fool to have been mad."

" He was no more mad than you are, George."

" Listen to me, I tell you. I don't mean that he
was a raging maniac. Now, you had advised him not
to make any new will because you thought he was not
in a fit condition ? "

" Yes ; I did."

" You can swear to that? "

" I hope I may not be called on to do so. I hope
there may be no swearing about it. But if I am asked
the question I must swear it."

" Exactly. Now listen till you understand what it
is I mean. That will, if it stands, gives all the power
over the estate to John Vavasor. It renders you quite
powerless as regards any help or assistance that you
might be disposed to give to me. But, nevertheless,
your interest under the will is greater than his, — or than
that of any one else, — for your son would inherit if I
have none. Do you understand ? "

ANOTHER WALK ON THE FELLS. 49

"Yes; I think so."

"And your testimony as to the invah'dity of the will
would be conclusive against all the world."

" I would say in a court what I have told you, if
that will do any good."

"It will not be enough. Look here, Kate; you
must be steadfast here; everything depends on you.
How often have you told me that you will stick to
me throughout life ? Now you will be tried."

Kate felt that her repugnance towards him, — towards

all that he was doing and wished her to do, — ^was

growing stronger within her at every word he spoke.

She was becoming gradually aware that he desired

from her something which she could and would not do,

and she was aware also that in refusing him she would

have to encounter him in all his wrath. She set her

teeth firmly together, and clenched her littie fist. If a

fight was necessary, she would fight with him. As he

looked at her closely with his sinister eyes, her love

towards him was almost turned to hatred.

" Now you will be tried," he said again. " You ad-
vised him not to make the will because you thought
his intellect was impaired? "
No ; not so."

Stop, Kate, stop. If you will think of it, it was so.
What is the meaning of his judgment being weak ? "
I did n*t say his judgment was weak."
But that was what you meant when you advised
him not to trust it ! "

" Look here, George ; I think I know now what you
mean. If anybody asks me if his mind was gone, or
his intellect deranged, I cannot say that there was any-
thing of the kind."

50 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" You will not ? "

" Certainly not. It would be untrue."

** Then you are determined to throw me over and
claim the property for yourself." Again he turned to-
wards and looked at her as though he were resolved
to frighten her. " And I am to count you also among
my enemies? You had better take care, Kate."

They were now upon the Fell side, more than three
miles away from the Hall ; and Kate, as she looked
round, saw that they were all alone. Not a cottage, —
not a sign of humanity was within sight. Kate saw
that it was so, and was aware that the fact pressed
itself upon her as being of importance. Then she
thought again of her resolution to fight with him, if any
fight were necessary ; to tell him, in so many words,
that she would separate herself from him and defy him.
She would not fear him, let his words and face be ever
so terrible ! Surely her own brother would do her no
bodily harm. And even though he did so, — though
he should take her roughly by the arm as he had done
to Alice, — though he should do worse than that, still
she would fight him. Her blood was the same as his,
and he should know that her courage was, at any rate,
as high.

And, indeed, when she looked at him, she had cause
to fear. He intended that she should fear. He
intended that she should dread what he might do to
her at that moment. As to what he would do he had
no resolve made. Neither had he resolved on anything
when he had gone to Alice and had shaken her rudely
as she sat beside him. He had been guided by no
fixed intent when he had attacked John Grey, or when
he insulted the attorney ; but a Fury was driving him.

ANOTHER WALK ON THE FEJ-LS. 51

and he was conscious of being so driven. He almost
wished to be driven to some act of frenzy. Every-
thing in the world had gone against him, and he de-
sired to expend his rage on some one.

" Kate," said he, stopping her, " we will have this out
here, if you please. So much, at any rate, shall be
settled to-day. You have made many promises to me,
and I have believed them. You can now keep them
all, by simply saying what you know to be the truth,
— that that old man was a drivelling idiot when he
made this will. Are you prepared to do me that jus-
tice? Think before you answer me, for, by G , if I

cannot have justice among you. Twill have revenge."
And he put his hand upon her breast up near to her
throat.

" Take your hand down, George," said she. " I 'm
not such a fool that you can frighten me in that way."
" Answer me ! " he said, and shook her, having some
part of her raiment within his clutch.

** Oh, George, that I should live to be so ashamed of
my brother!'*

" Answer me," he said again ; and again he shook
her.

" I have answered you. I will say nothing of the
kind that you want me to say. My grandfather, up
to the latest moment that I saw him, knew what he
was about. He was not an idiot. He was, I believe,
only carrying out a purpose fixed long before. You
will not make me change what I say by looking at me
like that, nor get it by shaking me. You don't know
me, George, if you think you can frighten me like a
child."

He heard her till the last word, still keeping his

52 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

hand upon her, and holding her by the cloak she wore ;
but the violence of his grasp had relaxed itself, and he
let her finish her words, as though his object had simply
been to make her speak out to him what she had to
say. " Oh," said he, when she had done, " that *s to
be it ; is it? That *s your idea of honesty. The very
name of the money being your own has been too much
for you. I wonder whether you and my uncle had
contrived it all between you beforehand ? "

" You will not dare to ask him, because he is a man,"
said Kate, her eyes brimming with tears, not through
fear, but in very vexation at the nature of the charge
he had brought against her.

"Shall I not? You will see what I dare do. As

for you, with all your promises Kate, you know

that I keep my word. Say that you will do as I de-
sire you, or I will be the death of you."

" Do you mean that you will murder me? " said she.

" Murder you! yes; why not? Treated as I have
been among you, do you suppose that I shall stick at
anything? Why should I not murder you — you and
Alice, too, seeing how you have betrayed me ? "

" Poor Alice!" as she spoke the words she looked
straight into his eyes, as though defying him, as far as
she herself were concerned.

" Poor Alice, indeed! D d hypocrite! There *s

a pair of you ; cursed, whining, false, intriguing hypo-
crites. There ; go down and tell your uncle and that
old woman there that I threatened to murder you.
Tell the judge so, when you 're brought into court to
swear me out of my property. You false liar ! " Then
he pushed her from him with great violence, so that
she fell heavily upon the stony ground.

ANOTHER WALK ON THE FELLS. 53

He did not stop to help her up, or even to look
at her as she lay, but walked away across the heath,
neither taking the track on towards Hawes Water, nor
returning by the path which had brought them thither.
He went away northwards across the wild fell ; and
Kate, having risen up and seated herself on a small
cairn of stones which stood there, watched him as he
descended the slope of the hill till he was out of sight.
He did not run, but he seemed to move rapidly, and
he never once turned round to look at her. He went
away, down the hill northwards, and presently the curv-
ing of the ground hid him from her view.

When she first seated herself her thoughts had been
altogether of him. She had feared no personal injury,
even when she had asked hira whether he would miu*-
der her. Her blood had been hot within her veins,
and her heart had been full of defiance. Even yet
she feared nothing, but continued to think of him and
his misery, and his disgrace. That he was gone for-
ever, utterly and irretrievably ruined, thrown out, as it
were, beyond the pale of men, was now certain to her.
And this was the brother in whom she had believed ;
for whom she had not only been willing to sacrifice
herself, but for whose purposes she had striven to sac-
rifice her cousin! What would he do now? As he
passed from out of her sight down the hill, it seemed
to her as though he were rushing straight into some
hell from which there could be no escape.

She knew that her arm had been hurt in the fall, but
for a while she would not move it or feel it, being re-
solved to take no account of what might have happened
to herself. But when he had been gone some ten min-
utes, she rose to her feet, and finding that the movement

54 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

pained her greatly, and that her right arm was power-
less, she put up her* left hand and became aware that
the bone of her arm was broken below the elbow.
Her first thought was given to the telling him of this, or
the not telling, when she should meet him below at the
house. How should she mention the accident to him ?
Should she lie, and say that she had fallen as she Game
down the hill alone? Of course he would not believe
her, but still some such excuse as that might make the
matter easier for them all. It did not occur to her
that she might not see him again at all that day ; and
that, as far as he was concerned, there might be tieed
for no lie.

She started off to walk down home, holding her right
arm steadily against her body with her left hand. Of
course she must give some account of herself when she
got to the house ; but it was of the account to be given
to him that she thought. As to the others she cared
little for them. ** Here I am ; my arm is broken ; and
you had better send for a doctor." That would be
sufficient for them.

When she got into the wood the path was very dark.
The heavens were overcast with clouds, and a few
drops began to fall. Then the rain fell faster and
faster, and before she had gone a quarter of a mile
down the Beacon Hill, the clouds had opened them-
selves, and the shower had become a storm of water.
Suffering as she was, she stood up for a few moments
under a large tree,, taking the excuse of the rain for
some minutes of delay, that she might make up her
mind as to what she would say. Then it occurred to
her that she might possibly meet him again before she
reached the house ; and, as she thought of it, she began

ANOTHER WALK ON THE FELLS. 55

for the first time to fear him. Would he come out
upon her from the trees and really kill her? Had he
made his way round, when he got out of her sight,
that he might fall upon her suddenly and do as he had
threatened ? As the idea came upon her, she made a
h'ttle attempt to run, but she found that running was
impracticable from the pain the movement caused her.
Then she walked on through the hard rain, steadily
holding her aim against her side, but still looking every
moment through the trees on the side from which
George might be expected to reach her. But no one
came near her on her way homewards. Had she been
calm enough to think of the nature of the ground, she
might have known that he could not have returned
upon her so quickly. He must have come back up
the steep hill-side which she had seen him descend.
No ; — he had gone away altogether, across the fells
towards Bampton, and was at this moment vainly but-
toning his coat across his breast, in his unconscious
attempt to keep out the wet. The Fury was driving
him on, and he himself was not aware whither he was
driven.

Dinner at the Hall had been ordered at five, the old
hour ; or rather that had been assumed to be the hour
for dinner without any ordering. It was just five when
Kate reached the front door. This she opened with her
left hand, and turning at once into the dining-room,
found her uncle and her aunt standing before the fire.
" Dinner is ready," said John Vavasor ; " where is
George?"

** You are wet, Kate," said Aunt Greenow.
" Yes, I am very wet," said Kate. '' I must go up-
stairs. Perhaps you *11 come with me, aunt? "

56 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" Come with you, — of course I will." Aunt Greenow
had seen at once that something was amiss.

"Where 's George?" said John Vavasor. "Has
he come back with you, or are we to wait for him."

Kate seated herself in her chair. " I don't quite
know where he is," she said. In the meantime, her
aunt had hastened up to her side just in time to catch
her as she was falling from her chair. " My arm,"
said Kate, very gently ; " my arm! " Then she slipped
down against her aunt, and had fainted.

" He has done her a mischief," said Mrs. Greenow,
looking up at her brother. " This is his doing."

John Vavasor stood confounded, wishing himself
back in Queen Anne Street

CHAPTER V.

SHOWING HOW THE WILD BEAST GOT HIMSELF
BACK FROM THE MOUNTAINS.

About eleven o'clock on that night, — the night
of the day on which Kate Vavasor's arm had been
broken, — there came a gentle knock at Kate's bedroom
door. There was nothing surprising in this, as of all
the household Kate only was in bed, per aunt was
sitting at this time by her bedside, and the doctor, who
had been summoned from Penrith and who had set her
broken arm, was still in the house, talking over the
accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before
he proceeded back on his journey home.

" She will do very well," said the doctor. "It 's
only a simple fracture. I '11 see her the day after to-
morrow."

" Is it not odd that such an accident should come
from a fall whilst walking? " asked Mr. Vavasor.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ** One never
can say how anything may occur," said he. " I know
a young woman who broke the os femoris by just kick-
ing her cat ; — at least, she said she did."

" Indeed ! I suppose you did n't take any trouble
to inquire? "

" Not much. My business was with the injury, not
with the way she got it. Somebody did make inquiry,
but she stuck to her story and nothing came of it.
Good night, Mr. Vavasor. Don't trouble her with

58 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

questions till she has had some hours* sleep, at any
rate." Then the doctor went, and John Vavasor was
left alone, standing with his back to the dining-room
fire.

There had been so much trouble and confusion in
the house since Kate had fainted, almost immediately
upon her reaching home, that Mr. Vavasor had not
yet had time to make up his mind as to the nature of
the accident which had occurred. Mrs. Greenow had
at once ascertained that the bone was broken, and
the doctor had been sent for. Luckily he had been
found at home, and had reached the Hall a little be-
fore ten o'clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate
recovered her senses, she volunteered her account of
what had occurred.

Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will,
she said, and had left her abruptly on the mountain.
She had fallen, she went on to say, as she turned from
him, and had at once found that she had hurt herself.
But she had been too angry with him to let him know
it ; and, indeed, she had not known the extent herself
till he had passed out of her sight. This was her story ;
and there was nothing in it that was false by the letter,
though there was much that was false in the spirit. It
was certainly true that George had not known that
she was injured. It was true that she had asked him
for no help. It was true, in one sense, that she had
fallen, and it was true that she had not herself known
how severe had been the injury done to her till he had
gone beyond the reach of her voice. But she repressed
all mention of his violence, and when she was pressed
as to the nature of the quarrel, she declined to speak
further on that matter.

HOW THE WILD BEAST RETURNED. 59

Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her. That
was a matter of course, and she knew that they did
not believe her. George's absence, their recent ex-
perience of his moods, and the violence by which her
arai must have been broken, made them certain that
Kate had more to tell if she chose to tell it. But in
her present condition they could not question her.
Mrs. Greenow did ask as to the probability of her
nephew's return.

"I can only tell you," said Kate, "that he went
away across the Fell in the direction of Bampton..
Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. He was very
angry with us all ; and as the house is not his own,
he has probably resolved that he will not stay another
night under the roof. But, who can say ? He is not
in his senses when he is angered."

John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor's
departure, endeavoured to ascertain the truth by think-
ing of it. " I am sure," he said to himself, ** that the
doctor suspects that there has been violence. I know
it from his tone, and I can see it in his eye. But how
to prove it ? and would there be good in proving it ?
Poor girl ! Will it not be better for her to let it pass
as though we believed her story ? " He made up his
niind that it would be better. Why should he take
upon himself the terrible task of calling this insane re-
lation to account for an act which he could not prove ?
The will itself, without that trouble, would give him
trouble enough. Then he began to long that he was
back at his club, and to think that the signing-room in
Chancery I^ane was not so bad. And so he went up
to his bed, calling at Kate*s door to ask after the
patient.

6o CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

In the meantime there had come a messenger to Mrs.
Greenow, who had stationed herself with her niece.
One of the girls of the house brought up a scrap of
paper to the door, saying that a boy had brought it
over with a cart from Shap, and that it was intended
for Miss Vavasor, and it was she who knocked at fhe
sick-room door. The note was open and not ad-
dressed ; indeed, the words were written on a scrap of
paper that was crumpled up rather than folded, and
were as follows : " Send me my clothes by the bearer.
I shall not return to the house." Mrs. Greenow
took it in to Kate, and then went away to see her
nephew*s things duly put into his portmanteau. This
was sent away in the cart, and Mr. Vavasor, as he
went upstairs, was told what had been done.

Neither on that night nor on the following day did
Mrs. Greenow ask any further questions ; but on the
morning after that, when the doctor had left them
with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity
would brook no further delay. And, indeed, indigna-
tion as well as curiosity lu^ged her on. In disposition
she was less easy, and, perhaps, less selfish, than her
brother. If it were the case that that man had ill-
treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to
bring him to punishment. " Kate," she said, when the
doctor was gone, " I expect that you will tell me the
whole truth as to what occmred between you and your
brother when you had this accident."

" I have told you the truth."

" But not the whole truth."

"All the truth I mean to tell, aunt. He has quar-
relled with me, as I think, most unnecessarily ; but you
don't suppose that I am going to give an exact ac-

HOW THE WILD BEAST RETURNED. 6 1

count of the quarrel ? We were both wrong, probably,
and so let there be an end of it."

"Was he violent to you when he quarrelled with
you? "

" When he is angry he is always violent in his lan-
guage."

" But, did he strike you? "

" Dear aunt, don't be angry with me if I say that
I won't be cross-examined. I would rather answer no
more questions about it. I know that questioning can
do no good."

Mrs. Greenow knew her niece well enough to be
aware that nothing more would be told her, but she
was quite sure now that Kate had not broken her arm
by a simple fall. She was certain that the injury had
come from positive violence. Had it not been so, Kate
would not have contented herself with refusing to an-
swer the last question that had been asked, but would
also have repelled the charge made against her brother
with indignation.

" You must have it your own way," said Mrs. Green-
ow ; " but let me just tell you this, that your brother
George had better keep out of my way."

" It is probable that he will," said Kate. " Espe-
cially if you remain here to nurse me."

Kate's conduct in answering all the questions made
to her was not difficult, but she found that there was
much difficulty in planning her own future behaviour
towards her own brother. Must she abandon him al-
together from henceforth ; divide herself from him, as
it were ; have perfectly separate interests, and interests
that were indeed hostile ? and must she see him ruined
and overwhelmed by want of money, while she had

62 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

been made a rich woman by her grandfather's will?
It will be remembered that her life had hitherto been
devoted to him ; that all her schemes and plans had had
his success as their object ; that she had taught herself
to consider it to be her duty to sacrifice everything to
his welfare. It is very sad to abandon the only object
of a life ! It is very hard to tear out from one's heart
and fling away from it the only love that one has cher-
ished! What was she to say to Alice about all this —
to Alice, whom she had cheated of a husband worthy
of her, that she might allure her into the arms of one
so utterly unworthy? Luckily for Kate, her accident
was of such a nature that any writing to Alice was now
out of the question.

But a blow! What woman can bear a blow from
a man, and afterwards return to him with love? A
wife may have to bear it and to return. And she may
return with that sort of love which is a thing of custom.
The man is the father of her children, and earns the
bread which they eat and which she eats. Habit and
the ways of the world require that she should be care-
ful in his interests, and that she should live with him
in what amity is possible to them. But as for love, —
all that we mean by love when we speak of it and
write of it, — a blow given by the defender to the de-
fenceless crushes it all! A woman may forgive deceit,
treachery, desertion ; — even the preference given to a
rival. She may forgive them and forget them ; but I
do not think that a woman can forget a blow. And
as for forgiveness, — it is not the blow that she cannot
forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.

Kate, as she thought of it, told herself that every-
thing in life was over for her. She had long feared

HOW THE WILD BEAST RETURNED. 63

her brother's nature, — ^had feared that he was hard and
heartless ; but still there had been some hope with her
fear. Success, if he could be made to achieve it, would
soften him, and then all might be right. But now all
was wrong, and she knew that it was so. When he
had compelled her to write to Alice for money, her
faith in him had almost succumbed. That had been
very mean, and the meanness had shocked her. But
now he had asked her to perjure herself that he might
have his own way, and had threatened to murder her,
and had raised his hand against her because she had
refused to obey him. And he had accused her of
treachery to himself, — ^had accused her of premeditated
deceit in obtaining this property for herself!

" But he does not beheve it," said Kate to herself.
" He said that because he thought it would vex me ;
but I know he does not think it." Kate had watched
her brother longing for money all his hfe, — had thor-
oughly understood the intensity of his wish for it, — the
agony of his desire. But so far removed was she from
any such longing on her own account, that she could
not believe that her brother would in his heart accuse
her of it. How often had she offered to give him, on
the instant, every shilling that she had in the world!
At this moment she resolved, in her mind, that she
never wished to see him more ; but even now, had it
been practicable, she would have made over to him,
without any drawback, all her interest in the Vavasor
estate.

But any such making over was impossible. John
Vavasor remained in Westmoreland for a week, and
during that time many discussions were, of course, held
about the property. Mr. Round came down from

64. CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

London, and met Mr. Gogram at Penrith. As to the
validity of the will Mr. Round said that there was no
shadow of a doubt. So an agent was appointed for
receiving the rents, and it was agreed that the old Hall
should be let in six months from that date. In the
meantime Kate was to remain there till her arm should
become strong, and she could make her plans for
the future. Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the
Hall for the present, and offered, indeed, indefinite ser-
vices for the future, as though she were quite forgetful
of Captain Bellfield. Of Mr. Cheesacre she was not
forgetful, for she still continued to speak of that gentle-
man to Kate, as though he were Kate's suitor. But
she did not now press upon her niece the acceptance
of Mr. Cheesacre*s hand as an absolute duty. Kate
was mistress of a considerable fortune, and though
such a marriage might be comfortable, it was no longer
necessary. Mrs. Greenow called him " poor Cheesacre,"
pointing out how easily he might be managed, and how
indubitable were his possessions; but she no longer
spoke of Kate's chances in the marriage market as des-
perate, even though she should decline the Cheesacre
alliance.

" A young woman with six hundred a year, my dear,
may do pretty nearly what she pleases," said Aunt
Greenow. ** It 's better than having ten years' grace
given you."

" And will last longer, certainly," said Kate.

Kate's desire was that Alice should come down to
her for a while in Westmoreland, before the six months
were over, and this desire she mentioned to her uncle.
He promised to carry the message up to Alice, but
could not be got to say more than that upon the sub-

HOW THE WILD BEAST RETURNED. 65

ject. Then Mr. Vavasor went away, leaving the aunt
and niece together at the Hall.

" What on earth shall we do if that wild beast shows
himself suddenly among us women ? " asked Mrs.
Greenow of her brother.

The brother could only say, *' That he hoped the wild
beast would keep his distance."

And the wild beast did keep his distance, at any rate
so long as Mrs. Greenow remained at the Hall. We
will now go back to the wild beast, and tell how he
walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton,
a little village at the foot of Hawes Water. It will be
remembered that after he had struck his sister, he
turned away from her, and walked with quick steps
down the mountain-side, never turning back to look at
her. He had found himself to be without any power of
persuasion over her, as regarded her evidence to be
given if the will were questioned. The more he
threatened her the steadier she had been in assert-
ing her belief in her grandfather's capacity. She had
looked into his eye and defied him, and he had felt
himself to be worsted. What was he to do ? In truth,
there was nothing for him to do. He had told her that
he would murder her ; and in the state of mind to which
his fury had driven him, murder had suggested itself
to him as a resource to which he might apply himself.
But what could he gain by murdering her, — or, at
any rate, by murdering her then, out on the mountain-
side? Nothing but a hanging! There would be no
gratification even to his revenge. If, indeed, he had
murdered that old man, who was now, unfortunately,
gone beyond the reach of murder; — if he could have
poisoned the old man's cup before that last will had

66 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

been made — there might have been something in such
a deed! But he had merely thought of it, letting " I
dare not wait upon I would " — as he now told himself,
with much self-reproach. Nothing was to be got by
killing his sister. So he restrained himself in his pas-
sion, and walked away from her, solitary, down the
mountain.

The rain soon came on, and found him exposed on
the hill-side. He thought little about it, but buttoned
his coat, as I have said before, and strode on. It was
a storm of rain, so that he was forced to hold his head
to one side, as it hit him from the north. But with his
hand to his hat, and his head bent against the wind, he
went on till he had reached the valley at the foot, and
found that the track by which he had been led thither
had become a road. He had never known the moun-
tains round the Hall as Kate had known them, and was
not aware whither he was going. On one thing only
had he made up his mind since he had left his sister,
and that was that he would not return to the house.
He knew that he could do nothing there to serve his
purpose ; his threats would be vain impotence ; he had
no longer any friend in the house. He could hardly
tell himself what line of conduct he would pursue, but
he thought that he would hurry back to London, and
grasp at whatever money he could get from Alice.
He was still, at this moment, a member of Parliament ;
and as the rain drenched him through and through,
he endeavoured to get consolation from the remem-
brance of that fact in his favour.

As he got near the village he overtook a shepherd
boy coming down from the hills, and learned his
whereabouts from him. " Baampton," said the boy,

HOW THE WILD BEAST RETURNED. 67

with an accent that was almost Scotch, when he was
asked the name of the place. When Vavasor further
asked whether a gig were kept there, the boy simply
stared at him, not knowing a gig by that name. At
last, however, he was made to understand the nature
of his companion's want, and expressed his beb'ef that
"John Applethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a
mickle cart." But the Craigs was a farmhouse, which
now came in view about a mile off, up a cross- valley ;
and Vavasor, hoping that he might still find a speedier
conveyance than John Applethwaite's mickle cart,
went on to the public-house in the village. But, in
truth, neither there, nor yet from John Applethwaite,
to whom at last an application was sent, could he get
any vehicle ; and between six and seven he started off
again, through the rain, to make his weary way on foot
to Shap. The distance was about five miles, and the
little byeways, lying between walls, were sticky, and
almost glutinous with light-coloured, chalky mud. Be-
fore he started he took a glass of hot rum and water,
but the effect of that soon passed away from him, and
then he became colder and weaker than he had been
before.

Wearily and wretchedly he plodded on. A man
may be very weary in such a walk as that, and yet be
by no means wretched. Tired, hungry, cold, wet, and
nearly penniless, I have sat me down and slept among
those mountain tracks, — have slept because nature re-
fused to allow longer wakefulness. But my heart has
been as light as my purse, and there has been some-
thing in the air of the hills that made me buoyant and
happy in the midst of my weariness. But George
Vavasor was wretched as well as weary, and every step

68 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

that he took, plodding through the mud, was a new
misfortune to him. What are five miles of a walk to
a young man, even though the rain be falling and the
ways be dirty? what, though they may come after
sonxe other ten that he has already traversed on his
feet? His sister Kate would have thought nothing of
the distance. But George stopped on his way from
time to time, leaning on the loose walls, and cursing
the misfortune that had brought him to such a pass.
He cursed his grandfather, his uncle, his sister, his
cousin, and himself. He cursed the place in which
liis forefathers had lived, and he cursed the whole
county. He cursed the rain, and the wind, and his
town-made boots, which would not keep out the wet
slush. He cursed the light as it faded, and the dark-
ness as it came. Over and over again he cursed the
will that had robbed him, and the attorney that had
made it. He cursed the mother that had borne him
and the father that had left him poor. He thought of
Scruby, and cursed him, thinking how that money
would be again required of him by that stem agent.
He cursed the House of Commons, which had cost
him so much, and the greedy electors who would not
send him there without his paying for it. He cursed
John Grey, as he thought of those two thousand pounds,
with double curses. He cursed this world, and all
worlds beyond ; and thus, cursing everything, he made
his way at last up to the inn at Shap.

It was nearly nine when he got there. He had
wasted over an Hour at Bampton in his endeavour to
get John Applethwaite's cart to carry him on, and he
had been two hours on his walk from Bampton to
Shap, — two hours amidst his cursing. He ordered sup-

HOW THE WILD BEAST RETURNED. 69

per and brandy and water, and, as we know, sent off a
Mercury for his clothes. But the Mercuries of West-
moreland do not move on quick wings, and it was past
midnight before he got his possessions. During all
this time he had, by no means, ceased from cursing,
but continued it over his broiled ham and while he
swallowed his brandy and water. He swore aloud, so
that the red-armed servant at the inn could not but
hear him, that those thieves at the Hall intended to
rob him of his clothes ; — that they would not send him
his property. He could not restrain himself, though
he knew that every word he uttered would injure his
cause, as regarded the property in Westmoreland, if
ever he could make a cause. He knew that he had
been mad to strike his sister, and cursed himself for
his madness. Yet he could not restrain himself. He
told himself that the battle for him was over, and he
thought of poison for himself. He thought of poison,
and a pistol, — of the pistols he had ever loaded at
home, each with six shots, good for a life apiece. He
thought of an express train rushing along at its full
career, and of the instant annihilation which it would
produce. But if that was to be the end of him, he
would not go alone. No, indeed! why should he go
alone, leaving those pistols ready loaded in his desk?
Among them they had brought him to ruin and to
death. Was he a man to pardon his enemies when it
was within his power to take them with him, down,

down, down ? What were the last words upon his

impious lips, as with bloodshot eyes, half drunk, and
driven by the Fury, he took himself off to the bed pre-
pared for him, cursing aloud the poor red haired girl as
he went, I may not utter here.

CHAPTER VI.

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST.

Gentle reader, do you remember Lady Monk's
party, and how it ended, — how it ended, at least as
regards those special guests with whom we are con-
cerned? Mr. Palliser went away early, Mrs. Marsham
followed him to his house in Park Lane, caught him
at home, and told her tale. He returned to his wife,
found her sitting with Burgo in the dining-room, under
the Argus eyes of the constant Bott, and bore her
away home. Burgo disappeared utterly from the scene,
and Mr. Bott, complaining inwardly that virtue was too
frequently allowed to be its own reward, comforted
himself with champagne, and then walked off to his
lodgings. Lady Monk, when Mr. Palliser made his
way into her room upstairs, seeking his wife's scarf, —
which little incident, also, the reader may perhaps re-
member, — saw that the game was up, and thought with
regret of the loss of her two hundred pounds. Such
was the ending of Lady Monk's party.

Lady Glencora, on her journey home in the carriage
with her husband, had openly suggested that Mrs.
Marsham had gone to Park Lane to tell of her doings
with Burgo, and had declared her resolution never
again to see either that lady or Mr. Bott in her own
house. This she said with more of defiance in her

tone than Mr. Palliser had ever hitherto heard. He

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST. 7 1

was by nature less ready than her, and knowing his
own deficiency in that respect, abstained from all
answer on the subject. Indeed, during that drive
home very few further words were spoken between
them.

'• I will breakfast with you to-morrow," he said to
her, as she prepared to go upstairs. " I have work still
to do to-night, and I will not disturb you by coming
to your room."

** You won't want me to be very early? " said his wife.

" No," said he, with more of anger in his voice than
he had yet shown. " What hour will suit you ? I must
say something of what has occurred to-night before I
leave you to-morrow."

" I don't know what you can have to say about to-
night, but I '11 be down by half -past eleven, if that
will do ? " Mr. Palliser said that he would make it do,
and then they parted.

Lady Glencora had played her part very well be-
fore her husband. She had declined to be frightened
by him ; had been the first to mention Burgo's name,
and had done so with no tremor in her voice, and had
boldly declared her irreconcilable enmity to the male
and female duennas who had dared to take her in
charge. While she was in the carriage with her hus-
band she felt some triumph in her own strength ; and
as she wished him good night on the staircase, and
slowly walked up to her room, without having once
lowered her eyes before his, something of this con-
sciousness of triumph still supported her. And even
while her maid remained with her she held herself up,
as it were, inwardly, telling herself that she would not
yield, — that she would not be cowed either by her hus-

72 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

band or by his spies. But when she was left alone all
her triumph departed from her.

She bade her maid go while she was still sitting in
her dressing-gown ; and when the girl was gone she
got dose over the fire, sitting with her slippers on the
fender, with her elbows on her knees, and her face rest-
ing on her hands. In this position she remained for
an hour, with her eyes fixed on the altering shapes of
the hot coals. During this hour her spirit was by no
means defiant, and her thoughts of herself anything
but triumphant. Mr. Bott and Mrs. Marsham she had
forgotten altogether. After all, they were but buzzing
flies, who annoyed her by their presence. Should she
choose to leave her husband, they could not prevent
her leaving him. It was of her husband and of Burgo
that she was thinking, — weighing them one against the
other, and connecting her own existence with theirs,
not as expecting joy or the comfort of love from either
of them, but with an assured conviction that on either
side there must be misery for her. But of that shame
before all the world which must be hers forever, should
she break her vows and consent to live with a man
who was not her husband, she thought hardly at all.
That which in the estimation of Alice was everything,
to her, at this moment, was almost nothing. For her-
self, she had been sacrificed ; and, — as she told herself
with bitter denunciations against herself, — had been
sacrificed through her own weakness. But that was
done. Whatever way she might go, she was lost.
They had married her to a man who cared nothing for
a wife, nothing for any woman, — so at least she de-
clared to herself, — ^but who had wanted a wife that he
might have an heir. Had it been given to her to have

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST. 73

a child, she thought that she might have been happy,
— sufficiently happy in sharing her husband's joy in
that respect. But everything had gone against her.
There was nothing in her home to give her comfort.
'* He looks at me every time he sees me as the cause
of his misfortune," she said to herself. Of her hus-
band's rank, of the future possession of his title and
his estates, she thought much. But of her own wealth
she thought nothing. It did not occur to her that she
had given him enough in that respect to make his
marriage with her a comfort to him. She took it for
granted that that marriage was now one distasteful to
him, as it was to herself, and that he would eventually
be the gainer if she should so conduct herself that her
marriage might be dissolved.

As to Bur go, I doubt whether she deceived herself
much as to his character. She knew well enough that
he was a man infinitely less worthy than her husband.
She knew that he was a spendthrift, idle, given to bad
courses, — that he drank, that he gambled, that he lived
the life of the loosest man about the town. She knew
also that whatever chance she might have had to re-
deem him, had she married him honestly before all the
w^orld, there could be no such chance if she went to him
as his mistress, abandoning her husband and all her
duties, and making herself vile in the eyes of all women.
Burgo Fitzgerald would not be influenced for good by
such a woman as she would then be. She knew much
of the world and its ways, and told herself no lies about
this. But, as I have said before, she did not count
herself for much. What though she were ruined?
What though Burgo were false, mean, and untrust-
worthy? She loved him, and he was the only man she

74 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

ever had loved! Lower and lower she crouched be-
fore the fire ; and then, when the coals were no longer
red, and the shapes altered themselves no more, she
crept into bed. As to what she should say to her hus-
band on the following morning, — she had not yet be-
gun to think of that.

Exactly at half-past eleven she entered the little
breakfast-parlour which looked out over the park. It
was the prettiest room in the house, and now, at this
springtide, when the town trees were putting out their
earliest greens, and were fresh and bright almost as
country trees, it might be hard to -find a prettier cham-
ber. Mr. Palliser was there already, sitting with the
morning paper in his hand. He rose when she entered,
and, coming up to her, just touched her with his lips.
She put her cheek up to him, and then took her place
at the breakfast-table.

" Have you any headache this morning? " he asked.

" Oh no," she said. Then he took his tea and his
toast, spoke some word to her about the fineness of
the weather, told her some scraps of news, and soon
returned to the absorbing interest of a speech made by
the leader of the Opposition in the House of Lords.
The speech was very interesting to Mr. PalHser, be-
cause in it the noble lord alluded to a break-up in the
present Cabinet, as to which the rumours were, he said,
so rife through the country as to have destroyed all
that feeling of security in the existing Government which
the country so much valued and desired. Mr. Pal-
liser had as yet heard no official tidings of such a rupt-
ure ; but if such rupture were to take place, it must be
in his favour. He felt himself at this moment to be
full of politics, — to be near the object of his ambition,

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST. 75

to have affairs upon his hands which required all his
attention. Was it absolutely incumbent on him to
refer again to the incidents of last night ? The doing
so would be odious to him. The remembrance of the
task now immediately before him destroyed all his
pohtical satisfaction. He did not believe that his wife
was in any serious danger. Might it not yet be possi-
ble for him to escape from the annoyance, and to wash
his mind clean of all suspicion? He was not jealous ;
he was indeed incapable of jealousy. He knew what
it would be to be dishonoured, and he knew that un-
der certain circumstances the world would expect him
to exert himself in a certain way. But the thing that
he had now to do was a great trouble to him. He
would rather have to address the House of Commons
with ten columns of figures than utter a word of remon-
strance to his wife. But she had defied him, — defied
him by saying that she would see his friends no more ;
and it was the remembrance of this, as he sat behind
his newspaper, that made him ultimately feel that he
could not pass in silence over what had been done.

Nevertheless, he went on reading, or pretending to
read, as long as the continuaince of the breakfast made
it certain that his wife would remain with him. Every
now and then, he said some word to her of what he
was readings endeavouring to use the tone of voice
that was customary to him in his domestic teachings
of politics. But through it all there was a certain hesi-
tation, — there were the sure signs of an attempt being
made, of which he was himself conscious, and whi( h
she understood with the most perfect accuracy. He
was deferring the evil moment, and vainly endeavour-
ing to make himself believe that he was comfortably

76 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

employed the while. She had no newspaper, and
made no endeavour to deceive herself. She, therefore,
was the first to begin the conversation.

" Plantagenet," she said, " you told me last night, as
I was going to bed, that you had something to say
about Lady Monk's party.'*

He put down the newspaper slowly, and turned to-
wards her. " Yes, my dear. After what happened, I
beheve that I must say something."

" If you think anything, pray say it," said Glencora.

" It is not always easy for a man to show what he
thinks by what he says," he replied. " My fear is that
you should suppose me to think more than I do. And
it was for that reason that I determined to sleep on it
before I spoke to you."

" If anybody is angry with me I *d much rather they
should have it out with me while their anger is hot.
I hate cold anger."

** But I am not angry."

" That 's what husbands always say when they 're
going to scold."

** But I am not going to scold. I am only going to
advise you."

" I 'd sooner be scolded. Advice is to anger just
what cold anger is to hot."

" But, my dear Glencora, surely if I find it necessary
to speak "

" I don't want to stop you, Plantagenet. Pray go
on. Only it will be so nice to have it over."

He was now more than ever averse to the task be-
fore him. Husbands, when they give their wives a
talking, should do it out of hand, uttering their words
hard, sharp, and quick, — and should then go. There

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST. 77

are some works that won't bear a preface, and this
work of marital fault-finding is one of them. Mr. Pal-
liser was already beginning to find out the truth of this.
" Glencora/' he said, " I wish you to be serious with
me."

" I am very serious," she replied, as she settled her-
self in her chair with an air of mockery, while her eyes
and mouth were bright and eloquent with a spirit which
her husband did not love to see. Poor girl ! There
was seriousness enough in store for her before she
would be able to leave the room.

"You ought to be serious. Do you know why
Mrs. Marsham came here from Lady Monk's last
night? "

" Of course I do. She came to tell you that I was
waltzing with Burgo Fitzgerald. You might as well
ask me whether I knew why Mr. Bott was standing at
all the doors, glaring at me."
" I don't know anything about Mr. Bott."
" I know something about him though," she said,
again moving herself in her chair.
"I am speaking now of Mrs. Marsham."
" You should speak of them both together, as they
hunt in couples."

" Glencora^ will you hsten to me, or will you not ?
If you say that you will not, I shall know what to do."
" I don't think you would, Plantagenet." And she
nodded her little head at him as she spoke. " I 'm sure
I don't know what you would do. I^ut I will listen to
you. Only, as I said before, it will be very nice when
it 's over."

" Mrs. Marsham came here, not simply to tell me
that you were waltzing with Mr. Fitzgerald, — and I

78 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

wish that when you mention his name you would call
him Mr. Fitzgerald.''

" So I do."

" You generally prefix his Christian name, which it
would be much better that you should omit."

*' I will try," she said, very gently ; " but it 's hard
to drop an old habit. Before you married me you
knew that I had learned to call him Burgo."

" Let me go on," said Mr. PaUiser,

" Oh, certainly."

"It was not simply to tell me that you were waltzing
that Mrs. Marsham came here."

"And it was not simply to see me waltzing that
Mr. Bott stood in the doorways, for he followed me
about, and came down after me to the supper-room."

" Glencora, will you oblige me by not speaking of
Mr. Bott ? "

" I wish you would oblige me by not speaking
of Mrs. Marsham." Mr. Palliser rose quickly from his
chair with a gesture of anger, stood upright for half a
minute, and then sat down again. " I beg your pardon,
Plantagenet," she said. " I think I know what you
want, and I '11 hold my tongue till you bid me speak."

" Mrs. Marsham came here because she saw that
every one in the room was regarding you with wonder."
Lady Glencora twisted herself about in her chair, but
she said nothing. " She saw that you were not only
dancing with Mr. Fitzgerald, but that you were danc-
ing with him, — what shall I say? "

" Upon my word I can't tell you."

" Recklessly."

" Oh! recklessly, was I? What was I reckless of ? "

" Reckless of what people might say ; reckless of

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST. 79

what I might feel about it; reckless of your own
position."
"Am I to speak now? "

" Perhaps you had better let me go on. I think she
was right to come to me."

"That *s of course. What 's the good of having
spies, if they don*t run and tell as soon as they see
anything, esp>eciaHy anything — ^reckless."

"Glencora, you are determined to make me angry.
I am angry now, — very angry. I have employed
no spies. When rumours have reached me, not from
spies, as you choose to call them, but through your

dearest friends and mine "

" What do you mean by rumours from my dearest
friends?"
" Never mind.' Let me go on."
" No ; not when you say my dear friends have spread
rumours about me. Tell me who they are. I have
no dear friends. Do you mean Alice Vavasor? "

" It does not signify. But when I was warned that
you had better not go to any house in which you could
meet that man, I would not listen to it. I said that
you were my wife, and that as such I could trust you
anywhere, everywhere, with any person. Others might
distrust you, but I would not do so. When I wished
you to go to Monkshade, were there to be any spies
there ? When I left you last night at Lady Monk's,
do you beheve in your heart that I trusted to Mrs.
Marsham's eyes rather than to your own truth? Do
you think that I have lived in fear of Mr. Fitzgerald?"
" No, Plantagenet ; I do not think so."
" Do you believe that I have commissioned Mr. Bott
to watch your conduct? Answer me, Glencora."

8o CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

She paused a moment, thinking what actually was
her true belief on that subject. " He does watch me,
certainly,'* she said.

" That does not answer my question. Do you be-
lieve that I have commissioned him to do so? "

" No ; I do not."

" Then it is ignoble in you to talk to me of spies. I
have employed no spies. If it were ever to come to
that, that I thought spies necessary, it would be all
over with me."

There was something of feeling in his voice as he
said this, — something that almost approached to pas-
sion, which touched his wife's heart. Whether or not
spies would be of any avail, she knew that she had in
truth done that of which he had declared that he had
never suspected her. She had listened to words of
love from her former lover. She had received, and
now carried about with her a letter from this man, in
which he asked her to elope with him. She had by no
means resolved that she would not do this thing. She
had been false* to her husband ; and as her husband
spoke of his confidence in her, her own spirit rebelled
against the deceit which she herself was practising.

" I know that I have never made you happy," she
said. " I know that I never can make you happy."

He looked at her, struck by her altered tone, and
saw that her whole manner and demeanour were
changed. " I do not understand what you mean," he
said. " I have never complained. You have not made
me unhappy." He was one of those men to whom
this was enough. If his wife caused him no uneasi-
ness, what more was he to expect from her? No
doubt she might have done much more for him ! She

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST. 8 1

might have given him an heir. But he was a just man,
and knew that the blank he had drawn was his mis-
fortune, and not her fault.

But now her heart was loosed and she spoke out, at
first slowly, but after a while with all the quietness of
strong passion. " No, Plantagenet ; I shall never
make you happy. You have never loved me, nor I
you. We have never loved each other for a single
moment. I have been wrong to talk to you about
spies ; I was wrong to go to Lady Monk's ; I have
been wrong in everything that I have done ; but never
so wrong as when I let them persuade me to be your
wife!"
"Glencora!"

" Let me speak npw, Plantagenet. It is better that
I should tell you everything ; and I will. I will tell
you everything;— everything! I do love Burgo Fitz-
gerald. I do! I do! I do! How can I help loving
him? Have I not loved him from the first, — before I
had seen you ? Did you not know that it was so ? I
do love Burgo Fitzgerald, and when I went to Lady
Monk's last night, I had almost made up my mind
that I must tell him so, and that I must go away with
him and hide myself. But when he came to speak to

me ''

" He has asked you to go with him, then ? " said the
husband, in whose bosom the poison was beginning to
take effect, thereby showing that he was neither above
nor below humanity.

Glencora was immediately reminded that though she
might, if she pleased, tell her own secrets, she ought
not, in accordance with her ideas of honour, tell those
of her lover- " What need is there of asking, do you

82 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

think, when people have loved each other as we have
done?"

" You wanted to go with him, then ? "

'' Would it not have been the best for you? Plan-
tagenet, I do not love you ; — not as women love their
husbands when they do love them. But, before God,
my first wish is to free you from the misfortune that I
have brought on you." As she made this attestation
she started up from her chair, and coming close to
him, took him by the coat. He was startled, and
stepped back a pace, but did not speak ; and then
stood looking at her as she went on.

" What matters it whether I drown myself, or throw
myself away by going with such a one as him, so that
you might marry again, and have a child ? I 'd die ;
— I 'd die willingly. How I wish I could die! Plan-
tagenet, I would kill myself if I dared."

He was a tall man and she was short of stature, so
that he stood over her and looked upon her, and now
she was looking up into his face with all her eyes.
'* I would," she said. " I would — I would! What is
there left for me that I should wish to live? "

Softly, slowly, very gradually, as though he were
afraid of what he was doing, he put his arm round her
waist. " You are wrong in one thing," he said. " I
do love you."

She shook her head, touching his breast with her
hair as she did so.

" I do love you," he repeated. " If you mean that
I am not apt at telling you so, it is true, I know. My
mind is running on other things."

" Yes," she said ; " your mind is running on other
things."

THE PALLISERS AT BREAKFAST. 83

"But I do love you. If you cannot love me, it is a
S^eat misfortune to us both. But we need not there-
fore be disgraced. As for that other thing of which
you spoke, — of our having, as yet, no child " — and in
*^^ying this he pressed her somewhat closer with his
^rm— "you allow yourself to think too much of it ; —
^>^uch more of it than I do. I have made no com-
P^laints on that head, even within my own breast."
" I know what your thoughts are, Plantagenet."
"Believe me that you wrong my thoughts. Of
bourse I have been anxious, and have, perhaps, shown
^'^y anxiety by the struggle I have made to hide it.
I have never told you what is false, Glencora."
" No ; you are not false ! "

" I would rather have you for my wife, childless, —
^^ you will try to love me, — than any other woman,
t:liough another might give me an heir. Will you try
to love me ? "

She was silent. At this moment, after the confession
that she had made, she could not bring herself to say
that she would even try. Had she said so, she would
have seemed to have accepted his forgiveness too
easily.

" I think, dear," he said, still holding her by her
waist, " that we had better leave England for a while.
I will give up politics for this season. Should you
hke to go to Switzerland for the summer, or perhaps
to some of the German baths, and then on to Italy
when the weather is cold enough ? " Still she was
silent. " Perhaps yoiu* friend, Miss Vavasor, would
go with us ? "

He was killing her by his goodness. She rould not
speak to him yet ; but now, as he mentioned Alice's

84 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

name, she gently put up her hand and rested it on the
back of his.

At that moment there came a knock at the door ; —
a sharp knock, which was quickly repeated.

" Come in,*' said Mr. Palliser, dropping his arm from
his wife's waist,, and standing away from her a few
yards.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DUKE OF ST. BUNGAY IN SEARCH OF A MINISTER.

It was the butler who had knocked, — showing that
the knock was of more importance than it would have
been had it been struck by the knuckles of the foot-
man in livery. " If you please, sir, the Duke of St.
Bungay is here."

"The Duke of St. Bungay!" said Mr. Palliser, be-
coming rather red as he heard the announcement.

"Yes, sir, his Grace is in the library. He bade me
tell you that he particularly wanted to see you ; so I
told him that you were with my lady.*'

" Quite right ; tell his Grace that I will be with him
in two minutes." Then the butler retired, and Mr.
Palliser was again alone with his wife.

" I must go now, my dear," he said ; *' and perhaps
I shall not see you again till the evening."

" Don't let me put you out in any way," she an-
swered.

"Oh no; — you won't put me out. You will be
dressing, I suppose, about nine."

" I did not mean as to that," she answered. ** You
must not think more of Italy. He has come to tell
you that you are wanted in the Cabinet."

Again he turned very red. " It may be so," he an-
swered, " but though I am wanted, I need not go.
But I must not keep the Duke waiting. Good-bye."
And he turned to the door.

86 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

She followed him and took hold of him as he went,
so that he was forced to turn to her once again. She
managed to get hold of both his hands, and pressed
them closely, looking up into his face with her eyes
laden with tears. He smiled at her gently, returned
the pressure of the hands, and then left her, — without
kissing her. It was not that he was minded not to
kiss her. He would have kissed her willingly enough
had he thought that the occasion required it.

"He says that he loves me," said Lady Glencora
to herself, " but he does not know what love means."

But she was quite aware that he had behaved to her
with genuine, true nobility. As soon as she was alone
and certain of her solitude, she took out that letter
from her pocket, and tearing it into very small frag-
ments, without reading it, threw the pieces on the fire.
As she did so, her mind seemed to be fixed, at any rate,
to one thing, — that she would think no more of Burgo
Fitzgerald as her future master. I think, however,
that she had arrived at so much certainty as this, at
that moment at which she had been parting with Bur-
go Fitzgerald, in Lady Monk's dining-room. She had
had courage enough, — or shall we rather say sin enough,
— to think of going with him, — to tell herself that she
would do so ; to put herself in the way of doing it ;
nay, she had had enough of both to enable her to tell
her husband that she had resolved that it would be
good for her to do so. But she was neither bold
enough nor wicked enough to do the thing. As she
had said of her own idea of destroying herself, — she
did not dare to take the plunge. Therefore, knowing
now that it was so, she tore up the letter that she had
carried so long, and burnt it in the fire.

DUKE OF ST. BUNGAY IN SEARCH OF A MINISTER. 87

She had in truth told him everything, believing that
in doing so she was delivering her own death-warrant
as regarded her future position in his house. She had
done this, not hoping thereby for. any escape; not
with any purpose as regarded herself, but simply be-
cause deceit had been grievous to her, and had become
unendurable as soon as his words and manner had in
them any feeling of kindness. But her confession had
no sooner been made than her fault had been forgiven.
She had told him that she did not love him. She had
told him, even, that she had thought of lea\'ing him.
She had justified by her own words any treatment of
his, however harsh, which he might choose to practise.
But the result had been — the immediate result — that
he had been more tender to her than she had ever re-
membered him to be before. She knew that he had
conquered her. However cold and heartless his home
might be to her, it must be her home now. There
could be no further thought of leaving him. She had
gone out into the tilt-yard and had tilted with him, and
he had been the victor.

Mr. Palliser himself had not time for much thought

before he found himself closeted with the Duke ; but

as he crossed the hall and went up the stairs, a

thought or two did pass quickly across his mind. She

had confessed to him, and he had forgiven her. He

did not feel quite sure that he had been right, but he

did feel quite sure that the thing had been done. He

recognised it for a fact that, as regarded the past, no

more was to be said. There were to be no reproaches,

and there must be some tacit abandoning of Mrs.

Marsham*s close attendance. As to Mr. Bott ; — he

had begun to hate Mr. Bott, and had felt cruelly un-

88 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

* grateful, when that gentleman endeavoured to whis-
per a word into his ear as he passed through the door-
way into Lady Monk's dining-room. And he had
offered to go abroad, — to go abroad and leave his poli-
tics, and his ambition, and his coming honours. He
had persisted in his offer, even after his wife had sug-
gested to him that the Duke of St. Bungay was now in
the house with the object of offering him that very thing
for which he had so longed! As he thought of this
his heart became heavy within him. Such chances, —
so he told himself, — do not come twice in a man's way.
When returning from a twelvemonth's residence abroad
he would be nobody in politics. He would have lost
everything for which he had been working all his life.
But he was a man of his word, and as he opened the
library door he was resolute, — he thought that he could
be resolute in adhering to his promise.

" Duke," he said, " I 'm afraid I have kept you wait-
ing." And the two political allies shook each other by
the hand.

The Duke was in a glow of delight. There had
been no waiting. He was only too glad to find his
friend at home. He had been prepared to wait, even
if Mr. Palliser had been out. " And I suppose you
guess why I 'm come ? " said the Duke.

** I would rather be told than have to guess," said
Mr. Palliser, smiHng for a moment. But the smile
quickly passed off his face as he remembered his
pledge to his wife.

*' He has resigned at last. What was said in the
Lords last night made it necessary that he should do
so, or that Lord Brock should declare himself able to
support him through thick and thin. Of course, I can

DUKE OF ST. BUNGAY IN SEARCH OF A MINISTER. 89

tell you everything now. He must have gone, or I
must have done so. You know that I don't like him
in the Cabinet. I admire his character and his genius,
but I think him the most dangerous man in England
as a statesman. He has high principles, — the very
highest ; but they are so high as to be out of sight to
ordinary eyes. They are too exalted to be of any use
for everyday purposes. He is honest as the sun, I 'm
sure ; but it 's just like the sun's honesty, — of a kind
which we men below can't quite understand or appre-
ciate. He has no instinct in politics, but reaches his
conclusions by philosophical deduction. Now, in pol-
itics, I would a deal sooner trust to instinct than to
calculation. I think he may probably know how Eng-
land ought to be governed three centuries hence better
than any man living, but of the proper way to govern
it now, I think he knows less. Brock half likes him
and half fears him. He likes the support of his elo-
quence, and he likes the power of the man ; but he
fears his restless activity, and thoroughly dislikes his
philosophy. At any rate, he has left us, and I am
here to ask you to take his place."

The Duke, as he concluded his speech, was quite
contented, and almost jovial. He was thoroughly
satisfied with the new political arrangement which he
was proposing. He regarded Mr. Palliser as a steady,
practical man of business, luckily young, and therefore
with a deal of work in him, belonging to the race from
which English ministers ought, in his opinion, to be
taken, and as being, in some respects, his own pupil.
He had been the first to declare aloud tliat Plantagenet
PaUiser was the coming Chancellor of the Exchequer ;
and it had been long known, though no such declara-

;0 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

tion had been made aloud, that the Duke did not sit
comfortably in the same Cabinet with the gentleman
who had now resigned. Everything had now gone as
the Duke wished ; and he was prepared to celebrate
some little ovation with his young friend before he left
the house in Park Lane.

" And who goes out with him ? " asked Mr. Palliser,
putting off the evil moment of his own decision ; but
before the Duke could answer him, he had reminded
himself that under his present circumstances he had
no right to ask such a question. His own decision
could not rest upon that point. " But it does not mat-
ter," he said ; " I am afraid I must decline the offer
you bring me."

"Decline it!" said the Duke, who could not have
been more surprised had his friend talked of declining
heaven.

" I fear I must." The Duke had now risen from
his chair, and was standing with both his hands
upon the table. All his contentment, all his joviality,
had vanished. His fine round face had become
almost ludicrously long ; his eyes and mouth were
struggling to convey reproach, and the reproach was
almost drowned in vexation. Ever since Parliament
had met he had been whispering Mr. Palliser*s name

into the Prime Minister's ear, and now But

he could not, and would not, believe it. *' Nonsense,
Palliser," he said. ** You must have got some false
notion into your head. There can be no possible
reason why you should not join us. Finespun himself
will support us, at any rate for a time." Mr. Finespun
was the gentleman whose retirement from the ministry
the Duke of St. Bungay had now announced.

DUKE OF ST. BUNGAY IN SEARCH OF A MINISTER. 9 1

" It is nothing of that kind," said Mr. Palliser, who
perhaps felt himself quite equal to the duties proposed
to him, even though Mr. Finespun should not support
him. "It is nothing of that kind; — it is no fear of
that sort that hinders me."

" Then, for mercy's sake, what is it? My dear Palli-
ser, I looked upon you as being as sure in this matter
as myself ; and I had a right to do so. You certainly
intended to join us a month ago, if the opportunity
offered. You certainly did."

" It is true, Duke. I must ask you to listen to me
now, and I must tell you what I would not wilhngly
tell to any man." As Mr. Palliser said this a look of
agony came over his face. There are men who can
talk easily of all their most inmost matters, but he was
not such a man. It went sorely against the grain with
him to speak of the sorrow of his home, even to such
a friend as the Duke ; but it was essentially necessary
to him that he should justify himself.

*' Upon my word," said the Duke, " I can't under-
stand that there should be any reason strong enough
to make you throw your party over."

" I have promised to take my wife abroad."

" Is that it ? " said the Duke, looking at him with
surprise, but at the same time with something of return-
ing joviality in his face. " Nobody thinks of going
abroad at this time of the year. Of course you can
get away for a time when Parliament breaks up."

" But I have promised to go at once."

" Then, considering your position, you have made a
promise which it behoves you to break. I am sure
Lady Glencora will see it in that light."

" You do not quite understand me, and I am afraid

92 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

I must trouble you to listen to matters which, under
other circumstances, it would be impertinent in me to
obtrude upon you." A certain stiffness of demeanoiu*,
and measured propriety of voice, much at variance with
his former manner, came upon him as he said this.

'' Of course, Palliser, I don't want to interfere for a
moment."

" If you will allow me, Duke. My wife has told me
that, this morning, which makes me feel that absence
from England is requisite for her present comfort. I
was with her when you came, and had just promised
her that she should go."

" But, Palliser, think of it. If this were a small mat-
ter, I would not press you ; but a man in your position
has public duties. He owes his services to his country.
He has no right to go back, if it be possible that he
should so do."

*' When a man has given his word, it cannot be right
that he should go back from that."

"Of course not. But a man may be absolved from
a promise. Lady Glencora "

" My wife would, of course, absolve me. It is not
that. Her happiness demands it, and it is partly my
fault that it is so. I cannot explain to you more fully
why it is that I must give up the great object for which
I have striven with all my strength."

''Oh no!" said the Duke. " If you are siu*e that
it is imperative "

" It is imperative."

" I could give you twenty-four hours, you know."

Mr. Palliser did not answer at once, and the Duke
thought that he saw some sign of hesitation. " I sup-

DUKE OF ST. BUNGAY IN SEARCH OF A MINISTER. 93

pose it would not be possible that I should speak to
Lady Glencora? "

"It could be of no avail, Duke. She would only
declare, at the first word, that she would remain in
London ; but it would not be the less my duty on that
account to take her abroad."

" Well ; I can't say. Of course, I can't say. Such
an opportunity may not come twice in a man's life.
And at your age too! You are throwing away from
you the finest political position that the world can offer
to the ambition of any man. No one at your time of
life has had such a chance within my memory. That
a man under thirty should be thought fit to be Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer, and should refuse it, — ^because
he wants to take his wife abroad! Palliser, if she
were dying, you should remain under such an emer-
gency as this. She might go, but you should remain.''

Mr. Palliser remained silent for a moment or two in
his chair ; he then rose and walked towards the win-
dow as he spoke. " There are things worse than
death," he said, when his back was turned. His voice
was very low, and there was a tear in his eye as he
spoke them ; the words were indeed whispered, but
the Duke heard them, and felt that he could not press
him any more on the subject of his wife.

''And must this be final? " said the Duke.

" I think it must. But your visit here has come
so quickly on my resolution to go abroad, — which, in
truth, was only made ten minutes before your name
was brought to me, — that I believe I ought to ask for
a portion of those twenty-four hours which you have
offered me. A small portion will be enough. Will

94 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

you see me, if I come to you this evening, say at eight?
If the House is up in the Lords I will go to you in
St. James's Square."

" We shall be sitting after eight, I think."

" Then I will see you there. And, Duke, I must ask
you to think of me in this matter as a friend should
think, and not as though we were bound together only
by party feeling."

** I will,— I will."

'* I have told you what I shall never whisper to any
one else."

*' I think you know that you are safe with me."

" I am sure of it. And, Duke, I can tell you that
the sacrifice to me will be almost more than I can
bear. This thing that you have offered me to-day is
the only thing that I have ever coveted. I have
thought of it and worked for it, have hoped and de-
spaired, have for moments been vain enough to think
that it was within my strength, and have been wretched
for weeks together because I have told myself that it
was utterly beyond me."

" As to that, neither Brock nor I, nor any of us,
have any doubt. Finespun himself says that you are
the man."

*' I am much obliged to them. But I say all this
simply that you may understand how imperative is the
duty which, as I think, requires me to refuse the offer."

" But you have n't refused as yet," said the Duke.
" I shall wait at the House for you, whether they are
sitting or not. And endeavour to join us. Do the
best you can. I will say nothing as to that duty of
which you speak ; but if it can be made compatible
with your public service, pray — pray let it be done.

DUKE OF ST. BUNGAY IN SEARCH OF A MINISTER. 95

Remember how much such a one as you owes to his
country." Then the Duke went, and Mr. Palliser was
alone.

He had not been alone before since the revelation
which had been made to him by his wife, and the
words she had spoken were still sounding in his ears.
" I do love Burgo Fitzgerald;— I do! I do! I do!"
They were not pleasant words for a young husband to
hear. Men there are, no doubt, whose nature would
make them more miserable under the infliction than it
had made Plantagenet Palliser. He was calm, without
strong passion, not prone to give to words a stronger
significance than they should bear; — and he was es-
sentially unsuspicious. Never for a moment had he
thought, even while those words were hissing in his
ears, that his wife had betrayed his honour. Never-
theless, there was that at his heart, as he remembered
those words, which made him feel that the world
was almost too heavy for him. For the first quarter of
an hour after the Duke's departure he thought more
of his wife and of Burgo Fitzgerald than he did of
Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun. But of this he was
aware, — that he had forgiven his wife ; that he had
put his arm round her and embraced her after hear-
ing her confession, — and that she, mutely, with her
eyes, had promised him that she would do her best for
him. Then something of an idea of love came across
his . heart, and he acknowledged to himself that he
had married without loving or without requiring love.
Much of all this had been his own fault. Indeed,
had not the whole of it come from his own wrong-do-
ing? He acknowledged that it was so. But now, —
now he loved her. He felt that he could not bear to

96 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

part with her, even if there were no question of public
scandal, or of disgrace. He had been torn inwardly
by that assertion that she loved another man. She
had got at his heart-strings at last. There are men
who may love their wives, though they never can have
been in love before their marriage.

When the Duke had been gone about an hour, and
when, under ordinary circumstances, it would have
been his time to go down to the House, he took his
hat and walked into the Park. He made his way
across Hyde Park, and into Kensington Gardens, and
there he remained for an hour, walking up and down
beneath the elms. The quid-nuncs of the town, who
chanced to see him, and who had heard something of
the political movements of the day, thought, no doubt,
that he was meditating his future ministerial career.
But he had not been there long before he had resolved
that no ministerial career was at present open to him.
"It has been my own fault," he said, as he returned
to his house, "and with God's help I will mend it, if it
be possible."

But he was a slow man, and he did not go off in-
stantly to the Duke. He had given himself to eight
o'clock, and he took the full time. He could not go
down to the House of Commons because men would
make inquiries of him which he would find it difficult
to answer. So he dined at home, alone. He had told
his wife that he would see her at nine, and before that
hoiu* he would not go to her. He sat alone till it was
time for him to get into his brougham, and thought it
all over. That seat in the Cabinet and Chancellorship
of the Exchequer, which he had so infinitely desired,
were already done with. There was no doubt about

DUKE OF ST. BUNGAY IN SEARCH OF A MINISTER. 97

that. It might have been better for him not to have
married ; but now that he was married, and that things
had brought him untowardly to this pass, he knew that
his wife's safety was his first duty. "We will go
through Switzerland," he said to himself, " to Baden,
and then we will get on to Florence and to Rome.
She has seen nothing of all these things yet, and the
new life will make a change in her. She shall have
her own friend with her." Then he went down to the
House of Lords, and saw the Duke.

" Well, Palliser," said the Duke, when he had listened
to him, " of course I cannot argue it with you any
more. I can only say that I am very sorry ; — more
sorry than perhaps you will believe. Indeed, it half
breaks my heart." The Duke's voice was very sad,
and it might almost have been thought that he was
going to shed a tear. In truth he disliked Mr. Fine-
spun with the strongest political feeling of which he
was capable, and had attached himself to Mr. Palliser
almost as strongly. It was a thousand pities! How
hard had he not worked to bring about this arrange-
ment, which was now to be upset because a woman
had been foolish ! " I never above half liked her," said
the Duke to himself, thinking perhaps a little of the
Duchess's complaints of her. " I must go to Brock
at once," he said aloud, " and tell him. God knows
what we must do now. Good-bye! good-bye! No;
I 'm not angry. There shall be no quarrel. But I
am very sorry." In this way the two politicians parted.

We may as well follow this political movement to its
end. The Duke saw Lord Brock that night, and then
those two ministers sent for another minister, — another
noble lord, a man of great experience in Cabinets.

98 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

These three discussed the matter together, and on the
following day Lord Brock got up in the House, and
made a strong speech in defence of his colleague, Mr.
Finespun. To the end of the session, at any rate,
Mr. Finespun kept his position, and held the seals of
the Exchequer, while all the quid-nuncs of the nation,
shaking their heads, spoke of the wonderful power of
Mr. Finespun, and declared that Lord Brock did not
dare to face the Opposition without him.

In the meantime Mr. Palliser had returned to his
wife, and told her of his resolution with reference to
their tour abroad. *'We may as well make up our
minds to start at once," said he. " At any rate, there
is nothing on my side to hinder us."

CHAPTER VIII.

ALICE vavasor's NAME GETS INTO THE MONEY

MARKET.

Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's re-
turn to London from Westmoreland he appeared at
Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in
his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for
money. The third election was coming on, and money
was already being spent very freely among the men
of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared.
Mr. Grimes, of the Handsome Man, had shown signs
of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not
afford to be loyal without money. He had his little
family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little
family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion.
*'I 'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I
never run any risks. I never go a yard further than
I can see my way back." This he had said in answer
to a proposition that he should take George's note of
hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in
three months* time. " It is so very hard to realise," said
George, "immediately upon a death, when all the
property left is real property." ** Very hard indeed,"
said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the
particulars of the old squire's will. Vavasor under-
stood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested

lOO CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby
as well as John Grey, — and perhaps also a few more
of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which
his own note of hand had been refused, he again called
in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he
tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips
of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby
regarded them with attention, looking first at one side
horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly.
But before we learn the judgment pronounced by Mr.
Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back
to their earlier history. As they were still in their in-
fancy, we shall not have to go back far.

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

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

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

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

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

This occurred immediately after the return of Mr.

ALICE vavasor's NAME IN THE MONEY MARKET. lOl

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

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

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

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

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

"I 've called about a little bit of business, miss,"
said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. ** Nothing as
you need disturb yourself about. You '11 find it all
square, I think." Then he took a case out of his
breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed
to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that
it was addressed to her by her cousin George. " Yes,
Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. " I dare say
you never saw me before, miss ? "

" No, sir ; I think not," said Alice.

" I am your cousin's clerk."

" Oh, you 're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I '11 read his let-
ter, if you please, sir."

" If you please, miss."

102 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as fol-
lows: —

" Dear Alice, — After what passed between us when
I last saw you I thought that on my retiun from
Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in
at my bankers' the money that I require. But 1 find
that this is not so ; and of coiu"se I excuse you, be-
cause women so seldom know when or how to do
that which business demands of them. You have, no
doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has
done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do.
I only mention this now, because the nature of his
will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that
you should be true to your pledge to me.

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

** I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding
the money as I expected on my return to town. If
these bills are not properly provided for, the result will

ALICE vavasor's NAME IN THE MONEY MARKET. I03

be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that
this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine.

" Affectionately yours,

" George Vavasor."

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

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

I04 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value.
If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made
to be forthcoming. So much she understood.

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

" Yes, sir ; my cousin has explained."

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

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

" It 's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy.

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

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

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

" No, miss, no ; they are not cheques. But yoiff

ALICE vavasor's NAME IN THE MONEY MARKET. I05

name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready
money ; — ^just the same."

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

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

"You insisted on ready money, with your d d

suspicions," said he, " and there it is. You *re not
afraid of fourteen days, I dare say."

" Fourteen days is neither here nor there," said Mr.
Scruby. " We can let our payments stand over as long
as that, without doing any harm. I '11 send one of
my men down to Grimes, and tell him I can't see him,
till, — let me see," and he looked at one of the bills,
"till the 15th."

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

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

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

I06 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" A thousand to begin with. Certainly not less."
" Then you had better keep two of them."
" Well — no! I don't see the use of that. You had
better collect them through your own banker, and let
me have a cheque on the 15th or i6th."
" How cursed suspicious you are, Scniby."
" No, I ain't. I 'm not a bit suspicious. I don't
deal in such articles ; that 's all! "

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

" The truth is, Mr. Vavasor, that bills with ladies*
names on them, — ^ladies who are in no way connected
with business, — ain't just the paper that people like."
Nothing on earth can be surer."
You take them into the City for discount, and see if
the bankers don't tell you the same. They may be done,
of course, upon your name. I say nothing about that."
" I can explain to you the nature of the family ar-
rangement, but I can't do that to a stranger. How-
ever, I don't mind."

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

ALICE vavasor's NAME IN THE MONEY MARKET. I07

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

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

Io8 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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

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

" News ; no. I have n't heard any news."

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

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

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

" We shall have another election in a month's time,"
said George.

ALICE vavasor's NAME IN THE MONEY MARKET. IO9

"I'm safe enough," said Bott. " It never hurts a
man at elections to be closely connected with the Gov-
ernment."

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

no CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

condition when he consents to pay forty pounds for
the use of two hundred for fourteen days. He cursed
the House of Commons. He cursed his cousin Alice
and his sister Kate. He cursed the memory of his
grandfather. And he cursed himself.

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

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

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

" I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever
did. Had he left the estate to George, there would n*t
have been an acre of it left in the family in six months*
time."

" But the Hfe interest, papa ! "

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

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

" And then he will want more."

ALICE vavasor's NAME IN THE MONEY MARKET. Ill

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

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

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

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

" Certainly not ; all that is over."

" And does he know that it is over ? "

"I suppose he does."

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

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

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

112 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" I must go to Mr. Round, then, myself.*'
Mr. Vavasor went on walking about the room, jing-
ling the money in his trousers pockets, and pushing
the chairs about as he chanced to meet them. At last,
he made a compromise with her. He would take a
day to think whether he would assist her in getting the
money, and communicate his decision to her on the
following morning.

CHAPTER IX.

THE BILLS ARE MADE ALL RIGHT.

Mr. Vavasor was at his wits' end about his daugh-
ter. She had put her name to four bills for five hun-
dred pounds each, and had demanded from him, al-
most without an apology, his aid in obtaining money
to meet them. And she might put her name to any
other number of bills, and for any amount! There
was no knowing how a man ought to behave to such
a daughter. " I don't want her money," the father said
to himself ; " and if she had got none of her own, I
would make her as comfortable as I could with my
own income. But to see her throw her money away
in such a fashion as this is enough to break a man's
heart."

Mr. Vavasor went to his office in Chancery Lane,
but he did not go to the chambers of Mr. Round, the
lawyer. Instead of calling on Mr. Round he sent a
note by a messenger to Suffolk Street, and the answer
to the note came in the person of Mr. Grey. John
Grey was living in town in these days, and was in the
habit of seeing Mr. Vavasor frequently. Indeed, he
had not left London since the memorable occasion on
which he had pitched his rival down the tailor's stairs
at his lodgings. He had made himself pretty well
conversant with George Vavasor's career, and had often
shuddered as he thought what might be the fate of any
girl who might trust herself to marry such a man as that.

114 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

He had been at home when Mr. Vavasor's note
had reached his lodgings, and had instantly walked oflE
towards Chancery Lane. He knew his way to Mr.
Vavasor's signing-office very accurately, for he had
acquired a habit of calling there, and of talking to the
father about his daughter. He was a patient, persever-
ing man, confident in himself, and apt to trust that he
would accomplish those things which he attempted,
though he was hardly himself aware of any such apti-
tude. He had never despaired as to Alice. And
though he had openly acknowledged to himself that
she had been very foolish, — or rather, that her judg-
ment had failed her, — ^he had never in truth been angry
with her. He had looked upon her rejection of him-
self, and her subsequent promise to her cousin, as the
effects of a mental hallucination, very much to be
lamented, — to be wept for, perhaps, through a whole
life, as a source of terrible sorrow to himself and to her.
But he regarded it all as a disease, of which the cure was
yet possible, — as a disease which, though it might never
leave the patient as strong as she was before, might
still leave her altogether. And as he would still have
clung to his love had she been attacked by any of
those illnesses for which doctors have well-known
names, so would he cling to her now that she was
attacked by a malady for which no name was known.
He had already heard from Mr. Vavasor that Alice
had discovered how impossible it was that she should
marry her cousin, and, in his quiet, patient, enduring
way, was beginning to feel confident that he would, at
last, carry his mistress off with him to Nethercoats.

It was certainly a melancholy place, that signing-
office, in which Mr. John Vavasor was doomed to spend

THE BILLS ARE MADE ALL RIGHT. II5

twelve hours a week, during every term time, of his
existence. Whether any man could really pass an ex-
istence of work in such a workshop, and not have gone
mad,— could have endured to work there for seven
hours a day, every week-day of his life, 1 am not
prepared to say. I doubt much whether any victims
are so doomed. I have so often wandered through
those gloomy passages without finding a sign of hu-
manity there, — without hearing any slightest tick of
the hammer of labour, that I am disposed to think
that Lord Chancellors have been anxious to save their
subordinates from suicide, and have mercifully decreed
that the whole staff of labourers, down to the very
message boys of the office, should be sent away to
green fields or palatial clubs during, at any rate, a
moiety of their existence.

The dismal set of chambers, in which the most dis-
mal room had been assigned to Mr. Vavasor, was not
actually in Chancery Lane. Opening off from Chan-
cery Lane are various other small lanes, quiet, dingy
nooks, some of them in the guise of streets going no
whither, some being thoroughfares to other dingy streets
beyond, in which sponging-houses abound, and others
existing as the entrances to so-called Inns of Court, —
inns of which all knowledge has for years been lost to
the outer world of the laity, and, as I believe, lost al-
most equally to the inner world of the legal profession.
Who has ever heard of Symonds' Inn? But an ances-
tral Symonds, celebrated, no doubt, in his time, did
found an inn, and there it is to this day. Of Staples'
Inn, who knows the purposes or use? Who are its
members, and what do they do as such ? And Staples'
Inn is an inn with pretensions, having a chapel of its

Il6 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

own, or, at any rate, a building which, in its external
dimensions, is ecclesiastical, having a garden and arch-
itectural proportions ; and a fa9ade towards Holbom,
somewhat dingy, but respectable, with an old gateway,
and with a decided character of its own.

The building in which Mr. John Vavasor had a room
and a desk was located in one of these side streets,
and had, in its infantine days, been regarded with com-
placency by its founder. It was stone-faced, and
strong, and though very ugly, had about it that air
of importance which justifies a building in assuming a
special name to itself. This building was called the
Accountant-General's Record Office, and very prob-
ably, in the gloom of its dark cellars, may lie to this
day the records of the expenditure of many a fair prop-
erty which has gotten itself into Chancery, and has
never gotten itself out again. It was entered by a
dark hall, the door of which was never closed ; and
which, having another door at its further end leading
into another lane, had become itself a thoroughfare.
But the passers through it were few in number. Now
and then a boy might be seen there carrying on his
head or shoulders a huge mass of papers which you
would presume to be accounts, or. some clerk employed
in the purlieus of Chancery Lane who would know the
shortest possible way from the chambers of some one
attorney to those of some other. But this hall, though
open at both ends, was as dark as Erebus ; and any
who lingered in it would soon find themselves to be
growing damp, and would smell mildew, and would
become naturally aflFected by the exhalations arising
from those Chancery records beneath their feet.

Up the stone stairs, from this hall, John Grey passed

THE BILLS ARE MADE ALL RIGHT. II 7

to Mr. Vavasor's signing-room. The stairs were broad,
and almost of noble proportions, but the darkness and
gloom which hung about the hall hung also about
them, — a melancholy set of stairs, up and down which
no man can walk with cheerful feet. Here he came
upon a long, broad passage, in which no sound was, at
first, to be heard. . There was no busy noise of doors
slamming, no rapid sound of shoes, no passing to and
fro of men intent on their daily bread. Pausing for
a moment, that he might look round about him and
realise the deathlike stillness of the whole, John Grey
could just distinguish the heavy breathing of a man,
thereby learning that there was a captive in, at any
rate, one of those prisons on each side of him. As
he drew near to the door of Mr. Vavasor's chamber
he knew that the breathing came from thence.

On the door there were words inscribed, which
were just legible in the gloom — *' Signing-room. Mr.
Vavasor."

How John Vavasor did hate those words! It
seemed to him that they had been placed there with
the express object of declaring his degradation aloud
to the world. Since his father's will had been read to
him he had almost made up his mind to go down those
melancholy stairs for the last time, to shake the dust
off his feet as he left the Accountant- General's Record
Office forever, and content himself with half his offi-
cial income. But how could he give up so many hun-
dreds a year while his daughter was persisting in
throwing away thousands as fast as, or faster than, she
could lay her hands on them?

John Grey entered the room and found Mr. Vavasor
sitting all alone in an arm-chair over the fire. I rather

Il8 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

think that that breathing had been the breathing of a
man asleep. He was resting himself amidst the la-
bours of his signing. It was a large, dull room, which
could not have been painted, I should think, within
the memory of man, looking out backwards into some
court. The black wall of another building seemed to
stand up close to the window, — so close that no direct
ray of the sun ever interrupted the signing clerk at his
work. In the middle of the room there was a large
mahogany table, on which lay a pile of huge papers.
Across the top of them there was placed a bit of blot-
ting-paper, with a quill pen, the two only tools which
were necessary to the performance of the signing-clerk's
work. On the table there stood a row of official
books, placed lengthways on their edges ; the " Post-
Office Directory," the " Court Circular," a " Directory
to the Inns of Court," a dusty volume of Acts of Par-
liament, which had reference to Chancery accounts, —
a volume which Mr. Vavasor never opened ; and there
were some others; but there was no book there in
which any Christian man or woman could take dehght,
either for amusement or for recreation. There were
three or four chairs round the wall, and there was the
one arm-chair which the occupant of the chamber had
dragged away from its sacred place to the hearth-rug.
There was also an old Turkey carpet on the floor.
Other furniture there was none. Can it be a matter
of surprise to any one that Mr. Vavasor preferred his
club to his place of business? He was not left quite
alone in this deathlike dungeon. Attached to his own
large room there was a small closet, in which sat the
signing-clerk's clerk, — a lad of perhaps seventeen years
of age, who spent the greatest part of his time in play^

THE BILLS ARE MADE ALL RIGHT. II9

ing tit-tat-to by himself upon official blotting-paper.
Had I been Mr. Vavasor I should have sworn a bosom
friendship with that lad, have told him all my secrets,
and joined his youthful games.

"Come in!" Mr. Vavasor had cried when John
Grey disturbed his slumber by knocking at the door.
" I 'm glad to see you, — very. Sit down ; won't you?
Did you ever see such a wretched fire? The coals
they give you in this place are the worst in all Lon-
don. Did you ever see such coals? " And he gave
a wicked poke at the fire.

It was now the first of May, and Grey, who had
walked from SufiFolk Street, was quite warm. "One
hardly wants a fire at all, such weather as this," he
said.

" Oh, don't you? " said the signing-clerk. " If you
had to sit here all day, you 'd see if you did n't want
a fire. It 's the coldest building I ever put my foot
in. Sometimes in winter 1 have to sit here the whole
day in a great-coat. I only wish I could shut old
Sugden up here for a week or two, after Christmas."
The great lawyer whom he had named was the man
whom he supposed to have inflicted on him the terrible
injury of his life, and he was continually invoking
small misfortunes on the head of that tyrant.

" How is Alice ? " said Grey, desiring to turn the
subject from the ten- times-told tale of his friend's
wrongs,

Mr. Vavasor sighed. " She is well enough, I be-
lieve," he said.

Is anything the matter in Queen Anne Street? "
You '11 hardly believe it when I tell you ; and, in-
deed, I hardly know whether I ought to tell you or not."

120 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" As you and I have gone so far together, I think
that you ought to tell me anything that concerns her
nearly."

" That 's just it. It *s about her money. Do you
know, Grey, I 'm beginning to think that I 've been
wrong in allowing you to advance what you have done
on her account? "

" Why wrong? "

" Because I foresee there '11 be a difficulty about it
How are we to manage about the repayment? "

"If she becomes my wife there will be no manage-
ment wanted."

" But how if she never becomes your wife? I 'm
beginning to think she '11 never do anything like any
other woman." ^

" I *m not quite sure that you understand her said^
Grey ; " though of course you ought to do so better
than any one else."

" Nobody can understand her," said the angry father.
" She told me the other day, as you know, that she was
going to have nothing more to do with her cousin "

*' Has she — has she become friends with him again? "
said Grey. As he asked the question there came a red
spot on each cheek, showing the strong mental anxiety
which had prompted it.

" No ; I believe not — that is, certainly not in the
way you mean. I think that she is beginning to know
that he is a rascal."

" It is a great blessing that she has learned the truth
before it was too late."

" But would you believe it? — she has given him her
name to bills for two thousand pounds, payable at two
weeks' sight! He sent to her only this morning a

THE BILLS ARE MADE ALL RIGHT. 121

fellow that he called his clerk, and she has been fool
enough to accept them. Two thousand pounds!
That comes of leaving money at a young woman's
own disposal."

" But we expected that, you know," said Grey, who
seemed to take the news with much composure.

"Expected it?"

" Of course we did. You yourself did not suppose
that what he had before would have been the last."

" But after she had quarrelled with him! "

" That would make no difference with her. She had
promised him her money, and as it seems that he will
be content with that, let her keep her promise."

" And give him everything ! Not if I can help it.
I '11 expose him. I will indeed. Such a pitiful rascal
as he is ! "

" You will do nothing, Mr. Vavasor, that will injure
your daughter. I 'm very sure of that."

" But, by heavens ! Such sheer robbery as that!

Two thousand pounds more in fourteen days!" The
shortness of the date at which the bills were drawn
seemed to afflict Mr. Vavasor almost as keenly as the
amount. Then he described the whole transaction as
accurately as he could do so, and also told how Alice
had declared her purpose of going to Mr. Round the
lawyer, if her father would not undertake to procure
the money for her by the time the bills should become
due. *' Mr. Round, you know, has heard nothing about
it," he continued. " He does n't dream of any such
thing. If she would take my advice, she would leave
the bills, and let them be dishonoured. As it is, I think
I shall call at Drummonds', and explain the whole
transaction."

122 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" You must not do that," said Grey. " I will call at
Drummonds', instead, and see that the money is all
right for the bills. As far as they go, let him have his
plunder."

"And if she won't take you, at last, Grey? Upon
my word, I don't think she ever will. My belief is
she '11 never get married. She '11 never do anything
like any other woman."

" The money won't be missed by me if I never get
married," said Grey, with a smile. " If she does marry
me, of course I shall make her pay me."

"No, by George! that won't do," said Vavasor.
" If she were your daughter you 'd know that she could
not take a man's money in that way."

" And I know it now, though she is not my daugh-
ter. I was only joking. As soon as I am certain, —
finally certain, — that she can never become my wife,
I will take back my money. You need not be afraid.
The nature of the arrangement we have made shall
then be explained to her."

In this way it was settled; and on the following
morning the father informed the daughter that he had
done her bidding, and that the money would be placed
to her credit at the bankers' before the bills came due.
On that Saturday, the day which her cousin had named
in his letter, she trudged down to Drummonds', and
was informed by a very courteous senior clerk in that
establishment, that due preparation for the bills had
been made.

So far, I think we may say that Mr. George Vavasor
was not unfortunate.

CHAPTER X.

GOING ABROAD.

One morning, early in May, a full week before
Alice's visit to the bankers' at Charing Cross, a servant
in grand livery, six feet high, got out of a cab at the
door in Queen Anne Street, and sent up a note for
Miss Vavasor, declaring that he would wait in the cab
for her answer. He had come from Lady Glencora,
and had been specially ordered to go in a cab and
come back in a cab, and make himself as like a Mer-
cury, with wings to his feet, as may be possible to a
London footman. Mr. Palliser had arranged his plans
with his wife that morning, — or, I should more cor-
rectly say, had given her his orders, and she, in con-
sequence, had sent away her Mercury in hot pressing
haste to Queen Anne Street. "Do come — instantly
if you can," the note said. " I have so much to tell
you, and so much to ask of you. If you can't come,
when shall I find you, and where? " Alice sent back
a note, saying that she would be in Park Lane as soon
as she could put on her bonnet and walk down ; and
then the Mercury went home in his cab.

Alice found her friend in the small breakfast-room
upstairs, sitting close by the window. They had not
as yet met since the evening of Lady Monk's party,
nor had Lady Glencora seen Alice in the mourning
which she now wore for her grandfather. " Oh dear,

123

124 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

what a change it makes in you," she said. " I never
thought of your being in black."

** I don't know what it is you want, but shan't I do
in mourning as well as I would in colours ? "

" You '11 do in anything, dear. But I have so much
to tell you, and I don't know how to begin. And
I 've so much to ask of you, and I 'm so afraid you
won't do it."

'' You generally find me very complaisant."

" No, I don't, dear. It is very seldom you will do
anything for me. But I must tell you everything first.
Do take your bonnet off, for I shall be hours in doing
it."

" Hours in telling me! "

" Yes ; and in getting your consent to what I want
you to do. But I think I '11 tell you that first. I 'm
to be taken abroad immediately."

" Who is to take you? "

" Ah, you may well ask that. If you could know
what questions I have asked myself on that head! I
sometimes say things to myself as though they were the
most proper and reasonable things in the world, and
then within an hour or two I hate myself for having
thought of them."

" But why don't you answer me ? Who is going
abroad with you? "

" Well ; you are to be one of the party."

'*!!"

*' Yes ; you. When I have named so very respect-
able a chaperon for my youth, of course you will under-
stand that my husband is to take us."

" But Mr. Palliser can't leave London at this time
of the year."

GOING ABROAD. 1 25

"That *s just it. He is to leave London at this time
of the year. Don't look in that way, for it *s all set-
tled. Whether you go with me or not, I Ve got to
go. To-day is Tuesday. We are to be off next Tues-
day night, if you can make yourself ready. We shall
breakfast in Paris on Wednesday morning, and then it
will be to us all just as if we were in a new world.
Mr. Palliser will walk up and down the new court of
the Louvre, and you will be on his left arm, and I
shall be on his right, — ^just like English people, — and
it will be the most proper thing that ever was seen in
life. Then we shall go on to Basle " — Alice shuddered
as Basle was mentioned, thinking of the balcony over

the river — " and so to Lucerne But no ; that was

the first plan, and Mr. Palliser altered it. He spent
a whole day up here with maps and Bradshaws and
Murray's guide-books, and he scolded me so because I
did n't care whether we went first to Baden or to some
other place. How could I care? I told him I would
go anywhere he chose to take me. Then he told
me I was heartless ; — and I acknowledged that I was
heartless. ' I am heartless,' I said. ' Tell me some-
thing I don't know.' "

" Oh, Cora, why did you say that ? "

" I did n't choose to contradict my husband. Be-
sides, it 's true. Then he threw the Bradshaw away,
and all the maps flew about. So I picked them up
again, and said we 'd go to Switzerland first. I knew
that would settle it, and of course he decided on stop-
ping at Baden. If he had said Jericho, it would have
been the same thing to me. Would, n't you like to go
to Jericho? "

** I should have no special objection to Jericho."

126 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

But you are to go to Baden instead."
I Ve said nothing about that yet. But you have
not told me half your story. Why is Mr. Palliser go-
ing abroad in the middle of Parliament in this way? "

** Ah! now I must go back to the beginning. And
indeed, Alice, I hardly know how to tell you ; not that
I mind you knowing it, only there are some things that
won't get themselves told. You can hardly guess what
it is that he is giving up. You must swear that you
won't repeat what I *m going to tell you now ? "

"I *m not a person apt to tell secrets, but I shan't
swear anything."

" What a woman you are for discretion ! It is you
that ought to be Chancellor of the Exchequer ; you are
so wise. Only you have n*t brought your own pigs to
the best market, after all."

" Never mind my own pigs now, Cora."

" I do mind them, very much. But the secret is this.
They have asked Mr. Palliser to be Chancellor of the
Exchequer, and he has — refused. Think of that! "

''But why?"

" Because of me, — of me, and my folly, and wick-
edness, and abominations. Because he has been fool
enough to plague himself with a wife ; — he who of all
men ought to have kept himself free from such troubles.
Oh, he has been so good! It is almost impossible to
make any one understand it. If you could know how
he has longed for this office ; — how he has worked
for it day and night, wearing his eyes out with figures
when everybody else has been asleep, shutting himself
up with such creatures as Mr. Bott when other men
have been shooting and hunting and flirting and spend-
ing their money. He has been a slave to it for years,

GOING ABROAD. 1 27

—all his life, I believe, — in order that he might sit in
the Cabinet, and be a minister and a Chancellor of the
Exchequer. He has hoped and feared, and has been,
I believe, sometimes half-mad with expectation. This
has been his excitement, — what racing and gambling
are to other men. At last, the place was there, ready
for him, and they offered it to him. They begged
him to take it, almost on their knees. The Duke of
St Bungay was here all one morning about it ; but Mr.
Palliser sent him away, and refused the place. It 's
all over now, and the other man, whom they all hate
so much, is to remain in."

" But why did he refuse it? "

" I keep on telling you ; — because of me. He found
that I wanted looking after, and that Mrs. Marsham
and Mr. Bott between them could n't do it."

" Oh, Coral how can you talk in that way ? "

" If you knew all, you might well ask how I could.
You remember about Lady Monk's ball, that you
would not go to, — as you ought to have done. If you
had gone Mr. Palliser would have been Chancellor of
the Exchequer at this minute ; he would, indeed. Only
think of that ! But though you did not go, other people
did who ought to have remained at home. I went for
one, — ^and you know who was there for another."

"What difference could that make to you?" said
Alice angrily.

"It might have made a great deal of difference.
And, for the matter of that, so it did. Mr. Palliser
was there too, but, of course, he went away immedi-
ately. I can't tell you all the trouble there had been
about Mrs. Marsham, — whether I was to take her with
me or not. However, I would n't take her, and did n't

t28 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

take her. The carriage went for her first, and there
she was when we got there ; and Mr. Bott was there
too. I wonder whether I shall ever make you under-
stand it all."

" There are some things I don't want to understand."

"There they both were watching me, — ^looking at
me the whole evening ; and, of course, I resolved that
I would not be put down by them."

" I think, if I had been you, I would not have allowed
their presence to make any difference to me."

" That is very easily said, my dear, but by no means
so easily done. You can't make yourself unconscious
of eyes that are always looking at you. I dared them,
at any rate, to do their worst, for I stood up to dance
with Burgo Fitzgerald."

"Oh, Cora!"

" Why should n't I ? At any rate, I did ; and I
waltzed with him for half an hour. Alice, I never will
waltz again ; — never. I have done with dancing now.
I don't think, even in my maddest days, I ever kept it
up so long as I did then. And I knew that everybody
was looking at me. It was not only Mrs. Marsham
and Mr. Bott, but everybody there. I felt myself to
be desperate, — mad, like a wild woman. There I was,
going round and round and round with the only man
for whom I ever cared two straws. It seemed as though
everything had been a dream since the old days. Ah!
how well I remember the first time I danced with him,
— at his aunt's house in Cavendish Square. They had
only just brought me out in London then, and I thought
that he was a god,"

" Cora! I cannot bear to hear you talk like that."

" I know well enough that he is no god now ; some

GOING ABROAD. 1 29

people say that he is a devil, but he was like Apollo to
me then. Did you ever see any one so beautiful as
he is?"

" I never saw him at all."

" I wish you could have seen him ; but you will some
day. I don't know whether you care for men being
handsome." Alice thought of John Grey, who was
the handsomest man that she knew, but she made no
answer. "I do ; or, rather, I used to do," continued
Lady Glencora. " I don't think I care much about
anything now ; but I don't see why handsome men
should not be run after as much as handsome women."

" But you would n't have a girl run after any man,
would you ; whether handsome or ugly? "

" But they do, you know. When I saw him the
other night he was just as handsome as ever ; — the
same look, half wild and half tame, like an animal you
cannot catch, but which you think would love you so
if you could catch him. In a little while it was just
like the old time, and I had made up my mind to care
nothing for the people looking at me."
And you think that was right? "
No, I don't. Yes, I do ; that is. It was n't right
to care about dancing with him, but it was right to
disregard all the people gaping round. What was it to
them ? Why should they care whom I danced with ? "

" That is nonsense, dear, and you must know that it
is so. If you were to see a woman misbehaving her-
self in public, would not you look on and make your
comments? Could you help doing so if you were to
try?"

"You are very severe, Alice. Misbehaving in
public ! "

it
(I

13© CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

"Yes, Cora. I am only taking your own story.
According to that, you were misbehaving in public."

Lady Glencora got up from her chair near the win-
dow, on which she had been crouching close to Alice's
knees, and walked away towards the fireplace.

*' What am I to say to you, or how am I to talk to
you ? " said Alice. " You would not have me tell you
a lie? "

" Of all things in the world, I hate a prude the most,**
said Lady Glencora.

" Cora, look here. If you consider it prudery on
my part to disapprove of your waltzing with Mr. Fitz-
gerald in the manner you have described,— or, indeed,
in any other manner, — you and I must differ so totally
about the meaning of words and the natxu*e of things
that we had better part."

*' Alice, you are the unkindest creatiu-e that ever lived.
You are as cold as stone. I sometimes think that you
can have no heart."

" I don't mind your saying that. Whether I have a
heart or not I will leave you to find out for yourself ;
but I won't be called a prude by you. You know you
were wrong to dance with that man. What has come
of it ? What have you told me yourself this morning?
In order to preserve you from misery and destruction,
Mr. Palliser has given up all his dearest hopes. He
has had to sacrifice himself that he might save you.
That, I take it, is about the truth of it, — and yet you
tell me that you have done no wrong."

" I never said so." Now she had come back to
her chair by the window, and was again sitting in that
crouching form. " I never said that I was not wrong.
Of course I was wrong. I have been so wrong through-
out that I have never been right yet. Let me tell it

GOING ABROAD. 131

on to the end, and then you can go away if you like,
and tell me that I am too wicked for your friend-
ship."
" Have I ever said anything like that, Cora? "
" But you will, I dare say, when I have done. Well ;
what do you think my senior duenna did, — the female
one, I mean? She took my own carriage, and posted
off after Mr. Palliser as hard as ever she could, leaving
the male duenna on the watch. I was dancing as hard
as I could, but I knew what was going on all the time
as well as though I had heard them talking. Of course
Mr. Palliser came after me. I don't know what else
he could do, unless, indeed, he had left me to my fate.
He came there, and behaved so well, — so much like
a perfect gentleman. Of course I went home, and I
was prepared to tell him everything, if he spoke a word
to me ; — that I intended to leave him, and that cart-
ropes should not hold me! "
"To leave him, Cora!"

" Yes, and go with that other man whose name you
won't let me mention. I had a letter from him in my
pocket asking me to go. He asked me a dozen times
that night. I cannot think how it was that I did not
consent."

" That you did not consent to your own ruin and
disgrace ? "

*'That I did not consent to go off with him, — any-
where. Of course it would have been my own de-
struction. I 'm not such a fool as not to know that.
Do you suppose I have never thought of it ; — what it
would be to be a man's mistress instead of his wife? If
I had not I should be a thing to be hated and despised.
When once I had done it I should hate and despise
myself. I should feel myself to be loathsome, and, as

132 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

it were, a beast among women. But why did they not
let me marry him, instead of driving me to this? And
though I might have destroyed myself, I should have
saved the man who is still my husband. Do you know,
I told him all that, — told him that if I had gone away
with Burgo Fitzgerald he would have another wife, and
would have children, and would "

" You told your husband that you had thought of
leaving him? "

" Yes ; I told him everything. I told him that I
dearly loved that poor fellow, for whom, as I believe,
nobody else on earth cares a single straw."

" And what did he say ? "

" I cannot tell you what he said, only that we were
all to go to Baden together, and then to Italy. But he
did not seem a bit angry ; he very seldom is angry, un-
less at some trumpery thing, as when he threw the book
away. And when I told him that he might have an-
other wife and a child, he put his arm round me and
whispered to me that he did not care so much about
it as I had imagined. I felt more like loving him at
that moment than I had ever done before."

" He must be fit to be an angel."

"He 's fit to be a Cabinet minister, which, I *m quite
sure, he 'd like much better. And now you know every-
thing ; but no, — there is one thing you don't know yet.
When I tell you that, you '11 want to make him an
archangel or a prime minister. * We '11 go abroad,' he
said, — and remember, this was his own proposition,
made long before I was able to speak a word, — * we '11
go abroad, and you shall get your cousin Alice to go
with us.' That touched me more ihan anything. Only
think if he had proposed Mrs. Marsham! "

GOING ABROAD. 1 33

"But yet he does not like me."

"You *re wrong there, Alice. There has been no
question of hking or of disliking. He thought you
would be a kind of Mrs. Marsham, and when you were
not, but went out flirting among the ruins with Jeffrey
Palliser, instead "

" I never went out flirting with Jeffrey Palliser."

" He did with you, which is all the same thing. And
when Plantagenet knew of that, — for, of course, Mr.
Bott told him "

" Mr. Bott can't see everything."

" Those men do. The worst is, they see more than
everything. But, at any rate, Mr. Palliser has got over
all that now. Come, Alice ; the fact of the offer hav-
ing come from himself should disarm you of any such
objection as that. As he has held out his hand to you,
you have no alternative but to take it."

" I will take his hand willingly."

" And for my sake you will go with us ? He under-
stands himself that I am not fit to be his companion,
and to have no companion but him. Now there is a
spirit of wisdom about you that will do for him, and a
spirit of folly that will suit me. I can manage to put
myself on a par with a girl who has played such a wild
game with her lovers as you have done."

Alice would give no promise then. Her first objec-
tion was that she had undertaken to go down to West-
moreland and comfort Kate in the affliction of her
broken arm. " And I must go," said Alice, remem-
bering how necessary it was that she should plead her
own cause with George Vavasor's sister. But she ac-
knowledged that she had not intended to stay long in
Westmoreland, probably not more than a week, and it

134 CAN YOU FORGIVE ftER?

was at last decided that the PaUisers should postpone
their journey for four or five days, and that Ahce should
go with them immediately upon her return from Vava-
sor Hall.

" I have no objection," said her father, speaking with
that voice of resignation which men use when they are
resolved to consider themselves injured whatever may
be done. " I can get along in lodgings. I suppose
we had better leave the house, as you have given away
so much of your own fortune ? " Alice did not think
it worth her while to point out to him, in answer to
this, that her contribution to their joint housekeeping
should still remain the same as ever. Such, however,
she knew would be the fact, and she knew also that she
would find her father in the old house when she returned
from her travels. To her, in her own great troubles,
the absence from London would be as serviceable as
it could be to Lady Glencora. Indeed, she had already
begun to feel the impossibility of staying quietly at home.
Slie could lecture her cousin, whose faults were open,
easy to be defined, and almost loud in their nature ; but
she was not on that account the less aware of her own.
She knew that she too had cause to be ashamed of
herself. She was half afraid to show her face among
her friends, and wept grievously over her own follies.
Those cruel words of her father rang in her ears con-
stantly: — ** Things of that sort are so often over with
you." The reproach, though cruel, was true, and what
reproach more galling could be uttered to an unmarried
girl such as was Alice Vavasor ? She had felt from the
first moment in which the proposition was made to her
that it would be well that she should for a while leave
her home, and especially that drawing-room in Queen

GOING ABROAD. 1 35

Anne Street, which told her so many tales that she
would fain forget, if it were possible.

Mr. Palliser would not allow his wife to remain in
London for the ten or twelve days which must yet
elapse before they started, nor would he send her into
the country alone. He took her down to Matching
Park, having obtained leave to be absent from the
House for the remainder of the session, and remained
with her there till within two days of their departure.
That week down at Matching, as she afterwards told
Alice, was very terrible. He never spoke a word to
rebuke her. He never hinted that there had been
aught in her conduct of which he had cause to com-
plain. He treated her with a respect that was perfect
and indeed with more outward signs of affection than
had ever been customary with him. " But," as Lady
Glencora afterwards expressed it, "he was always look-
ing after me. I believe he thought that Burgo Fitz-
gerald had hidden himself among the ruins," she said
once to Alice. " He never suspected me, I am sure of
that ; but he thought that he ought to look after me."
And Lady Glencora in this had very nearly hit the
truth. Mr. Palliser had resolved, from that hour in
which he had walked out among the elms in Kensing-
ton Gardens, that he would neither suspect his wife,
nor treat her as though he suspected her. The blame
had been his, perhaps, more than it had been hers. So
much he had acknowledged to himself, thinking of the
confession she had made to him before their marriage.
But it was manifestly his imperative duty, — his duty of
duties, — to save her from that pitfall into which, as she
herself had told him, she had been so ready to fall.
For her sake and for his this must be done. It was a

136 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

duty so imperative, that in its performance he had found
himself forced to abandon his ambition. To have his
wife taken from him would be terrible, but the having
it said all over the world that such a misfortime had
come upon him would be almost more terrible even
than that.

So he went with his wife hither and thither, down at
Matching, allowing himself to be driven about behind
Dandy and Flirt. He himself proposed these little
excursions. They were tedious to him, but doubly
tedious to his wife, who now found it more difficult than
ever to talk to him. She struggled to talk, and he
struggled to talk, but the very struggles themselves
made the thing impossible. He sat with her in the
mornings, and he sat with her in the evenings; he
breakfasted with her, lunched with her, and dined with
her. He went to bed early, having no figures which
now claimed his attention. And so the week at last
wore itself away. " I saw him yawning sometimes,"
Lady Glencora said afterwards, " as though he would
fall in pieces."

CHAPTER XI.

MR. JOHN GREY IN QUEEN ANNE STREET.

Alice was resolved that she would keep her promise
to Kate, and pay her visit to Westmoreland before she
started with the Pallisers. Kate had written to her
three lines with her left hand, begging her to come, and
those three lines had been more eloquent than anything
she could have written had her right arm been uninjured.
Alice had learned something of the truth as to that
accident from her father; or, rather, had heard her
father's surmises on the subject. She had heard, too,
how her cousin George had borne himself when the
will was read, and how he had afterwards disappeared,
never showing himself again at the Hall. After all that
had passed she felt that she owed Kate some sympathy.
Sympathy may, no doubt, be conveyed by letter ; but
there are things on which it is almost impossible for
any writer to express himself with adequate feeling ;
and there are things, too, which can be spoken, but
which cannot be written. Therefore, though the jour-
ney must be a hurried one, Alice sent word down to
Westmoreland that she was to be expected there in a
day or two. On her return she was to go at once to
Park Lane, and sleep there for the two nights which
would intervene before the departure of the Pallisers.

On the day before she started for Westmoreland her
father came to her in the middle of the day, and told

137

((
it

138 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

her that John Grey was going to dine with him in
Queen Anne Street on that evening.
To-day, papa ? " she asked.

Yes, to-day. Why not ? No man is less particular
as to what he eats than Grey."

" I was not thinking of that, papa," she said.

To this Mr. Vavasor made no reply, but stood for
some minutes looking out of the window. Then he
prepared to leave the room, getting himself first as far
as the table, where he lifted a book, and then on half-
way to the door, before Alice arrested him.

" Perhaps, papa, you and Mr. Grey, had better dine
alone."

What do you mean by alone ? "
I meant without me, — as two men generally like
to do."

^' If I wanted that I should have asked him to dine
at the club," said Mr. Vavasor, and then he again at-
tempted to go.

'* But, papa "

" Well, my dear! If you mean to say that because
of what has passed you object to meet Mr. Grey, I can
only tell you it 's nonsense, — confounded nonsense. If
he chooses to come there can be no reason why you
should n't receive him."

'' It will look as though "

" Look what ? "

" As though he were asked as my guest."

"That 's nonsense. I saw him yesterday, and I
asked him to come. I saw him again to-day, and he
said he would come. He 's not such a fool as to sup-
pose, after that, that you asked him."

" No ; not that I asked him."

MR. JOHN GREY IN QUEEN ANNE STREET. 1^9

'* And if you run away you '11 only make more of the
thing than it 's woith. Of course I can't make you
dine with me if you don't hke."

Alice did not like it, but, after some consideration,
she thought that she might be open to the imputation
of having made more of the thing than it was worth if
she ran away, as her father called it. She was going
to leave the country for some six or eight months, —
perhaps for a longer time than that, and it might be as
well that she should have an opportunity of telling her
plans to Mr. Grey. She could do it, she thought, in
such a way as to make him understand that her last
quarrel with George Vavasor was not supposed to alter
the footing on which she stood with him. She did
not doubt that her father had told everything to Mr.
Grey. She knew well enough what her father's wishes
still were. It was not odd that he should be asking
John Grey to his house, though such exercises of do-
mestic hospitality were very unusual with him. But, —
so she declared to herself, — such little attempts on his
part would be altogether thrown away. It was a pity
that he had not yet learned to know her better. She
would receive Mr. Grey as the mistress of her father's
house now, for the last time ; and then, on her return
in the following year, he would be at Nethercoats, and
the whole thing would be over.

She dressed herself very plainly, simply changing one
black frock for another, and then sat herself in her
drawing-room awaiting the two gentlemen. It was
already past the hour of dinner before her father came
upstairs. She knew that he was in the house, and in
her heart she accused him of keeping out of the way, in
order that John Grey might be alone with her. Whether

14© CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

or no she were right in her suspicions John Grey did
not take advantage of the opportunity offered to him.
Her father came up first, and had seated himself silently
in his arm-chair before the visitor was announced.

As Mr. Grey entered the room Alice knew that she
was flurried, but still she managed to carry herself with
some dignity. His bearing was perfect. But then, as
she declared to herself afterwards, no possible position
in life would put him beside himself. He came up to
her with his usual quiet smile, — a smile that was genial
even in its quietness, and took her hand. He took it
fairly and fully into his ; but there was no squeezing,
no special pressure, no love-making. And when he
spoke to her he called her Alice, as though his doing
so was of all things the most simply a matter of course.
There was no tell-tale hesitation in his voice. When
did he ever hesitate at anything? ''I hear you are
going abroad," he said, ** with your cousin. Lady Glen-
cora Palliser ? "

" Yes," said Alice ; " I am going with them for a
long tour. We shall not return, I fancy, till the end
of next winter."

*' Plans of that sort are as easily broken as they are
made," said her father. " You won't be your own mis-
tress ; and I advise you not to count too surely upon
getting further than Baden."

" If Mr. Palliser changes his mind of course I shall
come home," said Alice, with a little attempt at a
smile.

" I should think him a man not prone to changes,"
said Grey. "But all London is talking about his
change of mind at this moment. They say at the clubs
that he might have been in the Cabinet if he would.

MR. JOHN GREY IN QUEEN ANNE STREET. 14I

but that he has taken up this idea of going abroad at
the moment when he was wanted."

" It *s his wife's doing, I take it," said Mr. Vavasor.

"That 's the worst of being in Parbament," said
Grey. " A man can't do anything without giving a
reason for it. There must be men for public life, of
course ; but, upon my word, I think we ought to be
very much obliged to them."

Alice, as she took her old lover's arm, and walked
down with him to dinner, thought of all her former
quarrels with him on this very subject. On this very
point she had left him. He had never argued the
matter with her. He had never asked her to argue
with him. He had not condescended so far as that.
Had he done so, she thought that she would have
brought herself to think as he thought. She would have
striven, at any rate, to do so. But she could not be-
come unambitious, tranquil, fond of retirement, and
philosophic, without an argument on the matter, — with-
out being allowed even the poor grace of owning her-
self to be convinced. If a man takes a dog with him
from the country up to town, the dog must live a town
life without knowing the reason why — must live a
town hfe or die a town death. But a woman should
not be treated like a dog. " Had he deigned to discuss
it with me!" Alice had so often said. "But, no; he
will read his books, and I am to go there to fetch him
his slippers, and make his tea for him." All this came
upon her again as she walked downstairs by his side ;
and with it there caine a consciousness that she had
been driven by this usage into the terrible engagement
which she had made with her cousin. That, no doubt,
was now over. There was no longer to her any ques-

142 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

tion of her marrying George Vavasor. But the fact
that she had been mad enough to think and talk of
such a marriage, had of itself been enough to ruin her.
"Things of that sort are so often over with you!"
After such a speech as that to her from her father,
Alice told herself that there could be no more " things
of that sort" for her. But all her misery had been
brought about by this scornful superiority to the ordi-
nary pursuits of the world, — this looking down upon
humanity.

" It seems to me," she said, very quietly, while her
hand was yet upon his arm, " that your pity is hardly
needed. I should think that no persons can be happier
than those whom you call our public men."

" Ah ! " said he, " that is our old quarrel." He said
it as though the quarrel had simply been an argument
between them, or a dozen arguments, — as arguments
do come up between friends ; not as though it had
served to separate for life two persons who had loved
each other dearly. '* It *s the old story of the town
mouse and the country mouse, — as old as the hills.
Mice may be civil for a while, and compliment each
other; but when they come to speak their minds
freely, each likes his own life best." She said nothing
more at the moment, and the three sat down to their
small dinner- table. It was astonishing to AHce that
he should be able to talk in this way, to hint at such
things, to allude to their former hopes and present
condition, without a quiver in his voice, or, as far as
she could perceive, without any feeling in his heart.

" Alice," said her father, " I can*t compliment your
cook upon her soup."

" You don't encourage her, papa, by eating it often

MR. JOHN GREY IN QUEEN ANNE STREET. 1 43

enough. And then you only told me at two o'clock
to-day."

" If a cook can't make soup between two and seven,
she can't make it in a week."

" I hope Mr. Grey will excuse it," said AUce.

"Isn't it good? " said he. " I won't say that it is,
because I should be pretending to have an opinion ;
but I should not have found out anything against it of
myself."

" Where do you dine usually, now you are in Lon-
don ? " Mr. Vavasor asked.

"At the old club, at the comer of Suffolk Street.
It 's the oldest club in London, I believe. I never
belonged to any other, and therefore can't compare
them ; but I c^n't imagine anything much nicer."

" They give you better soup than ours," said Alice.

"You 've an excellent cook," said Mr. Vavasor, with
great gravity ; " one of the best second-class cooks in
London. We were very nearly getting him, but you
nicked him just in time. I know him well."

" It 's a great deal more than I do, or hope to do.
There 's another branch of public life for which I 'm
quite unfitted. I 'd as soon be called on to choose a
Prime Minister for the country, as I would a cook for
a club."

" Of course you would," said Mr. Vavasor. " There
may be as many as a dozen cooks about London to
be looked up, but there are never more than two pos-
sible Prime Ministers about. And as one of them
must be going out when the other is coming in, I don't
see that there can be any difficulty. Moreover, now-
a-days, people do their politics for themselves, but
they expect to have their dinners cooked for them."

144 CAN you FORGIVE HER?

The little dinner went on quietly and very easily.
Mr. Vavasor found fault with nearly everything. But
as, on this occasion, the meat and the drink, with the
manner of the eating and drinking, did not constitute
the difficulty, AUce was indifferent to her father's cen-
sures. I'he thing needed was that she and Mr. Grey
should be able to sit together at the same table with-
out apparent consciousness of their former ties. Alice
felt that she was succeeding indifferently well while she
was putting in little mock defences for the cook. And
as for John Grey, he succeeded so well that his success
almost made Alice angry with him. It required no
effort with him at all to be successful in this matter.
" If he can forget all that has passed, so much the
better," said Alice to herself when she got up into the
drawing-room. Then she sat herself down on the sofa,
and cried. Oh! what had she not lost! Had any
woman ever been so mad, so reckless, so heartless as
she had been? And she had done it, knowing that
she loved him! She. cried bitterly, and then went
away to wash her eyes, that she might be ready to give
him his coffee when he should come upstairs.

" She does not look well," said Grey, as soon as she
had left the room.

" Well ; — no : how can she look well after what she
has gone through? I sometimes think, that of all the
people I ever knew, she has been the most foolish.
But, of course, it is not for me to say anything against
my own child ; and, of all people, not to you."

*' Nothing that you could say against her would
make any difference to me. I sometimes fancy that I
know her better than you do."

" And you think that she *11 still come round again ? "

MR. JOHN^ GREY IN QUEEN ANNE STREET. 1 45

" I cannot say that I think so. No one can venture
to say whether or not such wounds as hers may be
cured. There are hearts and bodies so organised, that
in them severe wounds are incurable, whereas in others
no injury seems to be fatal. But I can say that if she
be not cured it shall not be from want of perseverance
on my part."

" Upon my word. Grey, I don't know how to thank
you enough. I don't indeedt"

" It does n't seem to me to be a case for thanking."

"Of course it is n't. I know that well enough.
And in the ordinary way of the world no father would
think of thanking a man for wanting to marry his
daughter. But things have come to such a pass with
us, that, by George ! I don't feel like any other father.
I don't mind saying anything to you, you know. That
claret is n't very good, but you might as well take an-
other glass."

** Thank you, I will. I should have said that that
was rather good wine, now."

" It 's not just the thing. What 's the use of my
having good wine here, when nobody comes to drink
it? But, as I was saying about Alice, of course I 've
felt all this thing very much. I feel as though I were
responsible, and yet what could I do ? She 's her own
mistress through it all. When she told me she was
going to marry that horrible miscreant, my nephew,
what could I do ? "

That 's over now, and we need not talk about it."
It 's very kind of you to say so — very. I believe
she 's a good girl. I do, indeed, in spite of it all."

" I 've no doubt of her being what you call a good
girl, — none in the least. What she has done to me

146 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

does not impair her goodness. I don't think you have
ever understood how much all this has been a matter
of conscience with her."

" Conscience! " said the angry father. " I hate such
conscience. I like the conscience that makes a girl
keep her word, and not bring disgrace upon those she
belongs to."

" I shall not think that I am disgraced," said Grey
quietly, " if she will come and be my wife. She has
meant to do right, and has endeavoured to take care
of the happiness of other people rather than her own."

^* She has taken very little care of mine," said Mr.
Vavasor.

" I shall not be at all afraid to trust mine to her, —
if she will let me do so. But she has been wounded
sorely, and it must take time."

" And, in the meantime, what are we to do when she
tells us that Mr. George Vavasor wants, another remit-
tance? Two thousand pounds a quarter comes heavy,
you know!"

" Let us hope that he has had enough."

" Enough ! Did such a man ever have enough ? "

" Let us hope, then, that she thinks he has had
enough. Come ; — may I go upstairs ? "

" Oh yes. I '11 follow you. She 11 think that I
mean something if I leave you together."

From all this it will be seen that Alice's father and
her lover still stood together on confidential terms.
Not easily had Mr. Vavasor brought himself to speak
of his daughter to John Grey in such language as he
had now used ; but he had been forced by adverse cir-
cumstances to pass the Rubicon of parental delicacy ;
he had been driven to tell his wished-for son-in-law

MR. JOHN GREY IN QUEEN ANNE STREET. 147

that he did wish to have him as a son-in-law ; he had
been compelled to lay aside those little airs of reserve
with which a father generally speaks of his daughter,
— and now all was open between them.

" And you reallv start to-morrow ? " said Grey, as
he stood close over Alice's work-table. Mr. Vavasor
had followed him into the drawing-room, but had seated
himself in an easy-chair on the other side of the fire.
There was no tone of whispering in Grey*s voice, but
yet he spoke in a manner which showed that he did
not intend to be audible on the other side of the room.
"I start for Westmoreland to-morrow. We do not
leave London for the continent till the latter end of
next week.*'
"But you will not be here again? "
"No ; I shall not come back to Queen Anne Street.**
"And you will be away for many months? "
"Mr. Palliser talked of next Easter as the term of
his return. He mentioned Easter to Lady Glencora.
I have not seen him myself since I agreed to go with
him."

" What should you say if you met me somewhere in
your travels ? " He had now gently seated himself on
the sofa beside her; — not so close to her as to give
her just cause to move away, but yet so near as to
make his conversation with her qiiite private.

" I don't think that will be very likely," she repHed,
not knowing what to say.

" I think it is very likely. For myself, I hate sur-
prises. I could not bring myself to fall in upon your
track unawares. I shall go abroad, but it will not be
till the late autumn, when the summer heats are gone,
— and I shall endeavour to find you."

148 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

•'To find me, Mr. Grey!" There was a quivering
in her voice, as she spoke, which she could not prevent,
though she would have given worlds to prevent it. " I
do not think that will be quite fairJ*

** It will not be unfair, I think, if I give you notice
of my approach. I will not fall upon you and your
friends unawares."

** I was not thinking of them. They would be glad
to know you, of course."

** And equally of course — or, rather, much more of
course, you will not be glad to see me ? That 's what
you mean? "

" I mean that we had better not meet more than we
can help."

" I think differently, Ahce, — quite differently. The
more we meet the better,-^that is what I think. But
1 will not stop to trouble you now. Good night."
Then he got up and went away, and her father went
with him. Mr. Vavasor, as he rose from his chair,
declared that he would just walk through a couple of
streets ; but Alice knew that he was gone to his club.

CHAPTER XII.

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS.

During these days Mrs. Greenow was mistress of
the old Hall down in Westmoreland, and was nursing
Kate assiduously through the calamity of her broken
arm. There had come to be a considerable amount
of confidence between the aunt and the niece. Kate
had acknowledged to her aunt that her brother had be-
haved badly, — ^very badly ; and the aunt had confessed
to the niece that she regarded Captain Bellfiekl as a
fit subject for compassion.

" And he was violent to you, and broke your arm ?
I always knew it was so," Mrs. Greenow had said,
speaking with reference to her nephew.

But this Kate had denied. " No," said she ; " that
Was an accident. When he went away and left me, he
bew nothing about it. And if he had broken both
niy arms I should not have cared much. I could
have forgiven him that." But that which Kate could
not forgive him was the fault which she had herself
committed. For his sake she had done her best to
separate Alice and John Grey, and George had shown
himself to be unworthy of the kindness of her treachery.
" I would give all I h^ve in the world to bring them
together again," Kate said.

'* They '11 come together fast enough if they like each
other," said Mrs. Greenow. " Alice is young still, and
they tell me she *s as good-looking as ever. A girl

149

150 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

with her money won't have far to seek for a husband,
even if this paragon from Cambridgeshire should not
turn up again."

" You don't know Alice, aunt."

" No, I don't. But I know what young women are,
and I know what yoimg men are. All this nonsense
about her cousin George, — what diiference will it make?
A man hke Mr. Grey won't care about that,— espe-
cially not if she tells him all about it. My belief is that
a girl can have anything forgiven her, if she '11 only
tell it herself."

But Kate preferred the other subject, and so, I think,
did Mrs. Greenow herself. '* Of course, my dear," she
would say, "marriage with me, if I should marry again,
would be a very different thing to your marriage,
or that of any other young person. As for love, that
has been all over for me since poor Greenow died. I
have known nothing of the softness of affection since
I laid him in his cold grave, and never can again.
' Captain Bellfield,' I said to him, * if you were to kneel
at my feet for years, it would not make me care for
you in the way of love."

" And what did he say to that? "

" How am I to tell you what he said? He talked
nonsense about my beauty, as all the men do. If a
woman were humpbacked, and had only one eye, they
would n't be ashamed to tell her she was a Venus."

" But, aunt, you are a handsome woman, you know."^

" Laws, my dear, as if I did n't understand all about
it ; as if I did n't know what makes a woman run
after! It is n't beauty, — and it is n't money alto-
gether. I 've seen women who had plenty of both,
and not a man would come nigh them. They did n't

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. 151

dare. There axe some of them, a man would as soon
think of putting his arm round a poplar tree, they are
so hard and so stiff. You know you 're a little that
way yourself, Kate, and I Ve always told you it won't
do."
" I 'm afraid I 'm too old to mend, aunt."
" Not at all, if you '11 only set your wits to work and
try. You 've plenty of money now, and you 're good-
looking enough, too, when you take the trouble to get
yourself up. But, as I said before, it is n't that that 's
wanted. There 's a stand-off about some women, —
what the men call * noUimy tangere,' that a man must
be quite a furious Orlando to attempt to get the better
of it. They look as though matrimony itself were im-
proper, and as if they believed the little babies were
found about in the hedges and ditches. They talk of
women, being forward! There are some of them a
deal too backward, according to my way of thinking."
"Yours is a comfortable doctrine, aunt."
"That''s just what I want it to be. I want things
to be comfortable. Why should n't things be nice
about one when one 's got the means ? Nobody can
say it 's a pleasant thing to live alone. I always
thought that man in the song hit it off properly. You
remember what he says? 'The poker and tongs to
each other belongs.' So they do, and that should be
the way with men and women."

** But the poker and tongs have but a bad life of it
sometimes."

" Not so often as the people say, my dear. Men
and women ain't like lumps of sugar. They don't melt
because the water is sometimes warm. Now, if I do
take Bellfield — and I really think I shall ; but if I do.

152 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

he '11 give me a deal of trouble. I know he will. He 11
always be wanting my money, and, of course, he '11
get more than he ought. I 'm not a Solomon, nor
yet a Queen of Sheba, no more than anybody else.
And he 41 smoke too many cigars, and perhaps drink
more brandy and water than he ought. And he '11 be
making eyes, too, at some of the girls who '11 be fools
enough to let him."

" Dear me, aunt, if I thought all that ill of him, I 'm
sure I would n't marry him ; — especially as you say
you don't love him."

"As for love, my dear, that 's gone— clear gone!"
Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief
to her eyes. " Some women can love twice, but I am
not one of them. I wish I could, — I wish I could 1 "
These last words were spoken in a tone of solemn
regret, which, however, she contrived to change as-
quickly as she had adopted it. " But, my dear, mar-
riage is a comfortable thing. And then, though the
captain may be a little free, I don't doubt but what I
shall get the upper hand with him at last. I shan't
stop his cigars and brandy and water, you know.
Why should n't a man smoke and have a glass, if he
don't make a beast of himself ? I like to see a man
enjoy himself. And then," she added, speaking ten-
derly of her absent lover, " I do think he 's fond of me,
— I do, indeed."

So is Mr. Cheesacre, for the matter of that."
Poor Cheesy! I believe he was, though he did
talk so much about money. I always like to believe
the best I can of them. But then there was no poetry
about Cheesy. I don't care about saying it now, as
you 've quite made up your mind not tQ h^vQ him,"

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. 1 53

"Quite, aunt."

"Your grandfather's will does make a difference,
you know. But, as I was saying, I do like a little
romance about them, — ^just a sniff, as I call it, of the
rocks and valleys. One knows that it does n't mean
much ; but it 's like artificial flowers, — it gives a httle
colour, and takes off the dowdiness. Of course, bread
and cheese is the real thing. The rocks and valleys
are no good at all, if you have n't got that. But
enough is as good as a feast. Thanks to dear
Greenow" — here the handkerchief was again used —
"thanks to dear Greenow, I shall never want. Of
course I shan't let any of the money go into his hands,
^the captain's, I mean. I know a trick worth two of
that, my dear. But, Lord love you! I 've enough for
him and me. What 's the good of a woman's wanting
to keep it all to herself ? "

"And you think you '11 really take him, aunt, and
pay his washerwoman's bills for him ? You remember
what you told me when I first saw him ? "

"Oh yes; I remember. And if he can't pay his
own washerwoman, is n't that so much more of a
reason that I should do it for him ? Well, yes ; I think
I will take him. That is, if he lets me take him just
as I choose. Beggars must n't be choosers, my dear."
In this way the aunt and niece became very confi-
dential, and Mrs. Greenow whispered into Kate's ears
her belief that Captain Bellfield might possibly make
his way across the country to Westmoreland. *' There
would be no harm in offering him a bed, would there? "
Mrs. Greenow asked. " You see the inn at Shap is a
long way off for morning calls." Kate could not take
upon herself to say that there would be any harm, but

154 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

she did not like the idea of having Captain Bellfield
as a visitor. " After all, perhaps he may n't come,"
said the widow. * I don*t see where he is to raise the
money for such a journey, now that he has quarrelled
with Mr. Cheesacre."

** If Captain Bellfield must come to Vavasor Hall,
at any rate let him not come till Alice's visit has been
completed." That was Kate's present wish, and $o
much she ventured to confide to her aunt. But there
seemed to be no way of stopping him.

** I don't in the least know where he is, my dear;
and as for writing to him, I never did such a thing in
my life, and I should n't know how to begin." Mrs.
Greenow declared that she had not positively invited
the captain ; but on this point Kate hardly gave full
credit to her aunt's statement.

Alice arrived, and, for a day or two, the three ladies
lived very pleasantly together. Kate still wore her
arm in a sling; but she was able to walk out, and
would take long walks in spite of the doctor's prohi-
bition. Of course they went up on the mountains.
Indeed, all the walks from Vavasor Hall led to the
mountains, unless one chose to take the road to Shap.
But they went up, across the Beacon Hill, as though
by mutual consent. There were no questions asked
between them as to the route to be taken ; and though
they did not reach the stone on which they had once
sat looking over upon Hawes Water, they did reach
the spot upon which Kate had encountered her acci-
dent. " It was here I fell," she said ; " and the last I
saw of him was his back, as he made his way down
into the valley there. When I got upon my legs I
could still see him. It was one of those evenings

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. 1 55

when the clouds are dark, but you can see all objects
with a peculiar clearness through the air. I stood here
ever so long, holding my arm, and watching him ; but
he never once turned to look back at me. Do you
know, Alice, I fancy that I shall never see him again."
"Do you suppose that he means to quarrel with
you altogether ? " **

" I can hardly tell you what I mean ! He seemed
to me to be going away from me, as though he went
into another world. His figure against the light was
quite clear, and he walked quickly, and on he went,
till the slope of the hill hid him from me. Of course,
I thought that he would return to the Hall. At one
time I almost feared that he would come upon me
through the woods, as I went back myself. But yet, I
had a feehng, what people call a presentiment, that I
should never see him again."
"He has never written ? "

" No ; not a word. You must remember that he
did not know that I had hurt myself. I am sure he
will not write, and I am sm*e, also, that I shall not.
If he wanted money I would send it to him, but I
would not write to him."
" I fear he will always want money, Kate."
" I fear he will. If you could know what I suffered
when he made me write that letter to you! But, of
course, I was a beast. Of course, I ought not to have
written it."
" I thought it a very proper letter."
"It was a mean letter. The whole thing was mean !
He should have starved in the street before he had
taken your money. He should have given up Par-
liament, and everything else] I had doubted much

156 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

about him before, but it was that which first turned
my heart against him. I had begun to fear that he
was not such a man as I had always thought him, —
as I had spoken of him to you."

" I had judged of him for myself," said Alice.

" Of course you did. But I had endeavoured to
make you judge kindly. Alice, dear! we have both
suffered for him ; you more than I, perhaps ; but I,
too, have given up everything for him. My whole life
has been at his service. I have been his creature, to
do his bidding, just as he might tell me. He made
me do things that I knew to be TVTong, — things that
were foreign to my own nature ; and yet I almost wor-
shipped him. Even now, if he were to come back, I
believe that I should forgive him everything."

" I should forgive him, but I could never do more."

** But he will never come back. He will never ask
us to forgive him, or even wish it. He has no heart."

" He has longed for money till the devil has hard-
ened his heart," said Alice.

" And yet how tender he could be in his manner
when he chose it ! — how soft he could make his words
and his looks! Do you remember how he behaved
to us in Switzerland? Do you remember that balcony
at Basle, and the night we sat there, when the boys
were swimming down the river ? " ,

**Yes; — I remember."

" So do I ! So do I ! Alice, I would give all I
have in the world, if I could recall that journey to
Switzerland."

" If you mean for my sake, Kate "

" I do mean for your sake. It made no difference
to me. Whether I stayed in Westmoreland or went

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. 1 57

abroad, I must have found out that my god was made
of bricks and clay instead of gold. But there was no
need for you to be crushed in the ruins."

" I am not crushed, Kate ! "

"Of course you are too proud to own it."

"If you mean about Mr. Grey, that would have
happened just the same, whether I had gone abroad
or remained at home."

" Would it, dear ? "

"Just the same."

There was nothing more than this said between them
about Mr. Grey. Even to her cousin, Alice could not
bring herself to talk freely on that subject. She would
never allow herself to think, for a moment, that she
had been persuaded by others to treat him as she had
treated him. She was sure that she had acted on her
own convictions of what was right and wrong; and
now, though she had begun to feel that she had been
wrong, she would hardly confess as much even to
herself.

They walked back, down the hill, to the Hall in
silence for the greater part of the way. Once or twice
Kate repeated her conviction that she should never
again see her brother. '* I do not know what may
happen to him," she said in answer to her cousin's
questions ; " but when he was passing out of my sight,
into the valley, I felt that I was looking at him for the
last time."

"That is simply what people call a presentiment,"
Alice replied.

" Exactly so ; and presentiments, of course, mean
nothing," said Kate.

Then they walked on towards the house without

158 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

furthet speech ; but when they reached the end o^ the
little path which led out of the wood, on to the grav-
elled sweep before the front door, they were both
arrested by a sight that met their eyes. There was a
man standing, with a cigar in his mouth, before them,
swinging a little cane, and looking about him up at the
wood. He had on his head a jaunty littie straw hat,
and he wore a jacket with brass buttons, and white
trousers. It was now nearly the middle of May, but
the summer does not come to Westmoreland so early
as that, and the man, as he stood there looking about
him, seemed to be cold and almost uncomfortable.
He had not as yet seen the two girls, who stood at the
end of the walk, arrested by the sight of him. '* Who
is it? " asked Alice, in a whisper.

" Captain Bellfield," said Kate, speaking with some-
thing very like dismay in her voice.

What! Aunt Greenow's captain?"

Yes ; Aunt Greenow's captain. I have been fear-
ing this, and now, what on earth are we to do with
him? Look at him. That *s what Aunt Greenow
calls a sniff of the rocks and valleys."

The captain began to move, — just as though it
were necessary to do something to keep the life in
his limbs. He had finished his cigar, and looked
at the end of it with manifest regret. As he threw it
away among a tuft of shrubs his eye fell upon the two
ladies, and he uttered a little exclamation. Then he
came forward, waving his little straw hat in his hand,
and made his salutation. " Miss Vavasor, I am de-
lighted," he said. " Miss Alice Vavasor, if I am not
mistaken? I have been commissioned by my dear
friend Mrs. Greenow to go out and seek you, but, upon

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. 1 59

my word, the woods looked so black that I did not
dare to venture; — and then, of course, I should n't
have found you."

Kate put out her left hand, and then introduced her
cousin to the captain. Again he waved his little straw
hat, and strove to bear himself as though he were
at home and comfortable. But he failed, and it was
manifest that he failed. He was not the Bellfield who
had conquered Mr. Cheesacre on the sands at Yar-
mouth, though he wore the same jacket and waistcoat,
and must now have enjoyed the internal satisfaction of
Mng that his future maintenance in life was assured
to him. But he was not at his ease. His courage had
sufficed to enable him to follow his quarry into West-
moreland, but it did not suffice to make him comfort-
able while he was there. Kate instantly perceived his
condition, and wickedly resolved that she would make
no effort to assist him. She went through some cere-
mony of introduction, and then expressed her surprise
at seeing him so far north.

"Well," said he ; ** I am a little siuprised myself; —
lam, indeed! But I had nothing to do in Norwich,
^literally nothing ; and your aunt had so often talked
tome of the beauties of this place," — and he waved his
hand round at the old house and the dark trees, — that
1 thought I 'd take the liberty of paying you a flying
visit. I did n't mean to intrude in the way of sleep-
ing; I did n't indeed, Miss Vavasor; only Mrs. Green-
ow has been so kind as to say "

" We are so very far out of the world, Captain Bell-
field, that we always give our visitors beds."

" I did n't intend it ; I did n't indeed, miss! " Poor
Captain Bellfield was becoming very uneasy in his agi-

l6o CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

tation. " I did just put my bag, with a change of
things, into the gig which brought me over, not know-
ing quite where I might go on to."

"We won't send you any farther to-day, at any
rate," said Kate.

" Mrs. Greenow has been very kind, — ^very kind, in-
deed. She has asked me to stay till — Saturday! "

Kate bit her lips in a momentary fit of anger. The
house was her house, and not her aunt's. But she re-
membered that her aunt had been kind to her at Nor-
wich and at Yarmouth, and she allowed this feeling
to die away. " We shall be very glad to see you," she
said. ** We are three women together here, and I 'm
afraid you will find us rather dull."

** Oh dear, no, — dull with you! That would be im-
possible ! "

"And how have you left your friend, Mr. Chees-
acre? "

" Quite well ; — very well, thank you. That is to
say, I have n't seen him much lately. He and I did
have a bit of a breeze, you know."

" I can't say that 1 did know. Captain Bellfield."

" I thought, perhaps, you had heard. He seemed
to think that I was too particular in a certain quarter I
Ha — ha — ha! That 's only my joke, you know,
ladies."

They then went into the house, and the captain
straggled in after them. Mrs. Greenow was in neither
of the two sitting-rooms which they usually occupied.
She, too, had been driven somewhat out of the ordinary
composure of her manner by the arrival of her lover,
— even though she had expected it, — and had retired
to her room, thinking that she had better see Kate in

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. l6l

private before they met in the presence of the captain.
" I suppose you have seen my aunt since you have
been here? " said Kate.

" Oh dear, yes. I saw her, and she suggested that
I had better walk out and find you. I did find you,
you know, though I did n*t walk very far."

"And have you seen your room? "

"Yes ; — yes. She was kind enough to show me my
room. Very nice indeed, thank you; — ^looking out
into the front, and all that kind of thing." The poor
fellow was no doubt thinking how much better was
his lot at Vavasor Hall than it had been at Oilymead.
"I shan't stay long, Miss Vavasor, — only just a night
or so ; but I did want to see your aunt again, — and
you, too, upon my word."

" My aunt is the attraction. Captain Bellfield. We
all know that."

He actually simpered, — simpered like a young girl
who is half elated and half ashamed when her lover is
thrown in her teeth. He fidgeted with the things on
the table, and moved himself about uneasily from one
leg to the other. Perhaps he was remembering that
though he had contrived to bring himself to Vavasor
Hall he had not money enough left to take him back
to Norwich. The two girls left him and went to their
rooms. " I will go to my aunt at once," said Kate,
"and find out what is to be done."

" I suppose she means to marry him ? "

" Oh yes ; she means to marry him, and the sooner
the better now. I knew this was coming, but I did
so hope it would not be while you were here. It
makes me feel so ashamed of myself that you should
see it."

1 62 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Kate boldly knocked at her aunt's door, and her aunt
received her with a conscious smile. " I was waiting
for you to come," said Mrs. Greenow.

" Here I am, aunt ; and, what is more to the pur-
pose, there is Captain Belliield in the drawing-room."

"Stupid man! I told him to take himself away
about the place till dinner-time. I Ve half a mind to
send him back to Shap at once ; — ^upon my word, I
have."

" Don't do that, aimt ; it would be inhospitable."

" But he is such an oaf. I hope you understand, my
dear, that I could n't help it ? "

" But you do mean to — to marry him, aunt ; don't
you ? "

" Well, Kate, I really think I do. Why should n't I?
It 's a lonely sort of life being by myself ; and, upon
my word, I don't think there 's very much harm in
him."

" I am not saying anything against him ; only in that
case you can't very well turn him out of the house."

" Could not I, though? I could in a minute ; and,
if you wish it, you shall see if I can't do it."

" The rocks and valleys would not allow that, aunt."

** It 's all very well for you to laugh, my dear. If
laughing would break my bones I should n't be as
whole as I am now. I might have had Cheesacre if I
liked, who is a substantial man, and could have kept
a carriage for me ; but it was the rocks and valleys
that prevented that ; — and perhaps a little feeling that
I might do some good to a poor fellow who has no-
body in the world to look after him." Mrs. Greenow,
as she said this, put her handkerchief up to her eyes,
and wiped away the springing moisture. Tears were

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. 163

always easy with her, but on this occasion Kate almost

respected her tears.

" I 'm sure I hope you '11 be happy, aunt."

" If he makes, me unhappy he shall pay for it ;" and
Mis. Greenow, having done with her tears, shook her
heady as though upon this occasion she quite meant
all that she said.

At dinner they were not very comfortable. Either
the gloomy air of the place and the neighboiuiiood of
the black pines had depressed the captain, or else the
gl(»ious richness of the prospects before him had made
him thoughtful. He had laid aside the jacket with the
brass buttons^ and had dressed himself for dinner very
soberiy. And he behaved himself at dinner and after
dinner with a wonderful sobriety, being very unlike the
captain who bad sat at the head of the table at Mrs.
Greenow's picnic. When left to himself after dinner he
harely swallowed two glasses of the old squire's port-
^ne before he sauntered out into the garden to join
the ladies, whom he had seen there ; and when pressed
hy Kate to light a cigar he positively declined.

On the following morning Mrs. Greenow had re-
covered her composure, but Captain Bellficld was still
in a rather disturbed state of mind. He knew that his
efforts were to be crowned with success, and that he
Was sure of his wife ; but he did not know how the
preliminary difficulties were to be overcome, and he
did not know what to do with himself at the Hall.
After breakfast he fidgeted about in the parlour, being
Unable to contrive for himself a mode of escape, and
Was absolutely thrown upon his beam-ends when the
widow asked him what he meant to do with himself
between that and dinner.

164 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" I suppose I 'd better take a walk," he said ; " and
perhaps the young ladies "

" If you mean my two nieces," said Mrs. Greenow,
'' I 'm afraid you '11 find they are engaged. But if I 'm

not too old to walk with " The captain assured

her that she was just of the prefer age for a walking
companion, as far as his taste went, and then attempted
some apology for the awkwardness of his expression, at
which the three woman laughed heartily. " Never
mind, captain," said Mrs. Greenow. " We *11 have
our walk all the same, and won't mind those young
girls. Come along." Then they started, not up to-
wards the mountains, as Kate always did when she
walked in Westmoreland, but mildly, and at a gentle
pace, as beseemed their years, along the road towards
Shap. The captain poUtely opened the old gate for
the widow, and then carefully closed it again, — not
allowing it to swing, as he would have done at Yar-
mouth. Then he tripped up to his place beside her,
suggested his arm, which she declined, and walked on
for some paces in silence. What on earth was he to
say to her ? He had done his love-making successfully,
and what was he to do next ?

"Well, Captain Bellfield," said she. They were
walking very slowly, and he was cutting the weeds by
the roadside with his cane. He knew by her voice
that something special was coming, so he left the weeds
and ranged himself close up alongside of her. " Well,
Captain Bellfield, — so I suppose I 'm to be good-
natured ; am I ? "

" Arabella, you '11 make me the happiest man in the
world."

" That 's all fudge." She would have said, " all

THE ROCKS AND VALLEYS. 1 65

rocks and valleys," only he would not have under-
stood her.

" Upon my word, you will."
*' I hope I shall make you respectable? "
" Oh yes ; certainly. I quite intend that."
" It is the great thing that you should intend. Of
course I am going to make a fool of myself."
" No, no ; don't say that."

" If I don't say it, all my friends will say it for me.
It 's lucky for you that I don't much care what people
say."

" It is lucky ; — I know that I 'm lucky. The very
first day I saw you I thought what a happy fellow I
was to meet you. Then, of coiu*se, I was only thinking
of your beauty."

" Get along with you! "

" Upon my word, yes. Come, Arabella, as we are
to be man and wife, you might as well." At this
moment he had got very close to her, and had re-
covered something of his usual elasticity; but she
would not allow him even to put his arm round her
waist. " Out in the high road! " she said. " How can
you be so impertinent, — and so foolish? "
"You might as well, you know, — ^just once."
" Captain Bellfield, I brought you out here not for
such fooling as that, but in order that we might have a
little chat about business. If we are to be man and
wife, as you say, we ought to understand on what foot-
ing we are to begin together. I 'm afraid your own
private means are not considerable ? "

Well, no ; they are not, Mrs. Greenow."
Have you anything ? " The captain hesitated, and
poked the ground with his cane. " Come, Captain

l66 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Bellfield, let us have the truth at once, and then we
shall understand each other." The captain still hesi-
tated, and said nothing. " You must have had some-
thing to live upon, I suppose? " suggested the widow.
Then the captain, by degrees, told his story. He had
a married sister by whom a guinea a week was al-
lowed to him. That was all. He had been obliged to
sell out of the army, because he was imable to live on his
pay as a lieutenant. The price of his commission had
gone to pay his debts, and now, — yes, it was too true,
— ^now he was in debt again. He owed ninety pounds
to Cheesacre, thirty-two pounds ten to a tailor at Yar-
mouth, over seventeen pounds at his lodgings in Nor-
wich. At the present moment he had something under
thirty shillings in his pocket. The tailor at Yarmouth
had lent him three pounds in order that he might make
his journey into Westmoreland, and perhaps be en-
abled to pay his debts by getting a rich wife. In the
course of the cross-examination Mrs. Greenow got much
information out of him ; and then, when she was satis-
fied that she had learned, not exactly all the truth, but
certain indications of the truth, she forgave him all his
offences.

" And now you will give a fellow a kiss, — ^just one
kiss," said the ecstatic captain, in the height of his
bliss.

" Hush ! " said the widow, " there *s a carriage coming
on the road — close to us."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FIRST KISS.

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

It was a sight terrible to the eyes of Captain Bell-
field, and by no means welcome to those of Mrs.
Greenow. As regarded her, her annoyance had chiefly
reference to her two nieces, and especially to Alice.
How was she to account for this second lover ? Kate,
of course, knew all about it ; but how could Alice be
made to understand that she, Mrs. Greenow, was not
to blame, — that she had, in sober truth, told this ardent
gentleman that there was no hope for him? And even

167

1 68 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

as to Kate, — Kate, whom her aunt had absurdly chosen
to regard as the object of Mr. Cheesacre's pursuit, —
what sort of a welcome would she extend to the owner
of Oiljrmead? Before the wheels had stopped, Mrs.
Greenow had begun to reflect whether it might be pos-
sible that she should send Mr. Cheesacre back without
letting him go on to the Hall ; but if Mrs. Greenow
was dismayed, what were the feelings of the captain?
For he was aware that Cheesacre knew that of him
which he had not told. How ardently did he now
wish that he had sailed nearer to the truth in giving
in the schedule of his debts to Mrs. Greenow.

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

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

" It *s false," said Bellfield.
• *' It 's true," said Cheesacre.

" I *11 indict you for slander, my friend," said Bellfield.

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

Mrs. Greenow cared little as to her lover being a

THE FIRST KISS. 1 69

swindler in Mr. Cheesacre's estimation. Such accusa-
tions from him she had heard before. But she did care
very much as to this mission of the police against her
captain. If that were true, the captain could be her
captain no longer. " What is this I hear, Captain Bell-
field ? " she said.

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

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

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

" I '11 indict him for the libel — I will, as sure as I 'm
alive," said Bellfleld.

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

"I was going to Vavasor Hall, on purpose to cau-
tion you."

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

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

He got out of the gig, and the three walked back
towards the Hall together, while the boy drove on with
Mr. Cheesacre's carpet-bag. *' 1 hardly know," said

170 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Mrs. Greenow, " whether we can welcome you. There
are other visitors, and the house is full."

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

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

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

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

" And has he come too? " said Kate.

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

THE FIRST KISS. 171

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

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

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

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

After this he did not get away to his next subject
quite so easily as he wished ; and it must be admitted
that there was a difficulty. As he could not have Mrs.
Greenow he would be content to put up with Kate for

172 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

his wife. That was his next subject. Rumours as to
the old squire's will had no doubt reached him, and he
was now willing to take advantage of that assistance
which Mrs. Greenow had before offered him in this
matter. The time had come in which he ought to
marry ; of that he was aware. He had told many of
his friends in Norfolk that Kate Vavasor had thrown
herself at his head, and very probably he had thought
it true. In answer to all his love speeches to herself,
the aimt had always told him what an excellent wife
her niece would make him. So now he had come to
Westmoreland with this second string to his bow.
" You know you put it into my head your own self,"
pleaded Mr. Cheesacre. " Did n't you, now? "

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

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

** My niece has inherited property."

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

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

" But you always told me I might have her for the
asking."
. " And now I tell you that you may n't. It 's of no

THE FIRST KISS. 1 73

use your going on there to ask her, for she will only
send you away with an answer you won't like. Look
here, Mr. Cheesacre ; you want to get married, and it's
quite time you should. There 's my dear friend Charlie
Fairstairs. How could you get a better wife than
Charlie ? "

"Charlie Fairstairs!" said Cheesacre, turning up his
nose in disgust. " She has n*t got a penny, nor any
one belonging to her. The man who marries her will
have to find the money for the smock she stands up in."
" Who *s mercenary now, Mr. Cheesacre ? Do you
go home and think of it ; and if you '11 marry Charlie,
I '11 go to your wedding. You shan't be ashamed of
her clothing. I '11 see to that."

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

"I know there 's none. I 've heard her speak
about it."
" Somebody else, perhaps, is the happy man ? "
" I can't say anything about that, but I know that
she would n't take you. I like farming, you know,
but she does n't."

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

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

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

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

174 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

'' Then I '11 go. Perhaps you 'U be so good as to
tell the boy with the gig to come after me ? That *s
six pound ten it will have cost me to come here
and go back. Bellfield did it cheaper, of course ; he
travelled second class. I heard of him as I came
along."

" The expense does not matter to you, Mr. Chees-
acre."

To this he assented, and then took his leave, at first
offering his hand to Mrs. Greenow with an air of
offended dignity, but falling back almost into himiility
during the performance of his adieu. Before he was.
gone he had invited her to bring the captain to Oily-
mead when she was married ; and had begged her to
tell Miss Vavasor how happy he should be to receive
her.

" And Mr. Cheesacre," said the widow, as he walked
back along the road, " don't forget dear Charlie Fair-
stairs."

They were all standing at the front door of the
house when Mrs. Greenow reappeared, — Alice, Kate,
Captain Bellfield, the Shap boy, and the Shap horse
and gig.

" Where is he ? " Kate asked in a low voice, and
every one there felt how important was the question.

" He has gone," said the widow.

Bellfield was so relieved that he could not restrain
his joy, but took off his little straw hat and threw it up
into the air.

Kate's satisfaction was almost as intense. " I am so
glad," said she. '^ What on earth should we have done
with him ? "

" I never was so disappointed in my life," said Alice,

THE FIRST KISS. 1 75

"I have heard so much of Mr. Cheesacre, but have
never seen him." Kate suggested that she should get
into the gig and drive after him.

" He ain*t a been and took hisself off ? " suggested
the boy, whose face became very dismal as the terrible
idea struck him. But, with juvenile craft, he put his
hand on the carpet-bag, and finding that it did not
contain stones, was comforted.

" You drive after him, young gentleman, and you '11
find him on the road to Shap," said Mrs. Greenow.

"Mind you give him my love," said the captain in
his glee, " and say I hope he '11 get his turnips in well."
This little episode went far to break the day, and did
more than anything else could have done to put Cap-
tain Bellfield at his ease. It creat-ed a little joint-stock
ftmd of merriment between the whole party, which was
very much needed. The absence of such joint-stock
fund is always felt when a small party is thrown together
without such assistance. Some bond is necessary on
these occasions, and no other bond is so easy or so
pleasant. Now, when the captain found himself alone
for a quarter of an hour with Alice, he had plenty of
subjects for small-talk.

" Yes, indeed. Old Cheesacre, in spite of his absurd-
ities, is not a bad sort of fellow at bottom; — awfully
fond of his money, you know, Miss Vavasor, and
always boasting about it."

That 's not pleasant," said Alice.
No; the most unpleasant thing in the world.
There *s nothing I hate so much, Miss Vavasor, as that
kind of talking. My idea is this, — ^when a man has
lots of money let him make the best use he can of it,
and say nothing about it. Nobody ever heard me

176 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

talking about my money." He knew that Alice knew
that he was a pauper ; but, nevertheless, he had the
satisfaction of speaking of himself as though he were
not a pauper.

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

Upon the whole I think that she was lucky in her
choice ; or, perhaps, I might more truly say, that she
had chosen with prudence. He was no forger, or thief
— in the ordinary sense of the word ; nor was he a re-

THE FIRST KISS. 1 77

tamed convict. He was simply an idle scamp, who
had himg about the world for forty years, doing noth-
ing, without principle, shameless, accustomed to eat
dirty puddings, and to be kicked — morally kicked — by
such men as Cheesacre. But he was moderate in his
greediness, and possessed of a certain appreciation of
the comfort of a daily dinner, which might possibly
suffice to keep him from straying very wide as long as
his intended wife should be able to keep the purse-strings
altogether in her own hands. Therefore, I say that
Mrs. Greenow had been lucky in her choice, and not
altogether without prudence,

" I think of taking this house," said she, " and of liv-
ing here."

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

" Yes, in Westmoreland. Why not in Westmoreland
as well as anywhere else ? If you don't like Westmore-
land, it *s not too late yet, you know."

In answer to this the poor captain was obliged to
declare that he had no objection whatever to West-
moreland.

" I Ve been talking to my niece about it," continued
Mrs. Greenow, " and I find that such an arrangement
can be made very conveniently. The property is left
between her and her uncle, — the father of my other
niece,— and neither of them want to live here."
" But won't you be rather dull, my dear ? "
** We could go to Yarmouth, you know, in the au-
tumn." Then the captain's visage became somewhat
bright again. " And, perhaps, if you are not extrava-
gant, we could manage a month or so in London dur-

178 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

ing the winter, just to see the plays and do a little
shopping."

Then the captain's face became very bright. " That
will be delightful," said he.

"And as for being dull," said the widow, "when
people grow old they must be dull. Dancing can't go
on forever."

In answer to this, the widow's captain assured the
widow that she was not at all old ; and now, on this
occasion, that ceremony came off successfully which
had been interrupted on the Shap road by the noise of
Mr. Cheesacre's wheels.

" There goes my cap," said she. " What a goose
you are ! What will Jeannette say ? "

" Bother Jeannette," said the captain in his bliss.
** She can do another cap, and many more won't be
wanted." Then I think the ceremony was repeated.

Upon the whole the captain's visit was satisfactory
— at any rate to the captain. Everything was settled.
He was to go away on Saturday morning, and remain
in lodgings at Penrith till the wedding, which they
agreed to have celebrated at Vavasor Church. Kate
promised to be the solitary bridesmaid. There was
some talk of sending for Charlie Fairstairs, but the idea
was abandoned. " We '11 have her afterwards," said
the widow to Kate, " when you are gone, and we shall
want her more. And I '11 get Cheesacre here, and
make him marry her. There 's no good in paying for
two journeys."

The captain was to be allowed to come over from
Penrith twice a week previous to his marriage ; or per-
haps, I might more fairly say, that he was commanded
to do so. I wonder how he felt when Mrs. Greenow

THE FIRST KISS. ' 1 79

gave him his first five-pound note, and told him that
he must make it do for a fortnight ? — whether it was
all joy, or whether there was about his heart any touch
of manly regret ?

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

CHAPTER XIV.

LADY monk's plan.

On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzger-
ald disappeared ; and when the guests were gone and
the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in
vain. The old butler and factotiun of the house, who
was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and
to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point
on these occasions of his wife's triumphs, was interro-
gated by his mistress, and said that he thought Mr.
Burgo had left the house. Lady Monk herself knocked
at her nephew's door, when she went upstairs, ascend-
ing an additional flight of stairs with her weary old
limbs in order that she might do so ; she even opened
the door and saw the careless debris of his toilet about
the room. But he was gone. ** Perhaps, after all, he
has arranged it," she said to herself, as she went down
to her own room.

But Burgo, as we know, had not " arranged it." It
may be remembered thaMrhen Mr. Palliser came back
to his wife in the supn^room at Lady Monk's, bring-
ing with him the ^farf which Lady Glencora had left
upstairs, Burgo ws no longer with her. He had be-
come well awai© that he had no chance left, at any
rate for that night. The poor fool, acting upon his
aunt's implied advice rather than his own hopes, had
''^''.vu'ed a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street,

i8o

LADY monk's plan. i8i

some five minutes' walk from his aunt's house. And
be had purchased feminine wrappings, cloaks, etc. —
things that he thought might be necessary for his com-
panion. He had, too, ordered rooms at the new hotel
near the Dover Station, — the London Bridge Station,
^from whence was to start on the following morning
a train to catch the tidal boat for Boulogne. There
was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-
fiTe gmneas out of his aunt's money, not having been
able to induce the tradesman to grant it to him on
credit; and there were other things, — slippers, collars,
stockings, handkerchiefs, and what else might, as he
thought, under such circumstances be most necessary.
Poor thoughtful, thoughtless fool!

The butler was right. He did leave the house.
He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage from
some back hiding-place in the hall, and then slipped
out, unmindful of his shining boots, and dress coat and
jewelled studs. He took a Gibus hat, — ^his own, or
that of some other unfortunate, — and slowly made his
way down to the place in Bruton Street. There was
the carriage and pair of horses, all in readiness ; and
the driver, when he had placed himself by the door of
the vehicle, was not long in emerging from the neigh-
bouring public-house.

" All ready, your honour,** said the man.
" I shan't want you to-night," said Burgo hoarsely ;
— " go away."

" And about the things, your honour ? "
" Take them to the devil. No ; stop. Take them
back with you ; and ask somebody to keep them till I
send for them. I shall want them and another car-
riage in a day or two." Then he gave the man half a

l82 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

sovereign, and went away, not looking at the little
treasures which he had spent so much of his money in
selecting for his love. When he was gone, the water-
man and the driver turned them over with careful
hands and gloating eyes.

" It *s a 'eiress, I '11 go bail," said the waterman.

" Pretty dear! I suppose her parints was too many
for her," said the driver. But neither of them imagined
the enormity which the hirer of the chaise had in truth
contemplated.

Burgo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor
Square, and from thence down Park Street, and through
a narrow passage and a mews which there are in those
parts, into Park Lane. He had now passed the posi-
tion of Mr. Palliser*s house, having come out on Park
Lane at a spot nearer to Piccadilly ; but he retraced
his steps, walking along by the rails of the Park, till he
found himself opposite to the house. Then he stood
there, leaning back upon the railings, and looking up
at Lady Glencora's windows. What did he expect to
see ? Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind
which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow
that is made by the one loved object, — that may be
made by her, or, by some violent conjectiure of the
mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such
love as that is, I think, always innocent. Burgo Fitz-
gerald did not love like that. I almost doubt whether
he can be said to have loved at all. There was in his
breast a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble
to analyse. He wanted money. He wanted the thing
of which this Palliser had robbed him. He wanted
revenge, though his desire for that was not a burn-
ing desire. And among other things, he wanted the

LADY monk's plan. 1 83

woman's beauty of the woman whom he coveted. He
wanted to kiss her again as he had once kissed her,
and to feel that she was soft, and lovely, and loving
for him. But as for seeing her shadow, unless its
movement indicated some purpose in his favour, — I do
not think that he cared much about that.

And why then was he there ? Because in his un-
reasoning folly he did not know what step to take, or
what step not to take. There are men whose energies
hardly ever carry them beyond looking for the thing
they want. She might see him from the window, and
come to him. I do not say that he thought that it
would be so. I fancy that he never thought at all
about that or about anything. If you lie under a tree,
and open your mouth, a plum may fall into it. It
was probably an undefined idea of some such chance
as this which brought him against the railings in the
front of Mr. Palliser's house ; that, and a feeling made
up partly of despair and partly of lingering romance
that he was better there, out . in the night air, under
the gas-lamps, than he could be elsewhere. There he
stood and looked, and cursed his ill-luck. But his
curses had none of the bitterness of those which
George Vavasor was always uttering. Through it all
there remained about Burgo one honest feeling, — one
conviction that was true, — a feeling that it all served
him right, and that he had better, perhaps, go to the
devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble. If
he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate any one ;
and whenever he made any self-inquiry into his own
circumstances, he always told himself that it was all his
own fault. When he cursed his fate, he only did so
because cursing is so easy. George Vavasor would

184 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

have groutid his victims up to powder if he knew how ;
but Burgo Fitzgerald desired to hurt no one.

There he stood till he was cold, and then, as the
plum did not drop into his mouth, he moved on. He
went up into Oxford Street, and walked along it the
whole distance to the comer of Bond Street, passing
by Grosvenor Square, to which he intended to return.
At the comer of Bond Street, a girl took hold of himi
and looked up into his face.

"Ah! " she said, " I saw you once before."

" Then you saw the most miserable devil alive^" said
Burgo.

"You can't be miserable," said the girl. "What
makes you miserable ? You Ve plenty of money."

" I wish I had," said Burgo.

And plenty to eat and drink," exclaimed the girl ;
and you are so handsome! I remember you. You
gave me supper one night when I was starving. I
ain*t hungry now. Will you give me a kiss ? "

" I *11 give you a shilling, and that 's better," said
Burgo.

" But give me a kiss too," said the girl. He gave
her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and after that
he left her and passed on.

" I 'm d d if I would n't change with her! " he

said to himself.

" I wonder whether anything really ails him ? "
thought the girl. " He said he was wretched before.
Should n't I like to be good to such a one as him! "

Burgo went on, and made his way into the house in
Grosvenor Square, by some means probably unknown
to his aunt, and certainly unknown to his uncle. He
emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted

LADY monk's plan. 1 85

a FoU of notes which he had kept in one of them.
There were still a hundred and thirty pounds left.
Lady Glencora had promised that she would see him
again. She had said as much as that quite distinctly.
But what use would there be in that if all his money
should then be gone ? He knew that the keeping of
money in his pocket was to him quite an impossibility.
Then he thought of his aunt What should he say to
his aimt if he saw her in the course of the coming
day ? Might it not be as well (or him to avoid his
aunt altogether ?

He breakfasted upstairs in his bedroom, — ^in his bed,
indeed, eating a small pit6 de foie gras from the sup-
per-table, as he read a French novel. There he was
still reading his French novel in bed when his aunt's
maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see
him before she went out.

"Tell me, Lucy," said he, "how is the old girl ? "

"She *s as cross as cross, Mr. Burgo. Indeed, I
shan't ; — not a minute longer. Don't, now ; will you ?
I tell you she 's waiting for me." From which it may
be seen that Lucy shared the general feminine feeling
in favour of poor Burgo.

Thus summoned, Burgo applied himself to his toilet ;
but as he did so, he recruited his energies from time to
time by a few pages of the French novel, and also by
small doses from a bottle of cura9oa which he had in
his bedroom. He was utterly a pauper. There was
no pauper poorer than he in London that day. But,
nevertheless, he breakfasted on pat6 de foie gras and
cura9oa, and regarded those dainties very much as
other men regard bread and cheese and beer.

But though he was dressing at the summons of his

1 86 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

aunt, he had by no means made up his mind that he
would go to her. Why should he go to her? What
good would it do him? She would not give him more
money. She would only scold him for his misconduct
She might, perhaps, turn him out of the house if he did
not obey her, — or attempt to do so ; but she would be
much more likely to do this when he had made her
angry by contradicting her. In neither case would he
leave the house, even though its further use were posi-
tively forbidden him, because his remaining there was
convenient ; but as he could gain nothing by seeing
" the old girl," as he had called her, he resolved to es-
cape to his club without attending to her summons.

But his aunt, who was a better general than he, out-
manceuvred him. He crept down the back stairs;
but as he could not quite condescend to escape through
the area, he was forced to emerge upon the hall, and
here his aunt pounced upon him, coming out of the
breakfast-parlour. " Did not Lucy tell you that I
wanted to see you? " Lady Monk asked, with severity
in her voice.

Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going
out just to have his hair washed and brushed. He
would have been back in twenty minutes. There was
no energy about the poor fellow, unless, perhaps, when
he was hunting ; but he possessed a readiness which
enabled him to lie at a moment's notice with the most
perfect ease. Lady Monk did not believe him ; but she
could not confute him, and therefore she let the lie pass.

'' Never mind your hair now," she said. " I want
to speak to you. Come in here for a few minutes."

As there was no way of escape left to him, he fol-
owed his aunt into the breakfast-parlour.

LADY monk's plan. 1 87

" Burgo," she said, when she had seated herself, and
had made him sit in a chair opposite to her, " I don't
think you will ever do any good."
I don't much think I shall, aunt."
What do you mean, then, to do with yourself? "

"Oh, — I don't know. I have n't thought much
about it."

" You can't stay here in this house. Sir Cosmo was
speaking to me about you only yesterday morning."

" I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade,
if Sir Cosmo likes it better; — that is, when the season
is a little more through."

** He won't have you at Monkshade. He won't let
you go there again. And he won't have you here.
You know that you are turning what I say into joke."

" No, indeed, atint."

" Yes, you are ; — you know you are. You are the
most ungrateful, heartless creature 1 ever met. You
must make up your mind to leave this house at once."

" Where does Sir Cosmo mean that I should go,
then ? "

" To the workhouse, if you like. He does n't care."

" I don't suppose he does ; — the least in the world,"
said Burgo, opening his eyes, and stretching his nostrils,
and looking into his aunt's face as though he had great
ground for indignation.

But the turning of Burgo out of the house was not
Lady Monk's immediate purpose. She knew that he
would hang on there till the season was over. After
that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he
should have succeeded in a certain enterprise. She
had now caught him in order that she might learn
whether there was any possible remaining chance of

1 88 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

success as to that enterprise. So she received hfa in-
dignation in silence, and began upon another subject
" What a fool you made of yourself last night, Burgo ! "

" Did I? — more of a fool than usual? "

" I believe that you will never be serious about any-
thing. Why did you go on waltzing in that way when
every pair of eyes in the room was watching you ? "

" I could n't help going on, if she liked it." '

" Oh yes ; — say it was her fault That 's so Mke a
man!"

" Look here, aunt ; I *m not going to sit here and
be abused. I could n't take her in my arms, and fly
away with her out of a crowd."

Who wants you to fly away with her ? "

For the matter of that, I suppose that you do."

No, I don't"

" Well, then, I do."

" You ! you have n't spirit to do that, or anything
else. You are like a child that is just able to amuse
itself for the moment, and never can think of anything
further. You simply disgraced yourself last night, and
me too, — and her; but, of coiurse, you care nothing
about that."

" I had a plan all ready ; — only he came back."

" Of course he came back. Of course he came back,
when they sent him word how you and she were going
on. And now he will have forgiven her, and after
that, of course, the thing will be all over."

** I tell you what, aunt ; she would go if she knew
how. When I was forced to leave her last night, she
promised to see me again. And as for being idle, and
not doing anything; — why, I was out in Park Lane
last night, after you were in bed."

ft
ft
ft

LADY monk's plan. 189

"What good did that do ? **

"It did n*t do any good, as it happened. But a
fellow can only try. I believe, after all, it would be
easier down in the country, — especially now that he
has taken it into his head to look after her."

Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then
she said in a low voice, ** What did she say to you when
you were parting ? What were her exact words ? " She,
at any rate, was not deficient in energy. She was
anxious enough to see her purpose accomplished. She
would have conducted the matter with discretion, if
the running away with Mr. Palliser*s wife could, in
very fact, have been done by herself.

" She said she would see me again. She promised
it twice."

" And was that all ? "

" What could she say more, when she was forced to
go away?"

"Had she said that she would go with you? "

" I had asked her, — ^half-a-dozen times, and she did
not once refuse. I know she means it, if she knew
how to get away. She hates him ; — I *m sure of it.
A woman, you know, would n*t absolutely say that
she would go, till she was gone."

" If she really meant it, she would tell you."

" I don't think she could have told me plainer. She
said she would see me again. She said that twice
over."

Again Lady Monk sat silent. She had a plan in
her head, — a plan that might, as she thought, give to
her nephew one more chance. But she hesitated be-
fore she could bring herself to explain it in detail. At
first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction

IQO CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

of Mr. Palliser's wife, but in lending it had said no
word upon the subject. During the last season she
had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house
in London, and had taken care that Burgo should
meet her there. Then a hint or two had been spoken,
and Lady Glencora had been asked to Monkshade.
Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to Monkshade,
and Lady Monk had then been baffled. But she did
not therefore give up the game. Having now thought
of it so much, she began to speak of it more boldly,
and had procured money for her nephew that he might
thereby be enabled to carry off the woman. But
though this had been well understood between them,
though words had been spoken which were sufficiently
explicit, the plan had not been openly discussed. Lady
Monk had known nothing of the mode in which Lady
Glencora was to have been carried off after her party,
nor whither she was to have been taken. But now, —
now she must arrange it herself, and have a scheme
of her own, or else the thing must fail absolutely.
Even she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to
her nephew on such a subject. What if he should be
false to her, and tell of her ? But when a woman has
made such schemes, nothing distresses her so sadly as
their failure. She would risk all rather than that Mr.
Palliser should keep his wife.

" I will try and help you," she said at last, speaking
hoarsely, almost in a whisper, *'if you have courage
to make an attempt yourself." .

" Courage! " said he. " What is it you think I am
afraid of ? Mr. Palliser ? I 'd fight him, — or all the
Pallisers, one after another, if it would do any good."

** Fighting! There 's no fighting wanted, as you

LADY monk's plan. I9I

know well enough. Men don't fight now-a-days.
Look here ! If you can get her to call here some day,
—say on Thursday, at three o'clock, — I will be here
to receive her; and instead of going back into her
carriage, you can have a cab for her somewhere near.
She can come, as it were, to make a morning call."

"A cab!"

" Yes ; a cab won't kill her, and it is less easily fol-
lowed than a carriage."

"And where shall we go ? "

"There is a train to Southampton at four, and the
boat sails for Jersey at half -past six ; you will be in
Jersey the next morning, and there is a boat goes on
to St. Malo, almost at once. You can go direct from
one boat to the other, — that is, if she has strength and
courage." After* that, who will say that Lady Monk
was not a devoted aunt ?

"That would do excellently well," said the enrap-
tured Burgo.

" She will have a difficulty in getting away from me,
out of the house. Of course I shall say nothing about-
it, and shall know nothing about it. She had better
tell her coachman to drive somewhere to pick some
one up, and to return ; — out somewhere to Tyburnia,
or down to Pimlico. • Then she can leave me, and go
out on foot, to where you have the cab. She can tell
the hall-porter that she will walk to her carriage. Do
you understand? "

Burgo declared that he did understand.

" You must call on her, and make your way in, and
see her, and arrange all this. It must be a Thursday,
because of the boats." Then she made inquiry about
his money, and took from him the notes which he

192 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

had, promising to return them, with something added,
on the Thursday morning ; but he asked, with a little
whine, for a five-pound note, and got it. Burgo then
told her about the traveUing-bags and the stockings,
and they were quite pleasant and confidential. " Bid
her come in a stout travelling-dress," said Lady Monk.
" She can wear some lace or something over it, so that
the servants won't observe it. I will take no notice
of it." Was there ever such an aunt?

After this, Burgo left his aunt, and went away to his
club, in a state of most happy excitement

CHAPTER XV.

THE LAST KISS.

Alice, on her return from Westmoreland, went direct
to Park Lane, whither Lady Glencora and Mr. Palliser
had also returned before her. She was to remain with
them in London one entire day, and on the morning
after that they were to start for Paris. She found Mr.
Palliser in close attendance upon his wife. Not that
there was anything in his manner which at all implied
that he was keeping watch over her, or that he was
more with her, or closer to her than a loving husband
might wish to be with a young wife ; but the mode of
life was very different from that which Alice had seen
at Matching Priory!

On her arrival Mr. Palliser himself received her in
the hall, and took her up to his wife before she had
taken off her travelling-hat. ** We are so much obliged
to you, Miss Vavasor," he said. " I feel it quite as
deeply as Glencora."

" Oh no," she said ; " it is I that am under obliga-
tion to you for taking me."

He merely smiled, and shook his head, and then
took her upstairs. On the stairs he said one other
Word to her : " You must forgive me if I was cross to
you that night she went out among the ruins." Alice
muttered something, — some little fib of courtesy as to
the matter having been forgotten, or never borne in
mind ; and then they went on to Lady Glencora's room.

193

194 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

It seemed to Alice that he was not so big or so much
to be dreaded as when she had seen him at Matching.
His descent from an expectant, or more than an ex-
pectant, Chancellor of the Exchequer, down to a sim-
ple, attentive husband, seemed to affect his gait, his
voice, and all his demeanour. When he received
Alice at the Priory he certainly loomed before her as
something great, whereas now his greatness seemed to
have fallen from him. We must own that this was
hard upon him, seeing that the deed by which he had
divested himself of his greatness had been so pure and
good!

" Dear Alice, this is so good of you! I am all in
the midst of packing, and Plantagenet is helping me."
Plantagenet winced a little under this, as the hero of
old must have winced when he was found with the
distaff. Mr. Palliser had relinquished his sword of
state for the distaff which he had assumed, and could
take no glory in the change. There was, too, in his
wife's voice the slightest hint of mockery, which, slight
as it was, he perhaps thought she might have spared.
" You have nothing left to pack," continued Glencora,
"and I don't know what you can do to amuse yourself."

" I will help you," said Alice.

" But we have so very nearly done. I think we
shall have to pull all the things out, and put them up
again, or we shall never get through to-morrow. We
could n't start to-morrow ; — could we, Plantagenet ? "

" Not very well, as your rooms are ordered in Paris
for the next day."

" As if we could n't find rooms at every inn on the
road. Men are so particular. Now in travelling I
should like never to order rooms, — never to know

THE LAST KISS. 1 95

where I was going or when I was going, and to carry
everything I wanted in a market-basket." Alice, who
by this time had followed her friend along the passage
to her bedroom, and had seen how widely the pack-
ages were spread about, bethought herself that the
market-basket should be a large one. "And I would
never travel among Christians. Christians are so slow,
and they wear chimney-pot hats everywhere. The
further one goes from London among Christians, the
more they wear chimney-pot hats. I want Plantag-
enet to take us to see the Kurds, but he won't.*'

" I don't think that would be fair to Miss Vavasor,"
said Mr. Palliser, who had followed them.

"Don't put the blame on her head," said Lady
Glencora. " Women have always pluck for anything.
Would n't you like to see a live Kurd, Alice ? "

" I don't exactly know where they live," said Alice.

"Nor I. I have not the remotest idea of the way
to the Kurds. You see my joke, don't you, though
Plantagenet does n't? But one knows that they are
Eastern, and the East is such a grand ideal "

"I think we '11 content ourselves with Rome, or per-
haps Naples, on this occasion," said Mr. Palliser.

The notion of Lady Glencora packing anything for
herself was as good a joke as that other one of the
Kurds and whey. But she went flitting about from
room to room, declaring that this thing must be taken,
and that other, till the market-basket would have be-
come very large indeed. Alice was astonished at the
extent of the preparations, and the sort of ecjuipage
with which thev were about to travel. Lady Clencora
was taking her own carriage. " Not that I shall ever
use it," she said to Alice, " but he insists upon it, to

196 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

show that I am not supposed to be taken away in dis-
grace. He is so good ; — is n't he? "

" Very good," said Alice. ** I know no one better."

"And so dull! " said Lady Glencora. " But I fancy
that all husbands are dull from the nature of their posi-
tion. If I were a young woman's husband, I should n't
know what to say to her that was n't dull."

Two women and two men servants were to be taken.
Alice had received permission to bring her own maid
— ** or a dozen, if you want them," Lady Glencora had
said. *' Mr. Palliser in his present mood would think
nothing too much to do for you. If you were to ask
him to go among the Kurds, he 'd go at once ; — or
on to Crim Tartary, if you made a point of it." But
as both Lady Glencora's servants spoke French, and
as her own did not, Alice trusted herself in that re-
spect to her cousin. " You shall have one all to your-
self," said Lady Glencora. " I only take two for the
same reason that I take the carriage, — ^just as you let
a child go out in her best frock, for a treat, after you 've
scolded her."

When Alice asked why it was supposed that Mr.
Palliser was so specially devoted to her, the thing was
explained to her. " You see, my dear, I have told
him everything. I always do tell everything. No-
body can say I am not candid. He knows about your
not letting me come to your house in the old days.
Oh, Alice ! — you were wrong then ; I shall always say
that. But it 's done and gone ; and things that are
done and gone shall be done and gone for me. And
I told him all that you said, — about you know what.
I have had nothing else to do but make confessions
^or the last ten days, and when a woman once begins,

THE LAST KISS. I97

the more she confesses the better. And I told him
that you refused Jeffrey."

"Youdidn^t?"

" I did indeed, and he likes you the better for that.
I think he *d let Jeffrey marry you now if you both
wished it; — and then, oh dear! — supposing that you
had a son and that we adopted it? "

"Cora, if you go on in that way I will not remain
with you."

"But you must, my dear. You can't escape now.
At any rate, you can't when we once get to Paris.
Oh dear! you should n't grudge me my little naughti-
nesses. I have been so proper for the last ten days.
Do you know, I got into a way of driving Dandy
and Flirt at the rate of six miles an hour, till I 'm sure
the poor beasts thought they were always going to a
funeral. Poor Dandy and poor Flirt! I shan't see
them now for another year."

On the following morning they breakfasted early,
because Mr. Palliser had got into an early habit. He
had said that early hours would be good for them.
" But he never tells me why," said Lady Glencora.

" I think it is pleasant when people are travelling,"
said Alice.

" It is n't that," her cousin answered ; " but we are
all to be such particularly good children. It 's hardly
fair, because he went to sleep last night after dinner
while you and Ikept ourselves awake ; but we need n't
do that another night, to be sure."

After breakfast they all three went to work to do
nothing. It was ludicrous and almost painful to see
Mr. Palliser wandering about and counting the boxes,
as though he could do any good by that. At this

198 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

special crisis of his life he hated his papers and figures
and statistics, and could not apply himself to them.
He, whose application had been so unremitting, could
apply himself now to nothing. His world had been
brought to an abrupt end, and he was awkward at
making a new beginning. I believe that they all
three were reading novels before one o'clock. Lady
Glencora and Alice had determined that they would
not leave the house throughout the day. " Nothing
has been said about it, but I regard it as part of the
bond that I 'm not to go out anywhere. Who knows
but what I might be found in Gloucester Square ? "
There was, however, no absolute necessity that Mr.
Palliser should remain with them ; and, at about three,
he prepared himself for a solitary walk. He would
not go down to the House. All interest in the House
was over with him for the present. He had the
Speaker's leave to absent himself for the season. Nor
would he call on any one. All his friends knew, or
believed they knew, that he had left town. His death
and burial had been already chronicled, and were he
now to reappear, he could reappear only as a ghost.
He was being talked of as the departed one ; — or
rather, such talk on all sides had now come nearly to
an end. The poor Duke of St. Bungay still thought
of him with regret when more than ordinarily annoyed
by some special grievance coming to him from Mr.
Finespun ; but even the Duke had become almost
reconciled to the present order of things. Mr. Palliser
knew better than to disturb all this by showing himself
again in public ; and prepared himself, therefore, to
take another walk under the elms in Kensington Gar-
dens.

THE LAST KISS. 1 99

He had his hat on his head in the hall, and was in
the act of putting on his gloves, when there came a
knock at the front door. . The hall-porter was there, a
stout, plethoric personage, not given to many words,
who was at this moment standing with his master's
umbrella in his hand, looking as though he would fain
be of some use to somebody, if any such utility were
compatible with the purposes of his existetfce. Now
had come this knock at the door, while the umbrella
was still in his hand, and the nature of his visage
changed, and it was easy to see thajt he was oppressed
by the temporary multiplicity of ?his duties. " Give
me the umbrella, John," said Mrf^'talliser.

John gave up the umbrella, aiid opening the door
disclosed Burgo Fitzgerald stai^f|Bg upon the door-
step. C^--'

" Is Lady Glencora at home f '^asfcpd Burgo, before
he had seen the husband.

John turned a dismayed face upon his master, as
though he knew that the comer ought not to be mak-
ing a morning call at that house, — as no doub^he did
know very well, — and made no instant Tepif^ 1*^^

*'I am not sure," said Mr. Palliser, makink. his wky
out as he had originally purposed. " The sewaxflKwill
find out for you." Then he went on his way across
Park Lane and into the Park, never once turning back
his face to see whether Burgo had effected an entrance
into the house. Nor did he return a minute earlier
than he would otherwise have done. After all, there
was something chivalrous about the man.

" Yes ; Lady Glencora was at home," said the
porter, not stirring to make any further inquiry. It
was no business of his if Mr. Palliser chose to receive

*«

200 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

such a guest. He had not been desired to say that
her ladyship was not at home. Burgo was therefore
admitted and shown direct up into the room in which
Lady Glencora was sitting. As chance would have it,
she was alone. Alice had left her and was in her own
chamber, and Lady Glencora was sitting at the window
of the small room upstairs that overlooked the Park.
She was seated on a footstool with her face between
her hands when Burgo was admitted, thinking of him,
and of what the world might have been to her had
" they left her alone," as she was in the habit of saying
to Alice and to herself.

She rose quickly, so that he saw her only as she was
rising. " Ask Miss Vavasor to come to me," she said,
as the servant left.-Ae room ; and then she came for-
ward to greet heif Ic

" Cora," he said, dashing at once into his subject —
hopelessly, but still with a resolve to do as he had said
that he would do. " Cora, I have come to you, to ask
you to go with me."

" I will not go with you," said she»

"Do not answer me in that way, without a moment's
thought. Everything is arranged "

*' Yes, everything is arranged," she said. " Mr. Fitz-
gerald, let me ask you to leave me alone, and to behave
to me with generosity. Everything is arranged. You
can see that my boxes are all prepared for going. Mr.
Palliser and I, and my friend, are starting to-morrow.
Wish mft God-speed and go, and be generous."

" And is this to be the end of everything? " He was
standing close to her, but hitherto he had only touched
her hand at greeting her. " Give me your hand, Cora,"
he said.

THE LAST KISS. 201

" No ; — I will never give you my hand again. You
should be generous to me and go. This is to be the
end of everything, — of everything that is common to
you and to me. Go when I ask you."

"Cora; did you ever love me? "

" Yes ; I did love you. But we were separated, and
there was no room for love left between us."

" You are as dear to me now, — dearer than ever you
were. Do not look at me like that. Did you not tell
me when we last parted that I might come to you
again? Are we children, that others should come
between us and separate us hke that? "

" Yes, Burgo ; we are children. Here is my cousin
coming. You must leave me now." As she spoke
the door was opened and Alice entered the room.
" Miss Vavasor, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Lady Glencora.
" I have told him to go and leave me. Now that you
have come, Alice, he will perhaps obey me."

Alice was dumfounded, and knew not how to
speak either to him or to her ; but she stood with her
eyes riveted on the face of the man of whom she had
heard so much. Yes ; certainly he was very beautiful.
She had never before seen man's beauty such as that.
She found it quite impossible to speak a word to him
then — at the spur of the moment, but she acknowl-
edged the introduction with a slight inclination of the
head, and then stood silent, as though she were waiting
for him to go.

'* Mr. Fitzgerald, why do you not leave me and
go ? " said Lady Glencora.

Poor Burgo also found it difficult enough to speak.
What could he say? His cause was one which cer-
tainly did not admit of being pleaded in the presence

202 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

of a Strange lady ; and he might have known from the
moment in which he heard Glencora's request that a
third person should be summoned to their meeting —
and probably did know, that there was no longer any
hope for him. It was not on the cards that he should
win. But there remained one thing that he must do.
He must get himself out of that room ; and how was
he to effect that?

*' I had hoped," said he, looking at Alice, though he
addressed Lady Glencora — *' I had hoped to be allowed
to speak to you alone for a few minutes."

"No, Mr. Fitzgerald ; it cannot be so. Alice, do
not go. I sent for my cousin when I saw you, because
I did not choose to be alone with you. I have asked
you to go "

" You perhaps have not understood me ? "

" I understand you well enough."

" Then, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Alice, " why do you
not do as Lady Glencora has asked you ? You know
— you must know, that you ought not to be here."

" I know nothing of the kind," said he, still standing
his ground.

"Alice," said Lady Glencora, "we will leave Mr.
Fitzgerald here, since he drives us from the room."

In such contests, a woman has ever the best of it at
all points. The man plays with a button to his foil,
while the woman uses a weapon that can really wound.
Burgo knew that he must go, — felt that he must skulk
away as best he might, and perhaps hear a low titter
of half-suppressed laughter as he went. Even that
might be possible. " No, Lady Glencora," he said, " I
will not drive you from the room. As one must be
driven out, it shall be I. I own I did think that you

THE LAST KISS. 203

would at any fate have been — less hard to me." He
then turned to go, bowing again very slightly to Miss
Vavasor.

He was on the threshold of the door before Glen-
cora's voice recalled him. "Oh my God!" she said,
" I am hard, — harder than flint. I am cruel, Bm^go ! "
And he was back with her in a moment, and had taken
her by the hand.

*' Glencora," said Alice, " pray, — pray let him go.
Mr. Fitzgerald, if you are a man, do not take advan-
tage of her folly."

** I will speak to him," said Lady Glencora. " I
will speak to him, and then he shall leave me." She
was holding him by the hand now and turning to
him, away from Alice, who had taken her by the arm.
" Burgo," she said, repeating his name twice again, with
all the passion that she could throw into the word, —
" Burgo, no good can come of this. Now, you must
leave me. You must go. I shall stay with my hus-
band as I am bound to do. Because I have wronged
you, I will not wrong him also. I loved you ; — you
know I loved you." She still held him by the hand,
and was now gazing up into his face, while the tears
were streaming from her eyes.

" Sir," said Alice, " you have heard from her all that
you can care to hear. If you have any feeling of hon-
our in you, you will leave her."

" I will never leave her, while she tells me that she
loves me! "

"Yes, Burgo, you will;— you must! I shall never
tell you that again, never. Do as she bids you. Go,
and leave us; — but I could not bear that you should
tell me that I was hard."

204 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

•' You are hard ; — ^hard and cruel, as you said your-
self."

"Am I? May God forgive you for saying that
of me!"

" Then why do you send me away? "

" Because I am a man's wife, and because I care for
his honour, if not for my own. Alice, let us go."

He still held her, but she would have been gone
from him had he not stooped over her, and put his
arm round her waist. In doing this, I doubt whether
he was quicker than she would have been had she chosen
to resist him. As it was, he pressed her to his bosom,
and, stooping over her, kissed her lips. Then he left
her, and making his way out of the room, and down
the stairs, got himself out into the street.

" Thank God that he is gone ! " said Alice.

" You may say so," said Lady Glencora, " for you
have lost nothing! "

" And you have gained everything! "

'* Have I ? I did not know that I had ever gained
anything, as yet. The only human being to whom I
have ever yet given my whole heart, — the only thing
that I have ever really loved, has just gone from me
forever, and you bid me thank God that I have lost
him. There is no room for thankfulness in any of it ;
— either in the love or in the loss. It is all wretched-
ness from first to last ! "

" At any rate, he understands now that you meant it
when you told him to leave you."

'' Of course I meant it. I am beginning to know
myself by degrees. As for running away with him, I
have not the courage to do it. I can think of it, scheme
for it, wish for it ; — but as for doing it, that is beyond

THE LAST KISS. 20$

me. Mr. PalHser is quite safe. He need not try to

coax me to remain."
Alice knew that it was useless to argue with her, so

she came and sat over her, — for Lady Glencora had

again placed herself on the stool by the window, — and

tried to soothe her by smoothing her hair, and nursing

her like a child.
" Of course I know that I ought to stay where I

am," she said, breaking out, almost with rage, and
speaking with quick, eager voice. " I am not such a
fool as to mistake what I should be if I left my hus-
band, and went to hve with that man as his mistress.
You don't suppose that I should think that sort of
life very blessed. But why have I been brought to
such a pass as this? And as for female purity! Ah!
What was their idea of purity when they forced me,
like ogres, to marry a man for whom they knew I
never cared ? Had I gone with him, — had I now
eloped with that man who ought to have been my hus-
band, — whom would a just God have punished worst,
— me, or those two old women and my uncle, who tor-
tured me into this marriage ? "
" Come, Cora, — be silent."

" I won't be silent ! You have had the making of
your own lot. You have done what you liked, and no
one has interfered with you. You have suffered, too ;
but you, at any rate, can respect yourself."
And so can you, Cora, — thoroughly, now."
How? — when he kissed me, and I could hardly
restrain myself from giving him back his kiss tenfold,
could I respect myself ? But it is all sin. I sin to-
wards my husband, feigning that I love him ; and I
sin in loving that other man, who should have been my

206 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

husband. There; — I hear Mr. Palliser at the door.
Come away with me ; or rather, stay, for he will come
up here, and you can keep him in talk while I try to
recover myself."

Mr. Palliser did at once as his wife had said, and
came upstairs to the little front room, as soon as he
had deposited his hat in the hall. Alice was, in fact,
in doubt what she should do, as to mentioning, or
omitting to mention, Mr. Fitzgerald's name. In an
ordinary way, it would be natural that she should name
any visitor who had called, and she specially disliked
the idea of remaining silent because that visitor had
come as the lover of her host's wife. But, on the other
hand, she owed much to Lady Glencora ; and there
was no imperative reason, as things had gone, why she
should make mischief. There was no further danger
to be apprehended. But Mr. Palliser at once put an
end to her doubts. " You have had a visitor here? "
said he.

" Yes," said Alice.

" I saw him as I went out," said Mr. Palliser. " In-
deed, I met him at the hall door. He, of course, was
wrong to come here ; — so wrong, that he deserves
punishment, if there were any punishment for such
offences."

"He has been punished, I think," said Alice.

" But as for Glencora," continued Mr. Palliser, with-
out any apparent notice of what Alice had said, ** I
thought it better that she should see him or not, as she
should herself decide."

" She had no choice in the matter. As it turned out,
he was shown up here at once. She sent for me, and
I think she was right to do that."

THE LAST KISS. 207

"Glencora was alone when he came in? "
"For a minute or two, — till I could get to her."
" I have no questions to ask about it," said Mr. Pal-
liser, after waiting for a few moments. He had prob-
ably thought that AHce would say something further.
"I am very glad that you were within reach of her, as
otherwise her position might have been painful. For
her, and for me, perhaps, it may be as well that he has
been here. As for him, I can only say that I am
forced to suppose him to be a villain. What a man
does when driven by passion, I can forgive ; but that
he should deliberately plan schemes to ruin both her
and me, is what I can hardly understand." As he
made this little speech I wonder whether his conscience
said anything to him about Lady Dumbello, and a cer-
tain evening in his own life, on which he had ventured
to call that lady Griselda.

The little party of three dined together very quietly,
and after dinner they all went to work with their novels.
Before long Alice saw that Mr. Palliser was yawning,
and she began to understand how much he had given
up in order that his wife might be secure. It was then,
when he had left the room for a few minutes, in order
that he might wake himself by walking about the house,
that Glencora told Alice of his yawning down at Match-
ing. ** I used to think that he would fall in pieces.
What are we to do about it ? "

" Don't seem to notice it," said Alice.
" That 's all very well," said the other ; " but he '11
set us off yawning as bad as himself, and then he '11
notice it. He has given himself up to politics, till noth-
ing else has any salt in it left for him. I cannot think
why such a man as that wanted a wife at all."

208 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

*' You are very hard upon him, Cora."

'* I wish you were his wife, with all my heart. But,
of course, I know why he got married. And I ought
to feel for him, as he has been so grievously disap-
pointed.'* Then Mr. Palliser, having walked off his
sleep, returned to the room, and the remainder of the
evening was passed in absolute tranquillity.

Burgo Fitzgerald, when he left the house, turned
back into Grosvenor Square, not knowing, at first,
whither he was going. He took himself as far as his
uncle's door, and then, having paused there for a mo-
ment, hurried on. For half an hour, or thereabouts,
something like true feeling was at work within his heart.
He had orjce more pressed to his bosom the woman
he had, at any rate, thought that he had loved. He
had had his arm round her, and had kissed her, and
the tone with which she had called him by his name
was still ringing in his ears, "Burgo!" He repeated
his own name audibly to himself, as though in this way
he could recall her voice. He comforted himself for
a minute with the conviction that she loved him. He
felt, — for a moment, — that he could live on such con-
solation as that! But among mortals there could, in
truth, hardly be one with whom such consolation would
go a shorter way. He was a man who required to
have such comfort backed by pit^s and cura^oa to a
very large extent, and now it might be doubted whether
the amount of pdtes and cura^oa at his command would
last him much longer.

He would not go in and tell his aunt at once of his
failure, as he could gain nothing by doing so. In-
deed, he thought that he would not tell his aunt at all.
So he turned back from Grosvenor Square, and went

THE LAST KISS. 209

down to his club in St. James's Street, feeling that bill-
iards and brandy and water might, for the present, be
the best restorative. But, as he went back, he blamed
himself very greatly in the matter of those bank-notes
which he had allowed Lady Monk to take from him.
How had it come to pass that he had been such a
dupe in her hands ? When he entered his club in St.
James's Street his mind had left Lady Glencora, and
was hard at work considering how he might best con-
trive to get that spoil out of his aunt's possession.

CHAPTER XVI.

FROM LONDON TO BADEN.

On the following morning everybody was stirring
betimes at Mr. Palliser's house in Park Lane, and the
master of that house yawned no more. There is some
life in starting for a long journey, and the life is the
stronger and the fuller if the things and people to be
carried are numerous and troublesome. Lady Glen-
cora was a little troublesome, and would not come
down to breakfast in time. When rebuked on account
of this manifest breach of engagement, she asserted
that the next train would do just as well ; and when
Mr. Palliser proved to her, with much trouble, that
the next train could not enable them to reach Paris on
that day, she declared that it would be much more
comfortable to take a week in going than to hurry over
the ground in one day. There was nothing she wanted
so much as to see Folkestone.

" If that is the case, why did not you tell me so be-
fore? " said Mr. Palliser, in his gravest voice. " Rich-
ard and the carriage went down yesterday, and are
already on board the packet."

*' If Richard and the carriage are already on board
the packet," said Lady Glencora, " of course we must
follow them, and we must put off the glories of Folke-
stone till we come back. Alice, have n't you observed

2IO

FROM LONDON TO BADEN. 211

that, in travelling, you are always driven on by some
Richard or some carriage, till you feel that you are a
slave? "

All this was trying to Mr. Palliser ; but I think that
he enjoyed it, nevertheless, and that he was happy when
he found that he did get his freight off from the Pim-
lico Station in the proper train.

Of course Lady Glencora and Alice were very ill
crossing the Channel ; of course the two maids were
worse than their mistresses ; of course the men kept
out of their masters way when they were wanted, and
drank brandy and water with the steward downstairs ;
and of course Lady Glencora declared that she would
not allow herself to be carried beyond Boulogne that
day ; — but, nevertheless, they did get on to Paris. Had
Mr. Palliser become Chancellor of the Exchequer,
as he had once hoped, he could hardly have worked
harder than he did work. It was he who found out
which carriage had been taken for them, and who put,
with his own hands, the ladies' dressing-cases and cloaks
on to the seats, — who laid out the novels, which, of
course, were not read by the road, — and made prepara-
tions as though this stage of their journey was to take
them a week, instead of five hours and a half.

" Oh dear! how I have slept! " said Lady Glencora,
as they came near to Paris.

" I think you 've been tolerably comfortable," said
Mr. Palliser joyfully.

" Since we got out of that horrid boat I have done
pretty well. Why do they make the boats so nasty?
I 'm sure they do it on purpose."

'* It would be difficult to make them nice, I suppose? "
said Ahce.

212 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" It is the sea that makes them uncomfortable," said
Mr. Palliser.

" Never mind ; we shan't have any more of it for
twelve months, at any rate. We can get to the Kurds,
Alice, without getting into a packet again. That, to
my way of thinking, is the great comfort of the Con-
tinent. One can go everywhere without being sea-sick."

Mr. Palliser said nothing, but he sighed as he thought
of being absent for a whole year. He had said that
such was his intention, and would not at once go back
from what he himself had said. But how was he to
live for twelve months out of the House of Commons?
What was he to do with himself, with his intellect
and his energy, during all these coming dreary days ?
And then, — he might have been Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer! He might even now, at this very moment,
have been upon his legs, making a financial statement
of six hours' duration, to the delight of one-half of the
House, and bewilderment of the other, instead of drag-
ging cloaks across that dingy, dull, dirty waiting-room
at the Paris Station, in which British subjects are kept
in prison while their boxes are being tumbled out of the
can'iages.

" But we are not to stop here ; — are we ? " said Lady
Glencora mournfully.

*' No, dear; — I have given the keys to Richard.
We will go on at once."

But can't we have our things ? '*
In about half an hour," pleaded Mr. Palliser.
I suppose we must bear it, Alice? " said Lady Glen-
cora, as she got into the carriage that was waiting for
her.

Alice thought of the last time in which she had been

((

FROM LONDON TO BADEN. 213

in that room, — when George and Kate had been with
her,— and the two girls had been quite content to wait
patiently while their trunks were being examined. But
Alice was now travelling with great people, — with
people who never spoke of their wealth, or seemed ever
to think of it, but who showed their consciousness of
it at every turn of their lives. "After all," AHce had
said to herself more than once, " I doubt whether the
burden is not greater than the pleasure."

They stayed in Paris for a week, and during that time
Alice found that she became very intimate with Mr.
Palliser. At Matching she had, in truth, seen but little
of him, and had known nothing. Now she began to
understand his character, and learned how to talk to
him. She allowed him to tell her of things in which
Lady Glencora resolutely persisted in taking no interest.
She dehghted him by writing down in a little pocket-
book the number of eggs that were consumed in Paris
every day, whereas Glencora protested that the infor-
mation was worth nothing unless her husband could
tell her how many of the eggs were good, and how
many bad. And Alice was glad to find that a hun-
dred and fifty thousand female operatives were em-
ployed in Paris, while Lady Glencora said it was a
great shame, and that they ought all to have husbands.
When Mr. PaUiser explained that that was impossible,
because of the redundancy of the female population,
she angered him very much by asserting that she saw
a great many men walking about who, she was quite
sure, had not wives of their own.

" I do so wish you had married him! " Glencora said
to Alice that evening. " You would always have had
a pocket-book ready to write down the figures., and

214 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

you would have pretended to care about the eggs, and
the bottles of wine, and the rest of it. As for me, I
can't do it. If I see a hungry woman, I can give her
my money ; or if she be a sick woman, I can nurse her ;
or if I hear of a very wicked man, I can hate him ;—
but I cannot take up poverty and crime in the lump.
I never believe it all. My mind is n't big enough."

They went into no society at Paris, and at the end
of a week were all glad to leave it.

" I don't know that Baden will be any better," Lady
Glencora said; "but, you know, we can leave that
again after a bit, — and so we shall go on getting nearer
to the Kurds."

To this, Mr. Palliser demurred " I think we had
better make up our mind to stay a month at Baden."

" But why should we make up our minds at all ? " his
wife pleaded.

** I like to have a plan," said Mr. Palliser.

** And so do I," said his wife, — " if only for the sake
of not keeping it."

" There 's nothing I hate so much as not carrying
out my intentions," said Mr. Palliser.

Upon this, Lady Glencora shrugged her shoulders,
and made a mock grimace to her cousin. All this her
husband bore for a while meekly, and it must be ac-
knowledged that he behaved very well. But, then, he
had his own way in everything. Lady Glencora did
not behave very well, — contradicting her husband, and
not considering, as, perhaps, she ought to have done,
the sacrifice he was making on her behalf. But, then,
she had her own way in nothing.

She had her own way in almost nothing ; but on
one point she did conquer her husband. He was

FROM LONDON TO BADEN. 21$

minded to go from Paris back to Cologne, and so up
the Rhine to Baden. Lady Glencora declared that she
hated the Rhine, — ^that, of all rivers, it was the most
distasteful to her ; that, of all scenery, the scenery of
the Rhine was the most over-praised ; and that she
would be wretched all the time if she were carried that
way. Upon this, Mr. Palliser referred the matter to
Alice; and she, who had last been upon the Rhine
with her cousins Kate and George Vavasor, voted for
going to Baden by way of Strasbourg.

" We will go by Strasbourg, then," said Mr. Palliser
gallantly.

" Not that I want to see that horrid church again,"
said Glencora.

" Everything is alike horrid to you, I think," said her
husband. '* You are determined not to be contented,
so that it matters very little which way we go."

"That 's the truth," said his wife. " It does matter
very little."

They got on to Baden, — with very little delay at
Strasbourg, and found half a hotel prepared for their
reception. Here the carriage was brought into use for
the first time, and the mistress of the carriage talked
of sending home for Dandy and Flirt. Mr. Palliser,
when he heard the proposition, calmly assured his wife
that the horses would not bear the journey. " They
would be so out of condition," he said, " as not to be
worth anything for two or three months."

" I only meant to ask for them if they could come
in a balloon," said Lady Glencora.

This angered Mr. Palliser, who had really, for a few
minutes, thought of pacifying his wife by sending for
the horses.

2l6 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" Alice," she asked, one morning, " how many eggs
are eaten in Baden every morning before ten o'clock ? "

Mr. Palliser, who at the moment was in the act of
eating one, threw down his spoon, and pushed his plate
from him,

" What *s the matter, Plantagenet ? " she asked.

" The matter! " he said. " But never mind ; I am a
fool to care for it."

" I declare I did n't know that I had done anything
wrong," said Lady Glencora. " Alice, do you under-
stand what it is ? "

Alice said she did understand very well.

" Of course she understands," said Mr. Palliser.
" How can she help it ? And, indeed, Miss Vavasor,
I am more unhappy than I can express myself, to
think that your comfort should .be disturbed in this
way."

" Upon my word I think Alice is doing very well,"
said Lady Glencora. " What is there to hurt her com-
fort ? Nobody scolds her. Nobody tells her that she
is a fool. She never jokes, or does anything wicked,
and, of course, she is n't punished."

Mr. Palliser, as he v/andered that day alone through
the gambling-rooms at the great Assembly House,
thought that, after all, it might have been better for him
to have remained in London, to have become Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer, and to have run all risks.

" I wonder whether it would be any harm if I were
to put a few pieces of money on the table, just once? "
Lady Glencora said to her cousin, on the evening of
the same day, in one of those gambling salons. There
had been some music on that evening in one side of
the building, and the Pallisers had gone to the ?"ooais,

((
((

FROM LONDON TO BADEN. 21 7

But as neither of the two ladies would dance, they had
strayed away into the other apartments.

*' The greatest harm in the world 1 " said Alice ; " and
what on earth could you gain by it? You don't really
want any of those horrid people's money ? "

" I '11 tell you what I want, — something to live for,
— ^some excitement. Is it not a shame that I see
around me so many people getting amusement, and
that I can get none? I 'd go and sit out there, and
drink beer and hear the music, only Plantagenet
would n't let me. I think I '11 throw one piece on to
the table to see what becomes of it."

I shall leave you if you do," said Alice.
You are such a prude! It seems to me as if it
must have been my special fate, — my good fate, I mean,
— that has thrown me so much with you. You look
after me quite as carefully as Mr. Bott and Mrs. Mar-
sham ever did ; but as I chose you myself, I can't very
well complain, and I can't very well get rid of you."
Do you want to get rid of me, Cora? "
Sometimes. Do you know, there are moments
when I almost make up my mind to go headlong to
the devil, — when I think it is the best thing to be done.
It 's a hard thing for a woman to do, because she has
to undergo so much obloquy before she gets used to it.
A man can take to drinking, and gambling, and all the
rest of it, and nobody despises him a bit. The domes-
tic old fogies give him lectures if they can catch him,
but he is n't fool enough for that. All he wants is
money, and he goes away and has his fling. Now, I
have plenty of money, — or, at any rate, I had, — and I
never got my fling yet. I do feel so tempted to rebel,
and go ahe^-d, and care for nothing."

2l8 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

*' Throwing one piece on to the table would n't sat-
isfy that longing."

'* You think I should be like the wild beast that has
tasted blood, and can't be controlled. Look at all
these people here. There are husbands gambling,
and their wives don't know it ; and wives gambling,
and their husbands don't know it. I wonder whether
Plantagenet ever has a fling ? What a joke it would
be to come and catch him! "

" I don't think you need be afraid."

"Afraid! I should like him all the better for it.
If he came to me, some morning, and told me that he
had lost a hundred thousand poimds, I should be so
much more at my ease with him."'

" You have no chance in that direction, I *m quite
siue."

" None the least. He 'd make a calculation that
the chances were nine to seven against him, and
then the speculation would seem to him to be mad-
ness."

** I don't suppose he 'd wish to try, even though he
were sure of winning."

" Of course not. It would be a very vulgar kind of
thing then. Look, — there 's an opening there. I '11
just put on one Napoleon."

" You shall not. If you do, I '11 leave you at once.
Look at the women who are playing. Is there one
there whom it would not disgrace you to touch ?
Look what they are. Look at their cheeks, and their
eyes, and their hands. Those men who rake about
the money are bad enough, but the women look like
fiends."

" You 're not going to frighten me in that hobgoblin

FROM LONDON TO BADEN. 219

sort of way, you know. I don't see anything the mat-
ter with any of the people."

" What do you think of that young woman who has
just got a handful of money from the man next to
her? "

"I think she is very happy. I never get money
given to me by handfuls, and the man to whom I be-
long gives me no encouragement when I want to amuse
myself." They were now standing near to one end of
the table, and suddenly there came to be an opening
through the crowd up to the table itself. Lady Glen-
cora, leaving Alice's side, at once stepped up and de-
posited a piece of gold on one of the marked compart-
ments. As soon as she placed it she retreated again
with flushed face, and took hold of Alice's arm.
"There," she said, "I have done it."

Alice, in her dismay, did not know what step to take.
She could not scold her friend now, as the eyes of
many were turned upon them, nor could she, of course,
leave her, as she had threatened. Lady Glencora
laughed with her peculiar little low laughter, and
stood her ground. " I was determined you should n't
frighten me out of it," she said.

One of the ministers at the table had in the meantime
gone on with the cards, and had called the game ; and
another minister had gently pushed three or four more
pieces of gold up to that which Lady Glencora had
flung down, and had then cunningly caught her eye,
and, with all the courtesy of which he was master, had
pushed them further on towards her. She had sup-
posed herself to be unknown there in the salon, but no
doubt all the croupiers and half the company knew well
enough who was the new customer at the table. There

220 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

was Still the space open, near to which she stood, and
then some one motioned to her to come and take up
the money which she had won. She hesitated, and
then the croupier asked her, in that low, indifferent
voice which these men always use, whether she desired
that her money should remain. She nodded her head
to him, and he at once drew the money back again to
the spot on which she had placed the first napoleon.
Again the cards were turned up softly, again the game
was called, and again she won. The money was dealt
out to her, — on this occasion with a full hand. There
were lying. there between twenty and thirty napoleons, *
of which she was the mistress. Her face had flushed
before, but now it became very red. She caught hold
of Alice, who was literally trembling beside her, and
tried to laugh again. But there was that in her eye
which told Alice that she was really frightened. Some
one then placed a chair for her at the table, and in her
confusion, not knowing what she was to do, she seated
herself.

'' Come away," said Alice, taking hold of her, and
disregarding everything but her own purpose, in the
agony of the moment. "You must come, away!
You shall not sit there! '*

" I must get rid of that money," said Glencora,
trying to whisper her words, " and then I will come
away." The croupier again asked her if the money
was to remain, and she again nodded her head. Every-
body at the table was now looking at her. The
women especially were staring at her, — those horrid
women with vermilion cheeks, and loud bonnets half
off their heads, and hard, shameless eyes, and white

FROM LONDON TO BADEN. 221

gloves, which, when taken off in the ardour of the
game, disclosed dirty hands. They stared at her with
that fixed stare which such women have, and Alice
saw it all, and trembled.

Again she won. " Leave it," said Alice, " and come
away."

** I can*t leave it," said Glencora. " If I do, there Ul
be a fuss. I '11 go the next time." What she said
was, of course, in English, and was probably under-
stood by no one near her; but it was easy to be
seen that she was troubled, and, of course, those around
her looked at her the more because of hor trouble.
Again that little question and answer went on between
her and the croupier, and on this occasion the money
was piled up on the compartment, — a heap of gold
which made envious the hearts of many who stood
around there. Alice had now both her hands on the
back of the chair, needing support. If the devil should
persist, and increase that stock of gold again, she must
go and seek for Mr. Palliser. She knew not what else
to do. She understood nothing of the table, or of its
laws ; but she supposed all those ministers of the game
to be thieves, and believed that all villainous contriv-
ances were within their capacity. She thought that they
might go on adding to that heap so long as Lady Glen-
cora would sit there, presuming that they might thus
get her into their clutches. Of course, she did not sift
her suspicions. Who does at such moments? "Come
away at once, and leave it," she said, " or I shall go."
At that moment the croupier raked it all up, and car-
ried it all away ; but Alice did not see that this had
been done. A hand had been placed on her shoulder,

222 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

and as she turned round her face her eyes met those
of Mr. Palliseri

" It is all gone," said Glencora, laughing. And now
she, turning round, also saw her husband.

" I am so glad that you are come," said Alice.

" Why did you bring her here? " said Mr. Palliser.
There was anger in his tone, and anger in his eye.
He took his wife's arm upon his own, and walked
away quickly, while Alice followed them alone. He
went off at once, down the front steps of the building,
towards the hotel. What he said to his wife, Alice
did not hear ; but her heart was sweUing with the ill-
usage to which she herself was subjected. Though
she might have to go back alone to England, she
would tell him that he was ill-treating her. She fol-
lowed him on, up into their drawing-room, and there
he stood with the door open in his hand for her, while
Lady Glencora threw herself upon a sofa, and burst
out into affected laughter. '* Here 's a piece of work,"
she said, " about a little accident."

"An accident!" said Mr. Palliser.

" Yes, an accident. You don't suppose that I sat
down there meaning to win all that money ? " Where-
upon he looked at her with scorn.

" Mr. Palliser," said Alice, " you have treated me
this evening in a manner I did not expect from you.
It is clear that you blame me."

" I have not said a word, Miss Vavasor."

" No ; you have not said a word. You know well
how to show your anger without speaking. As I do
not choose to undergo your displeasure, I will return
to England by myself."

"Alice! Alice!" said Glencora, jumping up, "that

FROM LONDON TO BADEN. 223

is nonsense ! What is all this trumpery thing about ?
Leave me, because he chooses to be angry about
nothing? "

'* Is it nothing that I find my wife playing at a com-
mon gambling-table, surrounded by all that is wretched
and vile, — established there, seated, with heaps of gold
before her ? "

"You wrong me, Plantagenet," said Glencora.
" There was only one heap, and that did not remain
long. Did it, Alice ? "

" It is impossible to make you ashamed of anything,'*
he said.

" I certainly don't like being ashamed," she answered ;
" and don't feel any necessity on this occasion."

" If you don't object, Mr. Palliser," said Alice, " I
will go to bed. You can think over all this at night,
—and so can I. Good-night, Glencora." Then
Alice took her candle, and marched off to her own
room, with all the dignity of which she was mistress.

CHAPTER XVII.

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE.

The second week in July saw Mr. Palliser's party,
carriage and all, established at Lucerne, in Switzerland,
safe beyond the reach of the German, gambling-tables.
Alice Vavasor 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. Pal-
liser 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
Baden, which was described in the last chapter, — since
Mr. Palliser 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 al-
lowed 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

224

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE. 225

that he intended to apologise 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 acknowledgment of a mis-
take and the asking for grace is almost too much for
any woman to expect from such a man as Mr. Palliser.

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, or 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 vig-
orously. Of coiu"se, Mr. Palliser 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 he can be with-
out meaning it."

" There is no reason why I should bear his unpleas-
antness," 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."

2 26 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

'* 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. Palliser 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 he
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 peti-
tion for pardon. So the thing went on, and by degrees
Mr. Palliser and Miss Vavasor were again friends.

But Alice never knew in what way the matter was
settled between Mr. Palliser and his wife, or whether
there was any such settling. Probably there was none.
" Of course, he understands that it did n't mean any-
thing," Lady Glencora had said. " He knows that
I don't want to gamble." But let that be as it might,
their sojourn at Baden 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 pas-
sage through Basle. It was only too clear to her that
Mr. Palliser was determined to go by Basle. She

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE. 227

could not bring herself to say that she had recollec-
tions 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. Palhser 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 her-
self and her own affairs, even with her cousin. Of
course Lady Glencora knew the whole story of Mr.
John Grey and his rejection, — and knew much also
of that other story of Mr. George Vavasor. And, of
course, like all Alice's friends, she hated. George Vava-
sor, and was prepared to receive Mr. John Grey 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 every-
thing 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."
*' That is such nonsense."

" Perhaps so ; but, at any rate, I mean to try. We
Vavasors don't seem to be good at marrying."

" You want some one to break your heart for you ;
that 's what you want," said Lady Glencora. In say-
ing this she knew but little of the state of her friend's
heart, and perhaps was hardly capable of understand-
ing it. With all the fuss that Lady Glencora made to

228 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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
Burgo Fitzgerald as Alice Vavasor had loved Mr.
Grey. But her nature was altogether different to that
of Alice. Love 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 devilry, and an aptitude almost for wickedness.
She knew Burgo Fitzgerald to be a scapegrace, 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 Burgo, — 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 sac-
rifice 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 work-a-day world than that
of her cousin. It was too thoughtful. I will not say

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE. 229

that there was no poetry in it, but I will say that it
lacked romance. Its poetry was too hard for romance.
There was certainly in it neither fun nor wickedness ;
nor was there, I fear, so large a proportion of hero-
worship as there always should be in a girl's heart when
she gives it away. But there was in it an amount
of self-devotion which none of those near to her had
hitherto understood, — unless it were that one to whom
the understanding of it was of the most importance.
In all the troubles of her love, of her engagements, and
her broken promises, she had thought more of others
than of herself, — and, indeed, those troubles had chiefly
come from that self-devotion. She had left John Grey
because she feared that she would do him no good as
his wife, — that she would not make him happy ; and
she had afterwards betrothed herself for a second time
to her cousin, because she believed that she could serve
him by marrying him. Of course she had been wrong.
She had been very wrong to give up the man she did
love, and more wrong again in suggesting to herself
the possibility of marrying the man she did not love.
She knew that she had been wrong in both, and was
undergoing repentance with very bitter inward sack-
cloth. But she said little of all this even to her cousin.
They went to Lucerne by Basle, and put up at the
big hotel with the balcony over the Rhine, which Alice
remembered so well. On the first evening of her ar-
rival she found herself again looking down upon the
river, as though it might have been from the same spot
which she had occupied together with George and Kate.
But, in truth, that house is very large, and has many
bedrooms over the water. Who has ever been through
Basle, and not stood in one of them, looking down

230 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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 re-
specting her cousin George. Mr. Palliser brought it to
her with his own hands, and she had no other alterna-
tive 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 alto-
gether for the two seats — three liberals, and two con-
servatives. 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 aban-
doned 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 pre*

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE. 23 1

sumed to be enemies. I am up here to see a lawyer
as to some steps which he is taking to upset grand-
papa's wilL The lawyer says that it is all nonsense, and
that George's lawyer is not really in earnest ; but I can-
not 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 Bellfield is in lodgings near to us, also
buying his trousseau ; or, as I should more properly
say, having it bought for him. I am hardly in a mood
for much mirth, but it is impossible not to laugh in-
wardly 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 *11 run
wild directly he *s married,* she said to me yesterday ;
' and, of course, there '11 always be a fight about it ;
but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild
he '11 be by-and-by. And though I dare say I shall
scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.'
I have no doubt all that is true ; but what a fool she
is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she

232 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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 cap-
tain. They have settled with your father to take
Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay
with them till yoiu* retiu*n. 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 per-
son, 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 pleasant 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. Grey had been affected by the
advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very
feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger,
which might have been aroused against her, had Alice
acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth
done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice
neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress
of John Grey's courtship, John Grey would not have
lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always
protesting within her own breast. She had been weak,

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE. 233

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

*'Who? I! yes; I 'm returned," said Mr. Palliser,
speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to
the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance
of success against him in his own family borough.
For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private
seat in the House of Commons let us always go to
those great whig families who were mainly instrument-
al in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium
had been very great on that occasion. It had given
up much, and had retained for family use simply the
single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should
be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as pos-

234 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

sible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and
the other great whig families have been right in this.
They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their
own services to the country, no more than the country
is manifestly willing to give them. ** Ves ; I have been
returned," said Mr. Palliser. " I *m sorry to see. Miss
Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate."

" So I find," said Alice. " It will be a great mis-
fortune 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. Palliser, who himself knew
nothing of such misfortunes. " I have always thought
that those seats should be left to rich commercial men
who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead
of that, they are generally contested by men of mod-
erate means. Another of my friends in the House has
been thrown out."

" Who is that unfortunate? " asked Lady Glencora.

" Mr. Bott," said the unthinking husband.

" Mr. Bott out! " exclaimed Lady Glencora. " Mr.
Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not
glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about,
you know, at Matching ; — he has lost his seat in Par-
liament. I suppose he '11 go and stand about some-
where in Lancashire, now."

A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora.
Mr. Palliser's face became black beneath the Times

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE. 235

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

"Enemies! I don*t suppose they were enemies,"
said Glencora. " But he was a man whom no one
could help observing, — and disHking."

" He was a man I specially disliked," said Alice,
with great courage. "He may be very well in Parlia-
ment ; 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 — to —

to " began Mr. Palliser apologetically.

"Nothing especially to offend me, Mr. Palliser, —
except that he had a way that I especially dislike 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 a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in
the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was
quite unpardonable."

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

" 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.

236 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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 the 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 mor-
sels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne
away instantly.

" Oh, how I wish I could do that! " said Lady Glen-

cora.

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

Why should they want to stop themselves? " said
Lady Glencora. " Think how cool the water must be ;
and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly ; and
to go on, and on, and on ! I suppose we could n'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 Vavasor was sitting in her presence.
It was,. I think, on that evening, that she made up her
mind to separate herself from Mr. Grey.

On the day after that, Mr. Palliser and his party

FROM BADEN TO LUCERNE. 237

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

CHAPTER XVIII.

AT LUCERNE.

I AM inclined to think that Mr. Palliser did not much
enjoy this part of his tour abroad. When he first
reached Lucerne there was no one there with whom he
* could associate pleasantly, nor had he any occupation
capable of making his time run easily. He did not
care for scenery. Close at his elbow was the finest to
be had in Europe ; but it was nothing to him. Had he
been simply journeying through Lucerne at the proper
time of the year for such a journey, when the business
of the session was over, and a little change of air needed,
he could have enjoyed the thing in a moderate way,
looking about him, passing on, and knowing that it was
good for him to be there at that moment. But he had
none of that passion for mountains and lakes, none of
that positive joy in the heather, which would have
compensated many another man for the loss of all that
Mr. Palliser was losing. His mind was ever at home
in the House of Commons, or in that august assembly
which men call the Cabinet, and of the meetings of
which he read from week to week the simple records.
Therein were mentioned the names of those heroes to
whom Fortune had been so much kinder than she had
been to him ; and he envied them. He took short,
solitary walks, about the town, over the bridges, and

along the rivers, making to himself the speeches which

238

AT LUCERNE. 239

he would have made to full houses, had not his wife
brought ruin upon all his hopes. And as he pictured
to himself the glorious successes which probably never
would have been his had he remained in London, so
did he prophesy to himself an absolute and irremedi-
able 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
^nown that a short absence might probably raise his
^alue in the estimation of others rather than lower it.
^ut his personal annoyance was too great to allow of
^is making such calculations aright. So he became
^Tetful and unhappy ; and though he spoke no word
of rebuke to his wife, though he never hinted that she
Viad robbed him of his glories, he made her conscious
Viy his manner that she had brought him to this miser-
able 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 Switzer-
land she was very enthusiastic, and declared her in-
tention of climbing up all the mountains, and going
through all the passes. She endeavoured to induce
her husband to promise that she should be taken up
Mont Blanc. And I think she would have carried
this on, and would have been taken up Mont Blanc,
had Mr. Palliser's aspirations been congenial. But
they were not congenial, and Lady Glencora soon los'
all her enthusiasm. By the time that they were settle'

240 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

at Lucerne she had voted the mountains to be bores,
and had almost learned to hate the lake, which she de-
clared always made her wet through when she got into
a small boat, and sea-sick when she put her foot in a
large one. At Lucerne they made no acquaintances,
Mr. Palliser being a man not apt to new friendships.
They did not even dine at the public table, though
Lady Glencora had expressed a wish to do so. Mr.
Palliser did not like it, and of course Lady Glencora
gave way. There were, moreover, some marital pas-
sages which were not pleasant to a third person. They
did not scold each other ; but Lady Glencora would
make little speeches of which her husband disapproved.
She would purposely irritate him by continuing her tone
of badinage, and then Mr. Palliser would become fret-
ful, 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.
Palliser would read till three. At that hour he would
walk forth by himself, after having handed the two
ladies into their carriage, and they would be driven
about for two hours. " How I do hate this carriage,"
Lady Glencora said one day. " I do so wish it would
come to grief, and be broken to pieces. I wonder
whether the Swiss people think that we are going to be
driven about here forever." There were moments,
however, which seemed to indicate that Lady Glencora

AT LUCERNE. 24 I

had something to tell her cousin, which, if told, would
alter the monotony of their lives. AUce, however,
would not press her for her secret.

"If you have anything to tell, why don't you tell
it ? " Alice once said.
"You are so hard," said Lady Glencora.
" So you tell me very often," Ahce rephed ; " and it
is not complimentary. But hard or soft, I won't make
a petition for your confidence." Then Lady Glencora
said something savage, and the subject was dropped
for a while.

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

" I am Mr. Palliser," said our friend, very courte-
ously, returning the salute, and smiling as he spoke.
But though he smiled, and though he was courteous,
and though he raised his hat, there was something in
his look and voice which would not have encouraged
any ordinary stranger to persevere. Mr. Palliser was
not a man with whom it was easy to open an ac-
quaintance.
" My name is John Grey," said the stranger.
Then the smile was dropped, the look of extreme
courtesy disappeared, the tone of Mr. Palliser's voice
was altered, and he put out his hand. He knew
enough of Mr. John Grey's history to be aware that
Mr. John Grey was a man with whom he might permit

242 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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. Palliser. " If so, we had better go through
the town and up the river."

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

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

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

" My cousin Kate, certainly," said Alice.

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

Alice was accustomed to Lady Glencora's mode

AT LUCERNE. 343

of talking, and therefore did not think much of this.
"Perhaps I am a fool," she said.

"Only I know you are not. But I am not at all
so sure as to your being no hypocrite. The person
I mean is a gentleman, of course. Why don't you
show a little excitement, at any rate ? When Plantag-
enet told me, just before dinner, I almost jumped out
of my shoesj 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 Grey has come."

" Yes, Mr. John Grey has come. He is here in this
house at this minute ; — or, more probably, waiting
outside by the lake till he shall see a light in your bed-
room." Then Lady Glencora paused for a moment,
waiting that Alice might say something. But Alice
said nothing. " Well ? " said Lady Glencora, rising up
from her chair, ** well? "
" WeU ? " 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. Grey's arrival, and shall prob-
ably 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. Palliser tell you, in an ordinary
way, before all the servants. I do indeed."

244 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" It would not have made much difference."
"Not the least, I believe. I wonder whether vou
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 have never said a word about it."
"He told me he should come, and I thought it better
not to say a word about it. He might change his
mind, or anything might happen. I told him not to
come ; and it would have been much better that he
should have remained away."

" 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 but that it
should do all the good in the world. Look here, Alice.
If you do not altogether make it up with him before
to-morrow evening, I shall believe you to be utterly
heartless. Had I been you I should have been in his
arms before this. I '11 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."

AT LUCERNE. 245

"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 dis-
tinguish 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. Glen-
cora had called her hard ; but her conviction on that
niatter 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, be-
come the wife of another man. . Why, then, should it
not be as he wished it?

246 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

She asked herself the question, and did not answer it ;
but still she felt that it might not be so. She had no
right to such happiness after the evil that she had done.
She had been driven by a frenzy to do that which
she herself could not pardon ; and having done it, she
could not bring herself to accept the position which
should have been the reward of good conduct. She
could not analyse the causes which made her feel that
she must still refuse the love that was proffered to her ;
she could not clearly read her own thoughts ; but the
causes were as I have said, and such was the true read-
ing of her thoughts. Had she simply refused his hand
after she had once accepted it, — ^had she refused it, and
then again changed her mind, she could have brought
herself to ask him to forgive her. But she had done
so much more than this, and so much worse! She
had affianced herself to another man since she had
belonged to him, — since she had been his, as his future
wife. What must he not think of her, and what not
suspect ? Then she remembered those interviews which
she had had with her cousin since she had written to
him, accepting his offer. When he had been with her
in Queen Anne Street she had shrunk from all outward
signs of a love which she did not feel. There had been
no caress between them. She had not allowed him to
touch her with his lips. But it was impossible that the
nature of that mad engagefnent between her and her
cousin George should ever be made known to Mr.
Grey. She sat there wiping the tears from her eyes as
she looked for his figure among the figures by the lake-
side ; but, as she sat there, she promised herself no
happiness from his coming. Oh ! reader, can you for-
give her in that she had sinned against the softness of

AT LUCERNE. 247

her feminine nature? I think that she may be for-
given, in that she had never brought herself to think
lightly of her own fault.

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

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

Alice, keeping her countenance as well as she was
able, said Mr. Grey had been, and, indeed, was, a very
dear friend of hers. Mr. Palliser knew the whole story,
and what was the use of any little attempt at dissimula-
tion ? "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.

S4S CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

But Mr. Grey did not wait till dinner-time to aee
Alice. Early in the morning his card was brought up,
and Lady Glencora, as soon as she saw the name, im-
mediately 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. Grey, as he was shown into her
ladyship's usual sitting-room, saw the skirt of her lady-
ship'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 addr^s 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 travel-
ling than a desire to see me? "

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

" Hardly," said she, — not finding at the moment any
other word that she 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 persever-

AT LUCERNE. 249

ance 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. Grey; — and though you may for-
give 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 any
one." These words she said, jerking out the different
sentences almost in convulsions ; and when she had
come to the end of them, the tears were streaming
down her cheeks. " I have thought about it, and I

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

1 not. I will not. After what has passed, I know

it it will be better, — more seemly, that I should re-
ain as I am."

Soon after that she left him, not, however, till she

lad told him that she would meet him again at dinner,

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

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

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

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

trouble you with that."

So great had been the desolation of Mr. Palliser's
life since his banishment from London that he almost
felt tempted to tell the story of his troubles to this ab-
solute stranger. But he bethought himself of the blood
of the Pallisers, and refrained. There are comforts

AT LUCERNE. 25 I

which royalty may never enjoy, and luxuries in which
such men as Plantagenet Palliser may not permit them-
selves to indulge.

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

Mr. Palliser said that he was sure she did, though
what ground he had for such assurance I am quite un-
able 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. Grey, and Mr. Palliser
contradicted all the nonsense which his wife talked. But
this was all done in such a way that the evening passed
away pleasantly. It was tacitly admitted among them
that Mr. Grey was to be allowed to come among them
as a friend, and Lady Glencora managed to say one
word to him aside, in which she promised to give him
her most cordial co-operation.

CHAPTER XIX.

SHOWING HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT.

We must go back for a few pages to scenes which
happened in London during the summer, so that the
reader may understand Mr. Grey's position when he
reached Lucerne. He had undergone another quarrel
with George Vavasor, and something of the circum-
stances 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 two thou-
sand pounds 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 Jew
bill-discounter. One thousand pounds he had paid
over at once into the hands of Mr. Scruby, his parlia-
mentary election agent, towards the expenses of his
election ; and when the day of polling arrived had
exactly in his hands the sum of five hundred pounds.
Where he was to get more when 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 River Bank, should again send

252

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT. 253

Wm 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 in-
different to any consideration of them. Then there
might be pickings in the way of a member of Parlia-
ment of his calibre. Companies, — mercantile com-
panies, — would be glad to have him as a director, pay-
ing him a guinea a day, or perhaps more, for his hour's
attendance. Railways in want of vice-chairmen might
bid for his services ; and in the City he might turn that
"M.P." 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. Scruby got the thousand pounds
into his clutches than he pressed for still more money.
George Vavasor, 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. Scruby
admitted, declaring that he was quite prepared to go on
without any further immediate remittance, although by
doing so he might subject himself to considerable risk.
But another five hundred pounds, paid at once, would
add greatly to the safety of the seat ; whereas eight
hundred judiciously thrown in at the present moment
would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasor swore
to himself that he would not part with another shilling.
Never had he felt such love for money as he did for
that five hundred pounds which he now held in his
pocket. " It 's no use," he said to Mr. Scruby. *' I
have done what you asked, and would have done more

254 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

had you asked for more at that time. As it is, I can-
not make another payment before the election." Mr.
Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and said that he would
do his best. But George Vavasor 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 can-
vassing. "Laws, Mr. Vavasor!" said the landlord of
the Handsome Man, "you 're not at all the fellow
for us chaps along the river,^ — you ain't. 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 Vavasor
knew that his chance was gone. Mr. Scruby's face,
manner, and words told the result of the election as
plainly as any subsequent figures could do. He would
be absent when Vavasor 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. Scruby no longer regarded
him as a successful man, and the day of the poll showed
very plainly how right Mr. Scruby had been.

George Vavasor was rejected, but 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 gate-
way between the lamps barred against him, ex-member

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT. 255

of Parliament for the Chelsea districts, with five hun-
dred 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 lodg-
ings in Cecil Street, and endeavoured 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 of her
money, and had so insulted her that no feeling of amity
between them was any longer possible. He had noth-
ing 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
with outer calmness for a while, as he sat there in his
arm-chair.

From the moment in which he had first become con-
vinced that the election would go against him, and that
he was therefore ruined on all sides, he had resolved
that he would be calm amidst his ruin. Sometimes he
assimied 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. Scruby, and had

256 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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 subrisive tone ; and he bantered Calder
Jones, whose seat was quite sure, till Calder Jones be-
gan 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 main-
tained 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 cicatrice that maiTed 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 evils which the dead can feel
cling to him forever and ever!" His laughter was all
gone, and his assumed tranquiUity had deserted him.

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT. 257

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 maledictions as he did so. What good
was it that he should lie to himself by that mock tran-
quillity, 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 draughts of the water of comfort as might sup-
port 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
comer of the room, and unlocking it, took out a re-
volving 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 snapped 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 '11 use it first for another
purpose." Then he poured out for himself more
brandy and water, and having drunk it, he threw him-
self 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 an-
swered. But he did not answer it in the usual way by

258 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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 Vavasor's side. " Who 's there? "
he asked again, speaking out loudly, but in an angry
voice.

It is I," said a woman's voice.

D ation ! " said George Vavasor.

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
within. 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. Vavasor, when he had
heard her voice, and knew who was there, had again
thrown himself on to 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 un-
dergo 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

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT. 259

not open the door, nor did he bid his visitor enter, but

having made the way easy for her if she chose 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 npthing, 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 hoUowness of her jaws. Her
eyes had a peculiar brightness, but now they left on
those who looked at her cursorily 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 ; but 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

260 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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 on her bosom with
a large clasp brooch. Her faded dress was supported
by a wide crinoline, but the under garment 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 the outward garb of so many of Eve's
daughters. The whole story was told so that those
who ran might read it. When she had 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 persevered. 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 shrivelled 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 debarred to her. ^* George," she said,
standing at the bottom of the sofa, " what am I to do? "

((
a

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT. 26 1

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 strug-
gles she had made to create by her appearance some
reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining
coarseness of the long ringlets which had once been
softer than silk. He saw the sixpenny 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 speak-
ing 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? It is likely that I should give you
money now, simply because you have disobeyed me."
"Where else was I to find you? "

s63

" Why should you have found i
want you to find me. I shall give you nothing ;-
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 s:iid. " I never could make enough
out of the diop to feed a bird."

" That was n't my fault. Putdng yon there cost me
over a hundred pounds, and you consented to take the!
place."

" I did n't consent. I was obliged to go there be-
cause 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 moi would have
done, when all things are considered." Thm hie got .
up from the sofa, and stood himself on the hearth-ni^
' with his back to the fireplace. " At any rate, you may
be sure of this, Jane ;— 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 worse 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 you
for coming."

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT. 263

"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 he
at the door of the stairs. And if you get me out of
the house, I will sit upon the door-step."

" 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
^VQ 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 frag-
ments 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 joiuney. Therefore he desired to rid
himself and his room of the nuisance of her presence.

" Jane," he said, looking at her again with that as-
sumed tranquillity of which I have spoken, " you talk

of starving and of being ruined "

" I am starving. I have not a shilhng in the world."
" Perhaps it may be a comfort to you in your troubles

264 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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? " said she, 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, — ^but 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 some-
where else and begin a new game."

" Go where? " said she.

"Ah! — that 's just what I can't tell you."

"George," she said, "I '11 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

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR RECEIVED A VISIT. 265

too, — ^they '11 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 sapng that I shall."
"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 is n't over; it is n'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 to-night, — or, perhaps,
not to-morrow. 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

(t
It

266 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

giving her a shilling! His bantering tone, in speaking
of his own position, had been successful. It had
caused her to take herself oflE quietly. She knew
enough of his usual manner to be aware that his threats
of self-destruction were probably unreal ; but, neverthe-
less, what he had said had created some feeling in her
heart which had induced her to yield to him, and go
away in peace.

CHAPTER XX.

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 some one else. But he had 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 con-
tained the programmes 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
emigrants for New Zealand and AustraHa. " 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 his 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 prepara-
tion for the new elections. Many men who had gone

267

268 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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 for the Chelsea districts would not sit long,
or that there would be another general election in a
year or two. To these little speeches he made cheer-
ful 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 Roebury in November. " You
had better join our club," said Calder Jones. In an-
swer to which Vavasor said that he thought he would
join the club. He remained in the smoking-room till
nearly eleven ; then he took himself home, and re-
mained 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 tired 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 portmanteaus, fold-
ing his coats with care, and inspecting his boots nar-
rowly, 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
twenty-five each, and made them up carefully into
rouleaus with paper. These, when complete, he di-
vided among the two portmanteaus and a dressing-bag,

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR PAID A VISIT. 269

which he 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 an)rthing 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 hin-
der 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 drank it he had an interview with his landlady.
He was going, he said; — going that very day. It
might be ppssible 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 curtsied, and took her
money. Vavasor, 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 her last at him. After
that interview she never saw him again.

When he was left alone he put on a rough morning

270 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

coat, and taking up the pistol, placed it carefully in
his pocket, and sallied 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 Pall Mall East,
and then turned up Suffolk Street. Just as he reached
the club-house at the comer 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 Grey lodged 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. Grey is at home," he said. " I
will go up to him." The girl said that Mr. Grey was
at home, but suggested that she had better announce
the gentleman. But Vavasor was already half-way
up the stairs, and before the girl had reached the first
landing-place, he had entered Mr. Grey's room and
closed the door behind him.

Grey was sitting near the open window, in a dress-
ing-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 ! "

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR PAID A VISIT. 27 1

" I dare say 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 Grey.
" I intend to tell you, at any rate, whether you ask
me or not. I have come here to declare in your own
hearing, — as I am in the habit of doing occasionally
behind your back, — that you are a blackguard; — 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. Wiil 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. Grey. You managed to worm
yourself into an intimacy with my cousin, Miss Vava-
sor, and to become engaged to her. When she found
out what you were, how paltry, and mean, and vile,
she changed her mind, and bade you 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

H
tt

272 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

her affianced 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 of 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 niever 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 blackguard.
I have given you the option of behaving like a gentle-
man, 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 that meeting that I have proposed."
And he took the pistol out of his pocket.

*' Do you mean that you are going to murder me ? "
Grey 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 stand-
ing immediately between him and the door. He had

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR PAID A VISIT. 273

to think what steps he might best take, and to act
upon his decision instantly. He was by no means a
dmid man, and was one, moreover, very Httle 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. Grey turned himself towards the
bell. " If you move a step, I will fire at you," said
Vavasor. Grey paused a moment, and looked him
full in the face. " I will," said Vavasor again.

" That would be murder," said Grey.

"Don't think that you will frighten me by ugly
words," said Vavasor. " I am beyond that."

Grey 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 himself, 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 disarm-
ing 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 an-
swer the questions of a lawyer hired to cross-question
him. He made, therefore, towards the bell, trusting

274 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

that Vavasor would not fire at him, but having some
little thought also as to the danger of 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
click of the pistoPs 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.

" D ation ! " exclaimed the murderer. But he

did not pull the trigger again. Though the weapon
had of late 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. "D 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.

Grey, when he perceived that his enemy was gone,
tiu-ned 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,

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR PAID A VISIT. 275

and then made some not inaccurate calculation as to the
narrowness of his own escape. He had been standing
directly between Vavasor 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? " Grey 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 min-
utes 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 ? That
cross-examination which he would have to undergo at
the police-office, and again probably in an assize court,
in which all his relations with the Vavasor family
would be made public, was very vivid to his imagina-
tion. That he was called upon by duty to do some-
thing 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."

276 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

((
((

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. Grey demurred,
saying that he should himself seek assistance from
some magistrate. Jones promised to be very vigilant
as to watching the door; and then John Grey 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 Vavasor's lodgings in Cecil Street. But Vavasor
lodged there no longer. Mrs. Bunsby, who was also
very confidential, — and at her wits' end because she
could not learn the special business of the stranger
who called, — stated that Mr. George Vavasor 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.
Bunsby expressed it.

He had gone for good, and at ihe moment in which

HOW GEORGE VAVASOR PAID A VISIT. 277

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, and it was not till the next day that the cab-
man was traced who had carried him to Euston Square
station. Of course, it was soon known that he had
gone to America, but it was not thought worth while
to take any further steps towards arresting him. Mr.
Grey himself was decidedly opposed to any such at-
tempt, declaring his opinion that his own evidence
would be insufficient to obtain a conviction. The big
men in Scotland Yard were loath to let the matter
drop. Their mouths watered after the job, and they
had very numerous and very confidential interviews
with John Grey. But it was decided that nothing
should be done. " Pity ! " said one enterprising super-
intendent, 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 ses-
sion, — 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 Vavasor vanishes from our pages,
and will be heard of no more. Roebury knew him
no longer, nor Pall Mall, 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. Grey himself told
the story to no one, till he told it to Mr. Palliser at

278 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Lucerne. Mr. Scruby complained bitterly of the way
in which Vavasor had robbed him; but I doubt
whether Scruby, 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. Greenow,
"and now he has vanished. I hate 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.

CHAPTER XXI.

IN WHICH COME TIDINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO

ALL THE PALLISERS.

It was not till they had been for a day or two to-
gether at Lucerne that Mr. Grey told Mr. Palliser the
story of George Vavasor's visit to him in Suffolk Street.
Having begun the history of his connection with Alice,
he found himself obliged to go with it to the end, and
as he described the way in which the man had vanished
from the sight of all who had known him, — that he
had in truth gone, so as no longer to be a cause of
dread, he could not, without dissimulation, keep back
the story of that last scene. " And he tried to murder
you ! " said Mr. Palliser. " He should be caught and,

— and " Mr. Palliser hesitated, not liking to say

boldly that the first cousin of the lady who was now
living with him ought to be hung.

" It is better as it is," said Grey.

" He actually walked into your rooms in the day-
time, and fired a pistol at you as you were sitting at
your breakfast! He did that in London, and then
walked off and went abroad, as though he had nothing
to fear!"

" That was just it," said Grey.

Mr. Palliser began to think that something ought to
be done to make life more secure in the metropolis of
the world. Had he not known Mr. Grey, or been ac-

279

28o CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

customed to see the other man in Parliament, he would
not have thought so much about it. But it was almost
too much for him when he reflected that one man
whom he now called his friend, had been nearly mur-
dered in daylight, in the heart of his own part of Lon-
don, by another man whom he had reckoned among
his parUamentary supporters. " And he has got your
money too ! " said Palliser, putting all the circumstances
of the case together. In answer to this Mr. Grey said
that he hoped the loss might eventually be his own ;
but that he was bound to regard the money which had
been taken as part of Miss Vavasor's fortune. " He
is simply the greatest miscreant of whom I ever heard
in my life," said Mr. Palliser. "The wonder is that
Miss Vavasor should ever have brought herself to — to
like him." Then Mr. Grey apologised for Alice, ex-
plaining that her love for her cousin had come from
her early years ; that the man himself was clever and
capable of assuming pleasant ways, and that he had
not been wholly bad till ruin had come upon him.
" He attempted public life and made himself miserable
by failing, as most men do who make that attempt,"
said Grey. This was a statement which Mr. Palliser
could not allow to pass without notice. Whereupon
the two men got away from George Vavasor and their
own individual interests, and went on seriously discuss-
ing the merits and demerits of public life. " The end
of it all is," said Grey at last, '' that public men in
England should be rich like you, and not poor like
that miserable wretch, who has now lost everything
that the Fates had given him."

They continued to live at Lucerne in this way for a
fortnight. Mr. Grey, though he was not unfrequently

TIDINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO THE PALLISERS. 28 1

alone with Alice, did not plead his suit in direct words ;
but continued to live with her on terms of close and
easy friendship. He had told her that her cousin had
left England, — that he had gone to America immedi-
ately after his disappointment in regard to the seat
in Pariiament, and that he would probably not return.
" Poor George ! " Alice had said ; " he is a man very
much to be pitied." "He is a man very much to be
pitied," Grey had replied. After that, nothing more
was said between theni about George Vavasor. From
Lady Glencora Ahce did hear something ; but Lady
Glencora herself had not heard the whole story. " I
believe he misbehaved himself, my dear," Lady Glen-
cora said ; " but then, you know, he always does that.
I believe that he saw Mr. Grey and insulted him.
Perhaps you had better not ask anything about it till
by-and-by. You *11 be able to get anything out of
him then." In answer to this Alice made her usual
protest, and Lady Glencora, as was customary, told
her that she was a fool.

I am inclined to think that Mr. Grey knew what he
was about. Lady Glencora once scolded him very
vehemently for not bringing the affair to an end. " We
shall be going on to Italy before it 's settled," she said ;
"and I don't suppose you can go with us, unless it is
settled." Mr. Grey protested that he had no intention
of going to Italy in either case.

" Then it will be put off for another year or two,
and you are both of you as old as Adam and Eve
already."

" We ancient people are never impatient," said Grey,
laughing.

" If I were you I would go to her and tell her.

a82 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

roundly, that she should many me, and then I would
shake her. If you were to scold her till she did not
know whether she stood on her head or her heels, she
would come to reason."

" Suppose you try that, Lady Glencoia ? "
" I can't It 's she that always scolds me, — as you
will her, when she 's your wife. You and Mr. Palliser
are very much alike. You *re both of you so very vir-
tuous that no woman would have a chance of picking
a hole in your coats."

But Lady Glencora was wrong. Alice would, no
doubt, have submitted herself patiently to her lover's
rebukes, and would have confessed her own sins to-
wards him with any amount of self -accusation that he
might have required ; but she would not, on that ac-
count, have been more willing to obey him in that one
point, as to which he now required present obedience.
He understood that she must be taught to forgive her-
self for the evil she had done, — to forgive herself, at
any rate in part, — before she could be induced to re-
turn to her old allegiance to him. Thus they went on
together at Lucerne, passing quiet, idle days, — with
some pretence of reading, with a considerable amount
of letter- writing, with boat excursions and pony excur-
sions, — till the pony excursions came to a sudden end
by means of a violent edict, as to which, and the cause
of it, a word or two must be said just now. During
these days of the boats and the ponies, the carriage
which Lady Glencora hated so vehemently was shut
up in limbo, and things went very pleasantly with her.
Mr. Palliser received political letters from England,
which made his mouth water sadly, and was often

very fidgety. Parliament was not now sitting, and the

TIDINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO THE PALLISERS. 283

Government would, of course, remain intact till next
February. Might it not be possible that when the
rent came in the Cabinet, he might yet be present at
the darning ? He was a constant man, and had once
declared his intention of being absent for a year. He
continued to speak to Grey of his coming travels, as
though it was impossible that they should be over until
after the next Easter. But he was sighing for West-
minster, and regretting the blue-books which were ac-
cumulating themselves at Matching ; — till on a sudden
there came to him tidings which upset all his plans,
which routed the ponies, which made everything im-
possible, which made the Alps impassable and the rail-
ways dangerous, which drove Burgo Fitzgerald out of
Mr. Palliser*s head, and so confused him that he could
no longer calculate the blunders of the present Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer. All the Palliser world was
about to be moved from its lowest depths, to the sum-
mits of its highest mountains. Lady Glencora had
whispered into her husband's ear that she thouglit it

probable ; she wasn't sure; — she didn't know.

And then she burst out into tears on his bosom as he
sat by her on her bedside.

He was beside himself when he left her, which he
did with the primary intention of telegraphing to Lon-
don for half-a-dozen leading physicians. He went out
by the lake-side, and walked there alone for ten min-
utes in a state of almost unconscious exaltation. He
did not quite .remember where he was, or what he was
doing. The one thing in the world which he had
lacked ; the one joy which he had wanted so much,
and which is so common among men, was coming to
him also. In a few minutes it was to him as though

284 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

each hand ah"eady rested on the fair head of a little male
Palliser, of whom one should rule in the halls at Gath-
erum, and the other be eloquent among the Commons
of England. Hitherto, — for the last eight or nine
months, since his first hopes had begun to fade, — he
had been a man degraded in his own sight amidst all
his honours. What good was all the world to him if
he had nothing of his own to come after him ? We
must give him his due, too, when we speak of this.
He had not had wit enough to hide his grief from his
wife ; his knowledge of women and of men in social
life had not been sufficient to teach him how this
should be done ; but he had wished to do it. He had
never willingly rebuked her for his disappointment,
either by a glance of his eye, or a tone of his voice ;
and now he had already forgiven everything. Biu"go
Fitzgerald was a myth. Mrs. Marsham should never
again come near her. Mr. Bott was, of course, a thing
abolished ; — he had not even had the sense to keep his
seat in ParHament. Dandy and Flirt should feed on
gilded corn, and there should be an artificial moon al-
ways ready in the ruins. If only those d able sad-
dle-ponies of Lucerne had not come across his wife's
path ! He went at once into the yard and ordered
that the ponies should be abolished ; — sent away, one
and all, to the furthest confines of the canton ; and
then he himself inspected the cushions of the carriage.
AVere they dry ? As it was August in those days, and
August at Lucerne is a warm month, it may be pre-
sumed that they were dry.

He then remembered that he had promised to send
Alice up to his wife, and he hurried back into the
house. She was alone in the breakfast-room, waiting

TIDINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO THE PALLISERS. 285

for him and for his wife. In these days, Mr. Grey
would usually join them at dinner ; but he seldom saw
them before eleven or twelve o'clock in the day. Then
he would saunter in and join Mr. Palliser, and they
would all be together till the evening. When the ex-
pectant father of embryo dukes entered tlie room, Alice
perceived at once that some matter was astir. His
manner was altogether changed, and he showed by his
eye that he was eager and moved beyond his wont.
" Alice," he said, " would you mind going up to Glen-
cora's room? She Wishes to speak to you." He had
never called her Alice before, and as soon as the word
was spoken he remembered himself and blushed.
She is n't ill, I hope ? " said Alice.
No ; — she is n't ill. At least I think she had bet-
ter not get up quite yet. Don't let her excite herself,
if you can help it."

"I '11 go to her at once," said Alice, rising.

" I *m so much obliged to you ; — but, Miss Vava-

sor "

"You called me Alice just now, Mr. Palliser, and I
took it as a great compliment."

He blushed again. " Did I ? Very well. Then
I '11 do it again — if you '11 let me. But, if you please,
do be as calm with her as you can. She is so easily
excited, you know. Of course, if there 's anything
she fancies, we '11 take care to get it for her ; but she
must be kept quiet." Upon this Alice left him, hav-
ing had no moment of time to guess what had hap-
pened, or was about to happen ; and he was again
alone, contemplating the future glories of his house.
Had he a thought for his poor cousin Jeffrey, whose
nose was now so terribly out of joint ? No, indeed.

286 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

His thoughts were all of himself, and the good things
that were coming to him, — of the new world of inter-
est that was being opened for him. It would be bet-
ter to him, this, than being Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer. He would rather have it in store for him to
be father of the next Duke of Omnium, than make
half-a-dozen consecutive annual speeches in Parliament
as to the ways and means, and expenditure of the Brit-
ish nation ! Could it be possible that this foreign tour
had produced for him this good fortune ? If so, how
luckily had things turned out! He would remember
even that ball at Lady Monk's with gratitude. Per-
haps a residence abroad would be best for Lady Glen-
cora at this particular period of her life. If so, abroad
she should certainly live. Before resolving, however,
on anything permanently on this head, he thought
that he might judiciously consult those six first-rate
London physicians, whom, in the first moment of his
excitement, he had been desirous of summoning to
Lucerne.

In the meantime Alice had gone up to the bedroom
of the lady who was now to be the subject of so much
anxious thought. When she entered the room, her
friend was up and in her dressing-gown, lying on a
sofa which stood at the foot of the bed. " Oh, Alice,
I 'm so glad you 've come," said Lady Glencora. " I
do so want to hear your voice." Then Alice knelt
beside her, and asked her if she were ill.

" He has n't told you ? But of course he would n't.
How could he? But, Alice, how did he look? Did
you observe anything about him? Was he pleased? "

'' 1 did observe something, and I think he was
pleased. But what is it? He called me Alice. And

TIDINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO THE PALLISERS. 287

seemed to be quite unlike himself. But what is it?
He told me that 1 was to come to you instantly."

" Oh, Alice, can't you guess? " Then suddenly Alice
did guess the secret, and whispered her guess into Lady
Glencora's ear. " I suppose it is so," said Lady Glen-
cora. " I know what they '11 do. They '11 kill me by
fussing over me. If I could go about my work like a
washerwoman, I should be all right."

" I am so happy," she said, some two or three hours
afterwards. " I won't deny that I am very happy. It
seemed as though I were destined to bring nothing but
misery to everybody, and I used to wish myself dead
so often. I shan't wish myself dead now."

"We shall all have to go home, I suppose? " said
Alice.

"He says so ; — ^but he seems to think that I
ought n't to travel above a mile and a half a day.
When I talked of going down the Rhine in one of the
steamers, I thought he would have gone into a fit.
When I asked him why, he gave me such a look. I
know he '11 make a goose of himself; — and he '11 make
geese of us, too ; which is worse."

On that afternoon, as they were walking together,
Mr. Palliser told the important secret to his new friend,
Mr. Grey. He could not deny himself the pleasure of
talking about this great event. "It is a matter, you
see, of such immense importance to me," Mr. Palliser
said.

" Indeed it is," said Grey. " Every man feels that
when a child is about to be born to him." But this
did not at all satisfy Mr. Palliser.

"Yes," said he. "That 's of course. It is an im-
portant thing to everybody ; — very important, no doubt.

aU CAB Tou roKGivE her?

BtO, wbea a man You see. Grey, I don't think

a man k a iMt better becane be is rich, or bccAaae be
has a title ; qor do I diink he n Hkely to be in any de-
gree the happier. I aln quite snte that be ha* no rigbt
to be in the sUf^test degree proud of that whid he
has bad no hand in doing forfainw^."

" Men wnaQy are vny prood oi such advantage^"
said Grey.

" I don't think that I am ; I doD% iadeed. I am
proud of »ome tfatogs. Whenever J can nuutaK* ts'
carry a point in the House, I feel very pnmd of it. I
don't think 1 ever knocked under to any one, and I am
proud of that." FeHiaps Mr. FalHser was tfiiiddBg <tf
a certain time when hit uncle the Dnke had tfarMtened
him, and he had not given way to the Duke's duxals.
"But I don't think I *m prond becausa dsuice has
made me my uncle's heir."

" Not in the least, I should say."

" But I do feel that a son to me is of more impor-
tance than it is to most men. A strong anxiety on the
subject, is, I think, more excusable in me than it might
be in another. I don't know whether I quite make
myself understood? "

" Oh yes! When there 's a dukedom and Heaven
knows how many thousands a year to be disposed of,
the question of their future ownership does become
important."

" This property is so much more interesting to one,
if one feels that all one does to it is done for one's own

" And yet," said Grey, " of all the great plunderers
of property throughout Europe, the Popes have been
the most greedy."

TIDINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO THE PALLISERS. 289

" Perhaps it *s different when a man can't have a
wife," said Mr. Palliser.

From all this it may be seen that Mr. Palliser and
Mr. Grey had become very intimate. Had chance
brought them together in London they might have met
a score of times before Mr. PaUiser would have thought
of doing more than bowing to such an acquaintance.
Mr. Grey might have spent weeks at Matching, with-
out having achieved anything like intimacy with its
noble owner. But things of that kind progress more
quickly abroad than they do at home. The deck of
an ocean steamer is perhaps the most prolific hotbed
for the growth of sudden friendships ; but a hotel by
the side of a Swiss lake does almost as well.

For some time after this Lady Glencora's conduct
was frequently so indiscreet as to drive her husband
almost to frenzy. On the very day after the news had
been communicated to him, she proposed a picnic, and
made the proposition not only in the presence of Alice,
but in that of Mr. Grey also! Mr. Palliser, on such
an occasion, could not express all that he thought ; but
he looked it.

"What is the matter now, Plantagenet? " said his
wife.

" Nothing," said he ; — "nothing. Never mind."

"And shall we make this party up to the chapel? "

The chapel in question was TelPs chapel, — ever so
far up the lake. A journey in a steamboat would
have been necessary.

" No ! " said he, shouting out his refusal at her.
" We will not."

" You need n't be angry about it," said she ; — as
though he could have failed to be stirred by such a

290 CAK YOU FOROIVB HKK?

proposition at such a time. On another occasion she
returned from an evening walk, showing on her face
some sign of the exercise she had taken.

" Good G ■ ! Glencora/' said he, '' do you mean
to kill yourself ? "

He wanted her to eat six or seven tinus a day ; and
always told her that she was eating too much, remember-
ing some ancient proverb about little and often. He
watched her now as closely as Mrs. Marsham and Mr.
Bott had watched her before ; and she always knew
that he was doing so. She made the matter worse by
continually proposing to do things which she knew he
would not permit, in order that she might enjoy the
fun of seeing his agony and amazement. But this,
though it was fun to her at the moment, produced any-
thing but fun, as its general result

" Upon my word, Alice, I think this will kill me,**
she said. " I am not to stir out of the house now, un-
less I go in the carriage, or he is with me."

" It won't last long."

" I don't know what you call long. As for walking
with him, it *s out of the question. He goes about a
mile an hour. And then he makes me look so much
like a fool. I had no idea that he would be such an
old coddle."

" The coddling will all be given to some one else,
very soon."

" No baby could possibly live through it, if you mean
that. If there is a baby "

" I suppose there will be one, by-and-by," said AHce.

" Don't be a fool! But if there is, I shall take that
matter into my own hands. He can do what he
pleases with me, and I can't help myself ; but I shan't

TIDINGS OF GREAT MOMENT TO THE PALLISERS. 29 1

let him or anybody do what they please with my baby.
I know what I *m about in such matters a great deal
better than he does. I 've no doubt he 's a very clever
man in Parhament ; but he does n't seem to me to
understand anything else."

Alice was making some very wise speech in answer
to this, when Lady Glencora interrupted her.

" Mr. Grey would n*t make himself so troublesome,
I 'm quite sure." Then Ahce held her tongue.

When the first consternation arising from the news
had somewhat subsided, — say in a fortnight from the
day in which Mr. Palliser was made so triumphant, —
and when tidings had been duly sent to the Duke, and
an answer from his Grace had come, arrangements were
made for the return of the party to England. The
l^uke's reply was very short : —

"My dear Plantagenet, — Give my kind love to
Glencora. If it 's a boy, of course I will be one of
the godfathers. The Prince, who is very kind, will per-
haps oblige me by being the other. I should advise
you to return as soon as convenient.

** Your affectionate uncle,

** Omnium."

That was the letter; and short as it was, it was
probably the longest that Mr. Palliser had ever re-
ceived from the Duke.

There was great trouble about the mode of their
return.

** Oh, what nonsense," said Glencora. " Let us get
into an express train, and go right through to London."
Mr. Palliser looked at her with a countenance full of
rebuke and sorrow. He was always so looking at her

292 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

now. " If you mean, Plantagenet, that we are to be
dragged all across the Continent in that horrible car-
riage, and be a thousand days on the road, I for one
won't submit to it" " I wish I had never told him a
word about it," she said afterwards to AHce. " He
would never have found it out himself, till this thing
was all over."

Mr. Palliser did at last consent to take the joint opin-
ion of a Swiss doctor and an English one who was
settled at Berne ; and who, on the occasion, were sum-
moned to Lucerne. They suggested the railway ; and
as letters arrived for Mr. Palliser, — ^medical letters, — ^in
which the same opinion was broached, it was agreed,
at last, that they should return by railway ; but they
were to make various halts on the road, stopping at
each halting-place for a day. The first was, of course,
Basle, and from Basle they were to go on to Baden.

'* I particularly want to see Baden again," Lady
Glencora said ; " and perhaps I may be able to get
back my napoleon."

CHAPTER XXII.

SHOWING WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CHURCHYARD.

These arrangements as to the return of Mr. Palliser's
party to London did not, of course, include Mr. Grey.
They were generally discussed in Mr. Grey's absence,
and communicated to him by Mr. Palliser. " I sup-
pose we shall see you in England before long? " said
Mr. Palliser.

" I shall be able to tell you that before you go,"
said Grey. "Not but that in any event I shall return
to England before the winter."

"Then come to us at Matching," said Mr. Palliser.
"We shall be most happy to have you. Say that
you '11 come for the first fortnight in December. After
that we always go to the Duke, in Barsetshire.
Though, by-the-bye, I don't suppose we shall go any-
where this year," Mr. PaUiser added, interrupting the
warmth of his invitation, and reflecting that, under the
present circumstances, perhaps, it might be improper
to have any guests at Matching in December. But
he had become very fond of Mr. Grey, and on this
occasion, as he had done on some others, pressed him
warmly to make an attempt at Parhament. " It is n't
nearly so difficult as you think," said he, when Grey
declared that he would not know where to look for a
seat. " See the men that get in. There was Mr. Vava-
sor. Even he got a seat."

293

294 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" But he had to pay for it very dearly."
" You might easily find some quiet little borough."
'* Quiet little boroughs have usually got their own
quiet httle members," said Grey.

" They 're fond of change ; and if you like to spend
a thousand pounds, the thing is n't difficult. I '11 put
you in the way of it." But Mr. Grey still declined.
He was not a man prone to be talked out of his own
way of life, and the very fact that George Vavasor had
been in Parliament would of itseK have gone far to-
wards preventing any attempt on his part in that di-
rection. Alice had also wanted him to go into public
life, but he had put aside her request as though the
thing were quite out of the question, — never giving a
moment to its consideration. Had she asked him to
settle himself and her in Central Africa, his manner
and mode of refusal would have been the same. It
was this immobility on his part, — this absolute want of
any of the weakness of indecision, which had frightened
her, and driven her away from him. He was partly
aware of this ; but that which he had declined to do
at her solicitation, he certainly would not do at the
advice of any one else. So it was that he argued the
matter with himself. Had he now allowed himself to
be so counselled, with what terrible acknowledgments
of his own faults must he not have presented himself
before Alice ?

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

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

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CHURCHYARD. 295

live honestly and die fearlessly, he has done about as
much as is necessary."

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

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

But the object which he had now in view was a re-
newal of his engagement with Alice, and he felt that he
must obtain an answer from her before they left Lucerne.

296 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

If she Still persisted in refusing to give him her hand,
it would not be consistent with his dignity as a man to
continue his immediate pursuit of her any longer. In
such case he must leave her, and see what future time
might bring forth. He believed himself to be aware
that he would never offer his love to another woman ;
and if Alice were to remain single, he might try again,
after the lapse of a year or two. But if he failed now,
— then, for that year or two, he would see her no more.
Having so resolved, and being averse to anything hke
a surprise, he asked her, as he left her one evening,
whether she would walk with him on the following
morning ? That morning would be the morning of her
last day at Lucerne ; and as she assented she knew
well what was to come. She said nothing to Lady
Glencora on the subject, but allowed the coming pros-
pects of the Palliser family to form the sole subject of
their conversation that night, as it had done on every
night since the great news had become known. They
were always together for an hour every evening before
Alice was allowed to go to bed, and during this hour the
anxieties of the future father and mother were alwavs
discussed till Alice Vavasor was almost tired of them.
But she was patient with her friend, and on this spe-
cial night she was patient as ever. But when she was
released and was alone, she made a great endeavour to
come to some fixed resolution as to what she would do
on the morrow, — some resolution which should be ab-
solutely resolute, and from which no eloquence on the
part of any one should move her. But such resolu-
tions are not easily reached, and Alice laboured through
half the night almost in vain. She knew that she loved
the man. She knew that he was as true to her as the

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CHURCHYARD. 297

sun is true to the earth. She knew that she would be,
in all respects, safe in his hands. She knew that Lady
Glencora would be delighted, and her father gratified.
She knew that the countesses would open their arms to
her, — ^though I doubt whether this knowledge was in
itself very persuasive. She knew that by such a mar-
riage she would gain all that women generally look to
gain when they give themselves away. But, neverthe-
less, as far as she could decide at all, she decided
against her lover. She had no right of her own to be
taken back after the evil that she had done, and she
did not choose to be taken back as an object of pity
and forgiveness.

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

" I am going to walk, — with Mr. Grey."

" By appointment ? "

" Yes, by appointment. He asked me yesterday."
Then it *s all settled, and you have n't told me! "
All that is settled I have told you very often. He
asked me yesterday to walk with him this morning,
and I could not well refuse him,"

"Why should you have wished to refuse him? "

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

" Alice, you are such a fool ! "

" So you tell me very often."

"Of course he is now going to say the very thing that
he has come all this way for the purpose of saying. He
has been wonderfully slow about it ; but then slow as
he is, you are slower. If you don't make it up with

298 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

him now, I really shall think you are very wicked. I
am becoming like Lady Midlothian ; — I can't under-
stand it. I know you want to be his wife, and I know
he wants to be your husband, and the only thing that
keeps you apart is your obstinacy, — ^just because you
have said you would n't have him. My behef is that
if Lady Midlothian and the rest of us were to pat you
on the back, and tell you how right you were, you *d
ask him to take you, out of defiance. You may be
sure of this, Ahce ; if you refuse him now, it '11 be for
the last time."

This, and much more of the same kind, she bore be-
fore Mr. Grey came to take her, and she answered to
it all as little as she could. " You are making me very
unhappy, Glencora," she said once.

** I wish I could break you down with unhappiness,"
Lady Glencora answered, " so that he might find you
less stiff, and hard, and unmanageable." Directly
upon that he came in, looking as though he had no
business on hand more exciting than his ordinary
morning's tranquil employments. Alice at once got
up to start with him.

" So you and Alice are going to make your adieux,"
said Lady Glencora.

"It must be done sooner or later," said Mr. Grey ;
and then they went off.

Those who know Lucerne, — and almost everybody
now does know Lucerne, — will remember the big hotel
which has been built close to the landing-pier of the
steamers, and will remember also the church that stands
upon a little hill or rising ground, to the left of you, as
you come out of the inn upon the lake. The church is
immediately over the lake, and round the church there

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CHURCHYARD. 299

is a bmying-groiind, and skirting the burying-ground
there are cloisters, through the arches and apertures of
which they who walk and sit there look down imme-
diately upon the blue water, and across the water upon
the frowning menaces of Mount Pilate. It is one
of the prettiest spots in that land of beauty ; and its
charm is to my feeling enhanced by the sepulchral
monuments over which I walk, and by which I am sur-
rounded, as I stand there. Up here, into these cloisters,
Alice and John Grey went together. I doubt whether
he had formed any purpose of doing so. She certainly
would have gone without a question in any direction
that he might have led her. The distance from the
inn up to the church-gate did not take them ten min-
utes, and when they were there their walk was over.
But the place was solitary, and they were alone ; and
it might be as well for Mr. Grey to speak what words
he had to say there as elsewhere. They had often
been together in those cloisters before, but on such oc-
casions either Mr. Palliser or Lady Glencora had been
with them. On their slow passage up the hill very
little was spoken, and that little was of no moment.

" We will go in here for a few minutes," he said. " It
is the prettiest spot about Lucerne, and we don't know
when we may see it again." So they went in, and sat
down on one of the embrasures that open from the
cloisters over the lake.

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

She shuddered as she remembered that in that
former year George Vavasor had been with her. As
she thought of it all she hated herself. Over and over
again she had told herself that she had so mismanaged

300 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

the latter years of her life that it was impossible for
her not to hate herself. No woman had a clearer idea
of feminine constancy than she had, and no woman
had sinned against that idea more deeply. He gave
her time to think of all this as he sat there looking
down upon the water.

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

Why so? "

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

I should like to live in a pretty country."

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

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

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

ft
tt

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CHURCHYARD. 30I

*' What consideration? "

" Because Nethercoats is not so pretty as Lucerne."

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

*' It should have nothing to do with it."

" Nothing ; nothing at all," repeated Alice.

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

" You want no counsellor, Mr. Grey."

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

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

" It was a poor boast."

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

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

" Why cannot it be ? "

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

" But I do. There has never been an hour with
me in which there has been an offence of yours rank-

302 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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

" No ; — no, no! " she ejaculated.

*' But the storm passes over the tree and does not
tear it up by the roots or spoil it of all its symmetry.
When we hear the winds blowing, and see how the
poor thing is shaken, we think that its days are num-
bered and its destruction at hand. Alice, when the
winds were shaking you, and you were torn and buf-
feted, I never thought so. There may be some who
will forgive you slowly. Your own self-forgiveness
will be slow. But I, who have known you better than
any one, — yes, better than any one, — I have forgiven
you everything, have forgiven you instantly. Come
to me, Alice, and comfort me. Come to me, for I
want you sorely.'* She sat quite still, looking at the
lake and the mountain beyond, but she said nothing,
''hat could she say to him ? " My need of you is

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CHURCHYARD. 303

much greater now," he went on to say, " than when I
first asked you to share the world with me. Then I
could have borne to lose you, as I had never boasted
to myself that you were my own, — ^had never pictured
to myself the life that might be mine if you were al-
ways to be with me. But since that day I have had
no other hope, — ^no other hope but this for which I
plead now. Am I to plead in vain ? "

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

"But it was I you loved. Ah! Alice, I can for-
give that. Do I not tell you that I did forgive it the
moment that I heard it ? Do you not hear me say
that I never for a moment thought that you would
marry him ? Alice, you should scold me for my vanity,
for I have believed all through that you loved me, and
me only. Come to me, dear, and tell me that it is so,
and the past shall be only as a dream."
I am dreaming it always," said Alice.
They will cease to be bitter dreams if your head
be upon my shoulder. You will cease to reproach your-
self when you know that you have made me happy."

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

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

304 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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

** And you. think so still. Is that it ? "

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

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

Then he stopped his speech, and waited for a reply ;
but Alice sat silent beneath his gaze, with her eyes
turned upon the tombstones beneath her feet. Of
course she had no choice but to yield. He, possessed
of j)ower and force infinitely greater than hers, had left
her no alternative but to be happy. But there still
clung to her what I fear we must call a perverseness
of obstinacy, a desire to maintain the resolution she
had made, — a wish that she might be allowed to un-
dergo the punishment she had deserved. She was as
a prisoner who would fain cling to his prison after par-

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE CHURCHYARD. 305

don has reached him, because he is conscious that the
pardon is undeserved. And it may be that there was
still left within her bosom some remnant of that feel-
ing of rebellion which his masterful spirit had ever
produced in her. He was so imperious in his tran-
quilhty, he argued his question of love with such a
manifest preponderance of right on his side, that she
had always felt that to yield to him would be to con-
fess the omnipotence of his power. She knew now that
she must yield to him, — ^that his power over her was
omnipotent. She was pressed by him as in some coun-
tries the prisoner is pressed by the judge, — so pressed
that she acknowledged to herself silently that any further
antagonism to him was impossible. Nevertheless, the
word which she had to speak still remained unspoken,
and he stood over her, waiting for her answer. Then
slowly he sat down beside her, and gradually he put
his arm round her waist. She shrank from him, back
against the stonework of the embrasure, but she could
not shrink away from his grasp. She put up her hand
to impede his, but his hand, like his character and his
words, was full of power. It would not be impeded.
** Alice," he said, as he pressed her close with his arm,
** the battle is over now, and I have won it."

*' You win everything, — always," she said, whisper-
ing to him, as she still shrank from his embrace.

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

CHAPTER XXIII.

ROUGE ET NOIR.

Alice insisted on being left up in the churchyard,
urging that she wanted to " think about it all," but, in
truth, fearing that she might not be able to carry her-
self well, if she were to walk down with her lover to
the hotel. To this he made no objection, and, on
reaching the inn, met Mr. Palliser in the hall. Mr.
Palliser was already inspecting the arrangement of cer-
tain large trunks which had been brought downstairs,
and was preparing for their departure. He was going
about the house, with a nervous solicitude to do some-
thing, and was flattering himself that he was of use.
As he could not be Chancellor of the Exchequer, and
as, by the nature of his disposition, some employment
was necessary to him, he was looking to the cording
of the boxes. "Good-morning! good-morning!" he
said to Grey, hardly looking at him, as though time
were too precious with him to allow of his turning his
eyes upon his friend. '' I am going up to the station
to see after a carriage for to-morrow. Perhaps you '11
come with me." To this proposition Mr. Grey as-
sented. " Sometimes, you know," continued Mr. Pal-
liser, '* the springs of the carriages are so very rough."
Then, in a very few words, Mr. Grey told him what
had been his own morning's work. He hated secrets

and secrecy, and as the Pallisers knew well what had

306

ROUGE ET NOIR. 307

brought him upon their track, it was, he thought, well
that they should know that he had been successful.
Mr. Palliser congratulated him very cordially, and then,
running upstairs for his gloves or his stick, or, more
probably, that he might give his wife one other caution
as to her care of herself, he told her also that Alice
had yielded at last. " Of course she has," said Lady
Glencora.

" I really did n't think she would," said he.

" That 's because you don't understand things of
that sort," said his wife. Then the caution was re-
peated, the mother of the future duke was kissed, and
Mr. Palliser went off on his mission about the carriage,
its cushions, and its springs. In the course of their
walk Mr. Palliser suggested that, as things were settled
so pleasantly, Mr. Grey might as well return with them
to England, and to this suggestion Mr. Grey assented.

Alice remained alone for nearly an hour, looking
out upon the rough sides and gloomy top of Mount
Pilate. No one distiu"bed her in the churchyard, —
no steps were heard along the tombstones, — ^no voice
sounded through the cloisters. She was left in perfect
solitude to think of the past, and form her plans of the
future. Was she happy, now that the manner of her
life to come was thus settled for her ; that all further
question as to the disposal of herself was taken out of
her hands, and that her marriage with a man she loved
was so firmly arranged that no further folly of her own
could disarrange it ? She was happy, though she was
slow to confess her happiness to herself. She was
happy, and she was resolute in this, — that she would
now do all she could to make him happy also. And
there must now, she acknowledged, be an end to her

3o8 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

pride, — to that pride which had hitherto taught her to
think that she could more wisely follow her own guid-
ance than that of any other who might claim to guide
her. She knew now that she must follow his guidance.
She had found her master, as we sometimes say, and
laughed to herself with a little inward laughter as she
confessed that it was so. She was from henceforth
altogether in his hands. If he chose to tell her that
they were to be married at Michaelmas, or at Christ-
mas, or on Lady Day, they would, of course, be married
accordingly. She had taken her fling at having her
own will, and she and all her friends had seen what
had come of it. She had assumed the command of
the ship, and had thrown it upon the rocks, and she
felt that she never ought to take the captain's place
again. It was well for her that he who was to be
captain was one whom shd respected as thoroughly as
she loved him.

She would write to her father at once, to her father
and Lady Macleod, — and would confess everything.
She felt that she owed it to them that they should be
told by herself that they had been right and that she
had been wrong. Hitherto she had not mentioned to
either of them the fact that Mr. Grey was with them
in Switzerland. And, then, what must she do as to
Lady Midlothian? As to Lady Midlothian, she would
do nothing. Lady Midlothian, of course, would
triumph; — would jump upon her, as Lady Glencora
had once expressed it, with very triumphant heels,
— would try to patronise her, or, which would be al-
most worse, would make a parade of her forgiveness.
But she would have nothing to do with Lady Mid-
lothian, unless, indeed, Mr. Grey should order it. Then

ROUGE ET NOIR. 309

she laughed at herself again with that inward laughter,
and, rising from her seat, proceeded to walk down the
hill to the hotel.

" Vanquished at last ! " said Lady Glencora, as Alice
entered the room.

** Yes, vanquished ; if you like to call it so," said
Alice.

'* It is not what I call it, but what you feel it," said
the other. " Do you think that I don't know you
well enough to be sure that you regard yourself now
as an unfortunate prisoner, — as a captive taken in war,
to be led away in triumph, without any hope of a ran-
som? I know that it is quite a misery to you that you
should be made a happy woman of at last. I under-
stand it all, my dear, and my heart bleeds for you."

"Of course ; I knew that was the way you would
treat me."

" In what way would you have me treat you? If I
were to hug you with joy, and tell you how good he
is, and how fortunate you are, — if I were to praise
him, and bid you triumph in your success, as might be
expected on such an occasion, — you would put on a
long face at once, and tell me that though the thing is.
to be, it would be much better that the thing should n't
be. Don't I know you, Alice ? "

" I should n't have said that ; — not now."

" I believe in my heart you would ; — that, or some-
thing like it. But I do wish you joy all the same, and
you may say what you please. He has got you in his
power now, and I don't think even you can go back."

" No ; I shall not go back again."

** I would join with Lady Midlothian in putting you
into a madhouse, if you did. But I am so glad ; I

310 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

am, indeed. I was afraid to the last, — terribly afraid ;
you are so hard and so proud. I don't mean hard. to
me, dear. You hav6 never been half hard enough
to me. But you are hard to yourself, and, upon my
word, you have been hard to him. What a deal you
will have to make up to him ! "

" I feel that I ought to stand before him always as
a penitent, — in a white sheet."

"He will like it better, I dare say, if you will sit
upon his knee. Some penitents do, you know. And
how happy you will be! He '11 never explain the
sugar-duties to you, and there '11 be no Mr. Bott at
Nethercoats." They sat together the whole morning,
— while Mr. Palliser was seeing to the springs and
cushions, — and by degees Ahce began to enjoy her
happiness. As she did so her friend enjoyed it with
her, and at last they had something of the comfort and
excitement which such an occasion should give. " I '11
tell you what, Alice ; you shall come and be married
at Matching, in August, or perhaps September. That 's
the only way in which I can be present ; and if we
can bespeak some sun, we '11 have the breakfast out in
the ruins."

On the following morning they all started together,
a first-class compartment having been taken for the
Palliser family, and a second-class compartment close
to them for the Palliser servants. Mr. Palliser, as he
slowly handed his wife in, was a triumphant man ; as
was also Mr. Grey, as he handed in his lady-love,
though in a manner much less manifest. We may say
that both the gentlemen had been very fortunate while
at Lucerne. Mr. Palliser had come abroad with a
feeling that all the world had been cut from under

ROUGE ET NOIR. 31I

his feet. A great change was needed for his wife, and
he had acknowledged at once that everything must be
made to yield to that necessity. He certainly had his
reward, — ^now in his triumphant return. Terrible
troubles had afflicted him as he went, which seemed
now to have dissipated themselves altogether. When he
thought of Burgo Fitzgerald he remembered him only
as a poor, unfortunate fellow, for whom he should be
glad to do something, if the doing of anything were
only in his power ; and he had in his pocket a letter
which he had that morning received from the Duke
of St. Bungay, marked private and confidential, which
Was in its nature very private and confidential, and in
which he was told that Lord Brock and Mr. Finespun
were totally at variance about French wines. Mr.
Finespun wanted to do something, now in the recess,
^to send some poHtical agent over to France, — to
which Lord Brock would not agree ; and no one knew
what would be the consequence of this disagreement.
Here might be another chance, — if only Mr. Palliser
could give up his winter in Italy ! Mr. Palliser, as he
took his place opposite his wife, was very triumphant.
And Mr. Grey was triumphant, as he placed himself
gently in his seat opposite to Alice. He seemed to
assume no right, as he took that position apparently
because it was the one which came naturally to his lot.
No one would have been made aware that Alice was
his own simply by seeing his arrangements for her
comfort. He made no loud assertion as to his prop-
erty and his rights, as some men do. He was quiet
and subdued in his joy, but not the less was he tri-
umphant. From the day on which Alice had accepted
his first offer, — nay, from an earlier day than that;

312 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

from the day on which he had first resolved to make
it, down to the present hour, he had never been stirred
from his purpose. By every word that he had said,
and by every act that he had done, he had shown
himself to be unmoved by that episode in their joint
lives, which Alice's other friends had regarded as so
fatal. When she first rejected him, he would not take
his rejection. When she told him that she intended to
marry her cousin, he silently declined to believe that
such marriage would ever take place. He had never
given her up for a day, and now the event proved that
he had been right. Alice was happy, very happy ;
but she was still disposed to regard her lover as Fate,
and her happiness as an enforced necessity.

They stopped a night at Basle, and again she stood
upon the balcony. He was, close to her as she stood
there, — so close that, putting out her hand for his, she
was able to take it and press it closely. *' You are
thinking of something, Alice," he said. '* What is it ? "

" It was here," she said, — ** here, on this very bal-
cony, that I first rebelled against you, and now you
have brought me here that I should confess and sub-
mit on the same spot. I do confess. How am I to
thank you for forgiving me? "

On the following morning they went on to Baden-
Baden, and there they stopped for a couple of days.
Lady Glencora had positively refused to stop a day at
Basle, making so many objections to the place that
her husband had at last yielded. " I could go from
Vienna to London without feeling it," she said, with
indignation ; ** and to tell me that I can't do two easy
days' journey running ! " Mr. Palliser had been afraid
to be imperious, and therefore, immediately on hi^

ROUGE ET NOIR. 313

arrival at one of the stations in Basle, he had posted
across the town, in the heat and the dust, to look after
the cushions and the springs at the other.

'* I 've a particular favour to ask of you," Lady
Glencora said to her husband, as soon as they were
alone together in their rooms at Baden. Mr. Palliser
declared that he would grant her any particular favour,
—only premising that he was not to be supposed to
have thereby committed himself to any engagement
under which his wife should have authority to take any
exertion upon herself. " I wish I were a milkmaid,"
said Lady Glencora.

" But you are not a milkmaid, my dear. You
have n*t been brought up like a milkmaid."

But what was the favour? If she would only ask
for jewels, — ^though they were the Grand Duchess's
diamond eardrops, he would endeavour to get them
for her. If she would have quaffed molten pearls, like
Cleopatra, he would have procured the beverage, —
having first fortified himself with a medical opinion as
to the fitness of the drink for a lady in her condition.
There was no expenditure that he would not willingly
incur for her, nothing costly that he would grudge.
But when she asked for a favour, he was always afraid
of an imprudence. Very possibly she might want to
drink beer in an open garden.

And her request was, at last, of this nature : "I want
you to take me up to the gambling-rooms," said she.

" The gambling-rooms! " said Mr. Palliser in dismay.

"Yes, Plantagenet; the gambling-rooms. If you
had been with me before, I should not have made a
fool of myself by putting my piece of money on the
t^ble» I want to see the place ; but then I saw noth-

314 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

ing, because I was so frightened when I found that I
was winning."

Mr. Palliser was aware that all the world of Baden,
— or rather the world of the strangers at Baden, — as-
sembles itself in those salons. It may be also that he
himself was curious to see how men looked when they
lost their own money, or won that of others. He
knew how a Minister looked when he lost or gained a
tax. He was familiar with millions and tens of mill-
ions in a committee of the whole House. He knew
the excitement of a near division upon the estimates.
But he had never yet seen a poor man stake his last
napoleon, and rake back from off the table a small
hatful of gold. A httle exercise after an early dinner
was, he had been told, good for his wife; and he
agreed therefore that, on their second evening at
Baden, they would all walk up and see the play.

*' Perhaps I shall get back my napoleon," said Glen-
cora to Alice.

** And perhaps I shall be forgiven when somebody
sees how difficult it is to manage you," said Ahce,
looking at Mr. Palliser.

" She is n't in earnest," said Mr. Palliser, almost
fearing the result of the experiment.

" I don't know that," said Lady Glencora.

They started together, Mr. Palliser with his wife, and
Mr. Grey with Alice on his arm, and found all the
tables at work. They at first walked through the dif-
ferent rooms, whispering to each other their comments
on the people that they saw, and listening to the quick,
low, monotonous words of the croupiers as they ar-
ranged and presided over the games. Each table was
closely suiTounded by its own crowd, made up of

ROUGE ET NOIR. 315

players, embryo players, and simple lookers-on, so that
they could not see much as they walked. But this was
not enough for Lady Glencora. She was anxious to
know what these men and women were doing, — to see
whether the croupiers wore horns on their heads and
were devils indeed, — to behold the faces of those who
were wretched and of those who were triumphant, — to
know how the thing was done, and to learn something
of that lesson in life. " Let us stand here a moment,"
she said to her husband, arresting him at one comer of
the table which had the greatest crowd. " We shall
be able to see in a few minutes." So he stood with
her there, giving way to Ahce, who went in front with
his wife ; and in a minute or two an aperture was
made, so that they could all see the marked cloth, and
the money lying about, and the rakes on the table, and
the croupier skilfully dealing his cards, and, — more in-
teresting than all the rest, the faces of those who were
playing. Grey looked on, over Alice's shoulder, very
attentively, — as did Palliser also, — but both of them
kept their eyes upon the ministers of the work. Alice
and Glencora did the same at first, but as they gained
courage they glanced round upon the gamblers.

It was a long table, having, of course, four corners,
and at the comer appropriated by them they were
partly opposite to the man who dealt the cards. The
comer answering to theirs at the other end was the
part of the table most removed from their sight, and
that on which their eyes fell last. As Lady Glencora
stood she could hardly see, — indeed, at first she could
not see, — one or two who were congregated at this
spot. Mr. Palliser, who was behind her, could not see
them at all. But to Alice, — and to Mr. Grey, had he

3l6 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

cared about it, — every face at the table was visible ex-
cept the faces of those who were immediately close to
them. Before long Alice's attention was riveted on
the action and countenance of one young man who
sat at that other corner. He was leaning, at first list-
lessly, over the table, dressed in a velveteen jacket,
and with his round-topped hat brought far over his
eyes, so that she could not fully see his face. But she
had hardly begun to observe him before he threw back
his hat, and taking some pieces of gold from under his
left hand, which lay upon the table, pushed three or
four of them on to one of the divisions marked on the
cloth. He seemed to show no care, as others did, as
to the special spot which they should occupy. Many
were very particular in this respect, placing their vent-
ures on the lines, so as to share the fortunes of two
compartments, or sometimes of four ; or they divided
their coins, taking three or four numbers, selecting the
numbers with almost grotesque attention to some im-
agined rule of their own. But this man let his gold
go all together, and left it where his half-stretched
rake deposited it by chance. Alice could not but look
at his face. His eyes she could see were bloodshot,
and his hair, when he pushed back his hat, was rough
and dishevelled ; but still there was that in his face
which no woman could see and not regard. It was a
face which at once prepossessed her in his favour^ —
as it had always prepossessed all others. On this oc-
casion he had won his money, and AHce saw him drag
it in as lazily as he had pushed it out.

" Do you see that Httle Frenchman? " said Lady
Glencora. "He has just made half a napoleon, and has
walked off with it. Is n't it interesting? I could stay

ROUGE ET NOIR. 317

here all the night." Then she turned round to whisper
something to her husband, and Alice*s eyes again fell
on the face of the man at the other end of the table.
After he had won his money, he had allowed the game
to go on for a turn without any action on his part.
The gold again went under his hand, and he lounged
forward with his hat over his eyes. One of the crou-
piers had said a word, as though calling his attention
to the game, but he had merely shaken his head. But
when the fate of the next turn had been decided, he
again roused himself, and on this occasion, as far as
Alice could see, pushed his whole stock forward with
the rake. There was a little mass of gold, and, from
his manner of placing it, all might see that he left its
position to chance. One piece had got beyond its
boundary, and the croupier pushed it back with some
half-expressed inquiry as to his correctness. "All
right," said a voice in English. Then Lady Glencora
started and clutched AHce's arm with her hand. Mr.
Palliser was explaining to Mr. Grey, behind them,
something about German finance as connected with
gambling- tables, and did not hear the voice, or see his
wife's motion. I need hardly tell the reader that the
gambler was Burgo Fitzgerald.

But Lady Glencora said not a word, — not as yet.
She looked forward very gently, but still with eager
e5{es, till she could just see the face she knew so well.
His hat was now pushed back and his countenance had
lost its listlessness. He watched narrowly the face of
the man as he told out the amount of the cards as they
were dealt. He did not try to hide his anxiety, and
when, after the telling of some six or seven cards, he
heard a certain number named, and a certain colour

3l8 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

called, he made some exclamation which even Glen-
cora could not hear. And then another croupier put
down, close to Burgo's money, certain rolls of gold
done up in paper, and also certain loose napoleons.

"Why does n't he take it? " said Lady Glencora.

** He is taking it," said Alice, not at all knowing the
cause of her cousin's anxiety.

Burgo had paused a moment, and then prepared to
rake the money to him ; but as he did so, he changed
his mind, and pushed it all back again, — now, on this
occasion, being very careful to place it on its former
spot. Both Alice and Glencora could see that a man
at his elbow was dissuading him, — had even attempted
to stop the arm which held the rake. But Burgo
shook him off, speaking to him some word roughly,
and then again he steadied the rolls upon their ap-
pointed place. The croupier, who had paused for a
moment, now went on quickly with his cards, and in
two minutes the fate of Burgo's wealth was decided.
It was all drawn back by the croupier's unimpassioned
rake, and the rolls of gold were restored to the tray
from whence they had been taken.

Burgo looked up and smiled at them all round the
table. By this time most of those who stood around
were looking at him. He was a man who gathered
eyes upon him wherever he might be, or whatever
he was doing ; and it had been clear that he was
very intent upon his fortune, and on the last occasion
the amount staked had been considerable. He knew
that men and women were looking at him, and there-
fore he smiled faintly as he turned his eyes round the
table. Then he got up, and, putting his hands in his
trousers pockets, whistled as he walked away. His

ROUGE ET NOIR. 319

companion followed him, and laid a hand upon his
shoulder; but Burgo shook him off, and would not
turn round. He shook him off, and walked on whist-
ling, the length of the whole salon.

** Alice," said Lady Glencora, "it is Burgo Fitzger-
ald." Mr. Palliser had gone so deep into that ques-
tion of German finance that he had not at all noticed
the gambler. "Alice, what can we do for him? It
is Burgo," said Lady Glencora.

Many eyes were now watching him. Used as he
was to the world and to misfortune, he was not suc-
cessful in his attempt to bear his loss with a show of
indifference. The motion of his head, the position of
his hands, the tone of his whistling, all told the tale.
Even the unimpassioned croupiers furtively cast an
eye after him, and a very big guard, in a cocked hat,
and uniform, and sword, who hitherto had hardly been
awake, seemed evidently to be interested by his move-
ments. If there is to be a tragedy at these places, —
and tragedies will sometimes occur, — it is always as
well that the tragic scene should be as far removed as
possible from the salons, in order that the public eye
should not suffer.

Lady Glencora and Ahce had left their places, and
had shrunk back, almost behind a pillar. " Is it he,
in truth? " Ahce asked.

" In very truth," said Glencora. " What can I do ?
Can I do anything ? Look at him, Alice. If he were
to destroy himself, what should I do then? "

Burgo, conscious that he was the regarded of all
eyes, turned round upon his heel and again walked the
length of the salon. He knew well that he had not a
franc left in his possession, but still he laughed and

320 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

Still he whistled. His companion, whoever he might
be, had slunk away from him, not caring to share the
notoriety which now attended him.

** What shall I do, Alice? " said Lady Glencora, with
her eyes still fixed on him who had been her lover.

" Tell Mr. PalHser," whispered Ahce.

Lady Glencora immediately ran up to her husband,
and took him away from Mr. Grey. Rapidly she told
her story, — ^with such rapidity that Mr. Palliser could
hardly get in a word. " Do something for him ; — do,
do. Unless I know that something is done, I shall
die. You need n't be afraid."

" I 'm not afraid," said Mr. Palliser.

Lady Glencora, as she went on quickly, got hold
of her husband's hand, and caressed it. " You are so
good," said she. *' Don't let him out of your sight.
There ; he is going. I will go home with Mr. Grey.
I will be ever so good ; I will, indeed. You know
what he '11 want, and for my sake you '11 let him have
it. But don't let him gamble. If you could only get
him home to England, and then do something. You
owe him something, Plantagenet ; do you not? "

" If money can do anything, he shall have it."

"God bless you, dearest! I shall never see him
again; but if you could save him! There; — he is
going now. Go; — go." She pushed him forward,
and then retreating, put her arm within Mr. Grey's,
still keeping her eye upon her husband.

Burgo, when he first got to the door leading out of
the salon, had paused a moment, and, turning round,
had encountered the big gendarme close to him.
" Well, old Buffer, what do you want ? " said he, ac-
costing the man in English. The big gendarme simply

ROUGE ET NOIR. 32 1

walked on through the door, and said nothing. Then
Burgo also passed out, and Mr. Palliser quickly went
after him. They were now in tlie large front salon,
from whence the chief door of the building opened out
upon the steps. Through this door Burgo went with-
out pausing, and Mr. Palliser went after him. They
both walked to the end of the row of buildings, and
then Burgo, leaving the broad way, turned into a little
path which led up through the trees to the hills. That
hill -side among the trees is a popular resort at Baden,
during the day ; but now, at nine in the evening, it
was deserted. Palliser did not press on the other
man, but followed him, and did not accost Burgo till
he had thrown himself on the grass beneath a tree.

"You are in trouble, I fear, Mr. Fitzgerald," said
Mr. Palliser, as soon as he was close at Burgo's feet.

" We will go home. Mr. Palliser has something to
do," said Lady Glencora to Mr. Grey, as soon as the
two men had disappeared from her sight.

'* Is that a friend of Mr. Palliser? " said Mr. Grey.

" Yes ; — that is, he knows him, and is interested
about him. Alice, shall we go home ? Oh ! Mr. Grey,
you must not ask any questions. He, — Mr. Palliser,
will tell you everything when he sees you, — that is, if
there is anything to be told." Then they all went
home, and soon separated for the night. " Of course
I shall sit up for him," said Lady Glencora to Alice,
"but I will do it in my own room. You can tell
Mr. Grey, if you like." But Alice told nothing to Mr.
Grey, nor did Mr. Grey ask any questions.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE LANDLORD'S BILL.

"You are in trouble, Mr. Fitzgerald, I fear," said
Mr. Palliser, standing over Burgo as he lay upon the
ground. They were now altogether beyond the gas-
lights, and the evening was dark. Burgo, too, was
lying with his face to the ground, expecting that the
footsteps which he had heard would pass by him.

"Who is that?" said he, turning round suddenly ;
but still he was not at once able to recognise Mr. Pal-
liser, whose voice was hardly known to him.

" Perhaps I have been wrong in following you," said
Mr. Palliser, " but I thought you were in distress, and
that probably I might help you. My name is PaUiser."

'* Plantagenet Palliser ? " said Burgo, jumping up on
to his legs and looking close into the other's face.
"By heavens! it is Plantagenet Palliser! Well, Mr.
Palliser, what do you want of me ? "

" I want to be of some use to you, if I can. I and
my wife saw you leave the gaming-table just now."

" Is she here too? "

"Yes; — she is here. We are going home, but
chance brought us up to the salon. She seemed to
think that you are in distress, and that I could help
you. I will, if you will let me."

Mr. Palliser, during the whole interview, felt that he
could afford to be generous. He knew that he had

322

THE landlord's BILL. 323

no further cause for fear. He had no lingering dread
of this poor creature who stood before him. All that
feeling was over, though it was as yet hardly four
months since he had been sent back bv Mrs. Marsham
to Lady Monk's house to save his wife, if saving her
were yet possible.

" So she is here, is she ; — and saw me there when I
staked my last chance ? I should have had over
twenty thousand francs now, if the cards had stood to
me."

" The cards never do stand to any one, Mr. Fitz-
gerald."

" Never ; — ^never, — never ! " said Burgo. " At any
rate, they never did to me. Nothing ever does stand
to me."

" If you want twenty thousand francs, — that 's eight
hundred pounds, I think, — I can let you have it with-
out any trouble."

The devil you can! "

Oh yes. As I am travelling with my family — " I
wonder whether Mr. Palliser considered himself to be
better entitled to talk of his family than he had been
some three or four weeks back — "as I am travelling
with my family, I have been obliged to carry large
bills with me, and I can accommodate you without
any trouble."

There was something pleasant in this, which made
Burgo Fitzgerald laugh. Mr. Palliser, the husband
of Lady Glencora M'Cluskie, and the heir of the Duke
of Omnium, happening to have money with him! As
if Mr. Palliser could not bring down showers of money
in any quarter of the globe by simply holding up his
hand. And then to talk of accommodating him, —

n
it

324 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

him, Burgo Fitzgerald, as though it were simply a little
matter of convenience, — as though Mr. Palliser would
of course find the money at his bankers' when he next
examined his book! Burgo could not but laugh.

" I was not in the least doubting your ability to raise
the money," said he ; " but how would you propose to
get it back again? "

"That would be at your convenience," said Mr.
Palliser, who hardly knew how to put himself on a
proper footing with his companion, so that he might
offer to do something effectual for the man's aid.

" I never have any such convenience," said Burgo.
*' Who were those women whose tubs always had holes
at the bottom of them? My tub always has such a
hole."

" You mean the daughters of Danaus," said Mr.
Palliser.

*' I don't know whose daughters they were, but you
might just as well lend them all eight hundred pounds
apiece."

" There were so many of them," said Mr. Palliser,
trying a little joke. " But as you are only one I shall
be most happy, as I said before, to be of service."

They were now walking slowly together up towards
the hills, and near to them they heard a step. Upon
this, Burgo turned round.

" Do you see that fellow? " said he. Mr. PaUiser,
who was somewhat short-sighted, said that he did not
see him. '' I do, though. I don't know his name, but
thcv have sent him out from the hotel with me, to see
what I do with myself. I owe them six or seven hun-
dred francs, and they want to turn me out of the
house and not let me take my things with me."

THE landlord's BILL. 325

"That would be very uncomfortable," said Mr.
Palliser.

" It would be uncomfortable, but I shall be too
many for them. If they keep my traps they shall keep
me. They think I 'm going to blow my brains out.
That 's what ' they think. The man lets me go far
enough off to do that, — so long as it *s nowhere about
the house."

** I hope you 're not thinking of such a thing? "

" As long as I can help it, Mr. Palliser, I never think
of anything." The stranger was now standing near to
them, — almost so near that he might hear their words.
Burgo, perceiving this, walked up to him, and, speak-
ing in bad French, desired him to leave them. " Don't
you see that I have a friend with me? "

" Oh ! a friend," said the man, answering in bad
English. " Perhaps de friend can advance moneys? "

" Never mind what he can do," said Burgo. " You
do as you are bid, and leave me."

Then the gentleman from the hotel retreated down
the hill, but Mr. Palliser, during the rest of the inter-
view, frequently fancied that he heard the man's foot-
fall at no great distance.

They continued to walk on up the hill very slowly,
and it was some time before Mr. Palliser knew how to
repeat his offer.

" So Lady Glencora is here ? " Burgo said again.

"Yes, she is here. It was she who asked me to
come to you," Mr. Palliser answered. Then they both
walked on a few steps in silence, for neither of them
knew how to address the other.

"By George! — isn't it odd," said Burgo, at last,
" that you and I, of all men in the world, should be

3a6 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER ?

walking together here at Baden ? It 's not only that
you "re the richest man in London, and that I 'm the

poorest, but ; there are other things, you know,

which make it so funny."

"There have been things which make me and my
wife very anxious to give you aid."

" And liave you considered, Mr. Palliser, that those
things make you the very man in ihe world, — indeed,
for the matter of that, the only man in the world, —
rom whom I can't take aid ? I would have taken it
dl if I could have got it, — and I tried hard."

" I know you have been disappointed, Mr. Fitz-
gerald,"

"Disappointed! By G ! yes. Did you ever

know any man who had so much right to be disap-
pointed as I have? I did love her, Mr. Palliser.
Nay, by heavens! I do love her. Out here I will
dare to say as much even to you. I shall never try to
see her again. All that is over, of course. I 've been
a fool about her as I have been about everything.
But I did love her."

" I believe it, Mr. Fitzgerald."

" It was not altogether her money. But think what
it would have been to me, Mr. PalJiser. Think what
a chance I had, and what a chance I lost. I should
have been at the top of everything, — as now I am at
the bottom. I should not have spent that. There
would have been enough of it to have saved me. And
then I might have done something good instead of
crawling about almost in fear of that beast who is
watching us."

" It has been ordered otherwise," said Mr. Palliser,
not knowing what to say.

THE LANDLORD*S BILL. 327

" Yes ; it has been ordered, with a vengeance ! It
seems to have been ordered that I 'm to go to the
devil ; but I don't know who gave the orders, and I
don't know why."

Mr. Palliser had not time to explain to his friend
that the orders had been given, in a very peremptory
way, by himself, as he was anxious to bring back the
conversation to his own point. He wished to give
some serviceable, and, if possible, permanent aid to the
poor ne'er-do-well ; but he did not wish to talk more
than could be helped about his own wife.

" There is an old saying, which you will remember
well," said he, " that the way to good manners is never
too late."

" That 's nonsense," said Burgo. " It 's too late when
the man feels the knot round his neck at the Old Bailey."

*' Perhaps not, even then. Indeed, we may say,
certainly not, if the man be still able to take the right
way. But I don't want to preach to you."
It would n't do any good, you know."
But I do want to be of service to you. There is
something of truth in what you say. You have been
disappointed ; and I, perhaps, of all men am the most
bound to come to your assistance now that you are in
need."

" How can I take it from you ? " said Burgo, almost
crying.

" You shall take it from her ! "

" No ; — that would be worse ; twenty times worse.
What! take her money, when she would not give me
herself!"

"I do not see why you should not borrow her
money, — or mine. You shall call it which you will."

328 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

' No ; I won't have it."
" And what will you do then ? "
"What will I do? Ah! that 's the question. I
don't know what I will do. I have the key of my
bedroom in my pocket, and I will go to bed to-night.
It 's not very often that I look forward much beyond
that."

'* Will you let me call on you to-morrow ? "
" I don't see what good it will do. I shan't get up
till late, for fear they should shut the room against me.
I might as well have as much out of them as I can.
I think I shall say I 'm ill, and keep my bed."
" Will you take a few napoleons ? "
*' No ; not a rap. Not from you. You are the first
man from whom I ever refused to borrow money, and
I should say that you '11 be about the last to offer to
lend it me."

'' I don't know what else I can offer ? " said Mr.
Palliser.

*'You can offer nothing. If you will say to your
wife from me that I bade her adieu ; — that is all you
can do for me. Good-night, Mr. Palliser ; good-night."
Mr. Palliser left him and went his way, feeling that
he had no further eloquence at his command. He
shook Burgo's hand, and then walked quickly down
the hill. As he did so, he passed, or would have
passed the man, who had been dodging them.

Misther, Misther ! " said the man in a whisper.
What do you want of me ? " asked Mr. PaUiser, in
French.

Then the man spoke in French also. " Has he got
any money? Have you given him any money? "
" I have not given him any money," said Mr. Pal-

f(
ft
((

THE landlord's BILL. 329

liser, not quite knowing what he had better do or say
under such circumstances.

" Then he will have a bad time with it," said the
man. " And he might have carried away two thou-
sand francs just now! Dear, dear, dear! Has he got
any friends, sir ? "

" Yes, he has friends. I do not know that I can
assist him, or you."

Fitzgerald ; — ^his name is Fitzgerald? "

Yes," said Mr. Palliser ; "his name is Fitzgerald."

Ah! There are so many Fitzgeralds in England.

Mr. Fitzgerald, London ; — he has no other address ? "

" If he had, and I knew it, I should not give it you

without his sanction."

" But what shall we do ? How shall we act ? Per-
haps with his own hand he will himself kill. For
five weeks his pension he owes ; yes, for five weeks.
And for wine, oh, so much! There came through
Baden a my lord, and then I think he got money.
But he went and played. That was of course. But ;

oh my G ! he might have carried away this night

two thousand francs ; yes, two thousand francs! "
Are you the hotel-keeper? "

His friend, sir; only his friend. That is, I am
the head Commissionaire. I look after the gentlemen

who sometimes are not all — not all " exactly what

they should be, the commissioner intended to explain ;
and Mr. Palliser understood him, although the words
were not quite spoken. The interview was ended by
Mr. Palliser taking the name of the hotel, and promis-
ing to call before Mr. Fitzgerald should be up in the
morning, — a purposed visit, which we need not regard
as requiring any very early energy on Mr. Palliser' s

33^ CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

part, when we remember Burgo*s own programme for
the following day.

Lady Glencora received her husband that night with
infinite anxiety, and was by no means satisfied with
what had been done. He described to her as ac-
curately as he could the nature of his interview with
Burgo, and he described to her also his other inter-
view with the head commissioner.

"He will ; he will," said Lady Glencora, when she
heard from her husband the man's surmise that per-
haps he might destroy himself. " He will ; he will ;
and if he does, how can you expect that I shall bear
it ? '* Mr. Palliser tried to soothe her by telling her of
his promised visit to the landlord ; and Lady Glencora,
accepting this as something, strove to instigate her
husband to some lavish expenditure on Burgo*s behalf.
" There can be no reason why he should not take it,"
said Glencora. " None the least. Had it not been
promised to him ? Had he not a right to it ? " The
subject was one which Mr. Palliser found it very hard
to discuss. He could not tell his wife that Fitzgerald
ought to accept his bounty ; but he assured her that
his money should be forthcoming, almost to any ex-
tent, if it could be made available.

On the following morning he went down to the
hotel, and saw the real landlord. He found him to
be a reasonable, tranquil, and very good-natured man,
— who was possessed by a not irrational desire that his
customers' bills should be paid ; but who seemed to
be much less eager on the subject than are English
landlords in general. His chief anxiety seemed to
arise from the great difficulty of doing anything with
the gentleman who was now lying in his bed upstairs.

THE landlord's BILL. 33 1

Has he had any breakfast ? " Mr. Palliser asked.
Breakfast! Oh yes;" and the landlord laughed.
He had been very particular in the orders he had
given. He had desired his cutlets to be dressed in a
particular way, — with a great deal of cayenne pepper,
and they had been so dressed. He had ordered a bot-
tle of Sauterne ; but the landlord had thought, or the
headwaiter acting for him had thought, that a bottle of
ordinary wine of the country would do as well. Thie
bottle of ordinary wine of the country had just that
moment been sent upstairs.

Then Mr. Palliser sat down in the landlord's little
room, and had Burgo Fitzgerald's bill brought to him.
" I think I might venture to pay it," said Mr. Palhser.

" That was as monsieur pleased," said the landlord,
with something like a sparkle in his eye.

What was Mr. Palliser to do? He did not know
whether, in accordance with the rules of the world in
which he lived, he ought to pay it, or ought to leave
it; and certainly the landlord could not tell him.
Then he thought of his wife. He could not go back
to his wife without having done something ; so, as a
first measure, he paid the bill. The landlord's eyes
glittered, and he receipted it in the most becoming

manner.

Should he now send up the bottle of Sauterne ? "
— but to this Mr. Palliser demurred.

''And to whom should the receipted bill be given?"
Mr. Palliser thought that the landlord had better keep
it himself for a while.

" Perhaps there is some little difficulty? " suggested
the landlord.

Mr. Palliser acknowledged that there was a httle

332 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

difficulty. He knew that he must do something more.
He could not simply pay the bill and go away. That
would not satisfy his wife. He knew that he must do
something more ; but how was he to do it ? So at
last he let the landlord into his confidence. He did
not tell the whole of Burgo's past history. He did
not tell that Httle episode in Burgo*s Hfe which referred
to Lady Glencora. But he did make the landlord
understand that he was willing to administer money to
Mr. Fitzgerald, if only it could be administered judi-
ciously.

"You can't keep him out of the gambling salon,
you know, sir ; that is, not if he has a franc in his
pocket." As to that the landlord was very confident.

It was at last arranged that the landlord was to tell
Burgo that his bill did not signify at present, and that
the use of the hotel was to be at Burgo*s command for
the next three months. At the end of that time he
was to have notice to quit. No money was to be
advanced to him ; — but the landlord, even in this
respect, had a discretion.

" When I get home, I will see what can be done with
his relations there," said Mr. Palliser. Then he went
home and told his wife.

" But he '11 have no clothes," said Lady Glencora.

Mr. Palliser said that the judicious landlord would
manage that also ; and in that way Lady Glencora
vvas appeased, — appeased, till something final could
be done for the young man, on Mr. Palliser's return
home.

Poor Burgo! He must now be made to end his
career as far as these pages are concerned. He soon
found that something had been done for him at the

THE LANDLORD'S BILL. 333

hotel, and no doubt he must have made some guess
near the truth. The discreet landlord told him nothing,
— ^would tell him nothing ; but that his bill did not sig-
nify as yet. Burgo, thinking about it, resolved to write
about it in an indignant strain to Mr. Palliser ; but the
letter did not get itself written. When in England,
Mr. Palliser saw Sir Charles Monk, and, with many
apologies, told him what he had done.

" I regret it," said Sir Charles, in anger. " I regret
it ; not for the money's sake, but I regret it." The
amount expended was, however, repaid to Mr. Palliser,
and an arrangement was made for remitting a weekly
sum of fifteen pounds to Burgo, through a member of
the diplomatic corps, as long as he should remain at a
certain small German town which was indicated, and
in which there was no public gambling-table. Lady
Glencora expressed herself satisfied for the present ;
but I much doubt whether poor Burgo Hved long in
comfort on the allowance made to him.

Here we must say farewell to Burgo Fitzgerald.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN HOME.

Mr. Palliser did not remain long in Baden after
the payment of Burgo*s bill. Perhaps I shall not throw
any undeserved discredit on his courage if I say that
he was afraid to do so. What would he have said, —
what would he have been able to say, if that young
man had come to him demanding an explanation?
So he hurried away to Strasbourg the same day, much
to his wife's satisfaction.

The journey home from thence was not marked by
any incidents. Gradually Mr. Palliser became a little
more lenient to his wife and slightly less oppressive in
his caution. If he still inquired about the springs of
the carriages, he did so in silence, and he ceased to
enjoin the necessity of a day's rest after each day's
journey. By the time that they reached Dover he had
become so used to his wife's condition that he made
but little fluttering as she walked out of the boat by
that narrow gangway which is so contrived as to make
an arriv^al there a serious inconvenience to a lady, and
a nuisance even to a man. He was somewhat stag-
gered when a big man, in the middle of the night,
insisted on opening the little basket which his wife
carried, and was uncomfortable when obliged to stop
her on the plank while he gave up the tickets which he
thought had been already surrendered ; but he was be -
coming used to his position, and bore himself like a man.

334

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN HOME. 335

During their journey home Mr. PalHser had by no
means kept his seat opposite to Lady Glencora with
constancy. He had soon found that it was easier to
talk to Mr. Grey than to his wife, and, consequently,
the two ladies had been much together, as had also the
two gentlemen. What the ladies discussed may be im-
agined. One was about to become a wife and the
other a mother, and that was to be their fate after each
had made up her mind that no such lot was to be hers.
It may, however, be presumed that for every one word
that Alice spoke Lady Glencora spoke ten. The two
men, throughout these days of close intimacy, were in-
tent upon politics. Mr. Palliser, who may be regarded
as the fox who had lost his tail, — the tail being, in this
instance, the comfort of domestic privacy, — was eager
in recommending his new friend to cut off his tail also.
" Your argument would be very well," said he, " if men
were to be contented to live for themselves only."

" Your argument would be very well," said the other,
** if it were used to a man who felt that he could do
good to others by going into public life. But it is
wholly inefficacious if it recommends public life simply
or chiefly because a man may gratify his own ambition
by public services."

" Of course there is personal gratification, and of
course there is good done," said Mr. Palliser.

" Is, — or should be," said Mr. Grey.

** Exactly ; and the two things must go together.
The chief gratification comes from the feeling that you
are of use."

" But if you feel that you would not be of use ? "

We need not follow the argument any further. We
all know its nature, and what between two such men

336 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

would be said on both sides. We all know that neither
of them would put the matter altogether in a true hght.
Men never can do so in words, let the light within
themselves be ever so clear. I do not think that any
man yet ever had such a gift of words as to make them
a perfect exponent of all the wisdom within him. But
the effect was partly that which the weaker man of the
two desired, — the weaker in the gifts of nature, though
art had in some respects made him stronger. Mr.
Grey was shaken in his quiescent philosophy, and
startled Alice, — startled her as much as he delighted
her, — by a word or two he said as he walked with her
in the courts of the Louvre. "It 's all hollow here,"
he said, speaking of French politics.

" Very hollow," said Alice, who had no love for the
French mode of carrying on pubhc affairs.

" Of all modes of governing this seems to me to be
the surest of coming to a downfall. Men are told that
they are wise enough to talk, but not wise enough to
have any power of action. It is as though men were
cautioned that they were walking through gunpowder,
and that no fire could be allowed them, but were at the
same time enjoined to carry lucifer matches m their
pockets. I don't believe in the gunpowder, and I
think there should be fire, and plenty of it ; but if I
did n't want the fire I would n't have the matches."

''It 's so odd to hear you talk politics," said Alice,
laughing.

After this he dropped the subject for a while, as
though he were ashamed of it, but in a very few min-
utes he returned to it manfully. " Mr. Palliser wants
me to go into Parliament." Upon hearing this Alice
said nothing. She was afraid to speak. After all that

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN HOME. 337

had passed she felt that it would not become her to
show much outward joy on hearing such a proposition,
so spoken by him, and yet she could say nothing with-
out some sign . of exultation in her voice. So she
walked on without speaking, and was conscious that
her fingers trembled on his arm. " What do you say
about it ? " he asked.

** What do I say ? Oh, John, what right can I have
to say anything ? "

" No one else can have so much right, — putting
aside of course myself, who must be responsible for my
own actions. He asked me whether I could afford it,
and he seems to think that a smaller income suffices for
such work now than it did a few years since. I believe
that I could afford it, if I could get a seat that was
not very expensive at the first outset. He could help
me then."

" On that point, of course, I can have no opinion."

** No ; not on that point. I believe we may take
that for granted. Living in London for four or five
months in the year might be managed. But as to the
mode of life ! "

Then Alice was unable to hold her tongue longer,
and spoke out her thoughts with more vehemence than
discretion. No doubt he combated them with some
amount of opposition. He seldom allowed outspoken
.enthusiasm to pass by him without some amount of
hostility. But he was not so perverse as to be driven
from his new views by the fact that Alice approved
them, and she, as she drew near home, was able to
think that the only flaw in his character was in process
of being cured.

When they reached London they all separated. It

^;^S CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

was Mr. Palliser's purpose to take his wife down to
Matching with as httle delay as possible. London was
at this time nearly empty, and all the doings of the
season were over. It was now the first week of August,
and as Parliament had not been sitting for nearly two
months, the town looked as it usually looks in Septem-
ber. Lady Glencora was to stay but one day in Park
Lane, and it had been understood between her and
Alice that they were not to see each other.

** How odd it is parting in this way, when people
have been together so long," said Lady Glencora.
" It always seems as though there had been a separate
little life of its own which was now to be brought to
a close. I suppose, Mr. Grey, you and I, when we
next meet, will be far too distant to fight with each
other."

'* I hope that may never be the case," said Mr.
Grey.

" I suppose nothing would prevent his fighting ;
would it, Alice? But, remember, there must be no
fighting when we do meet next, and that must be in
September."

" With all my heart," said Mr. Grey. But Alice said
nothing.

Then Mr. Palliser made his little speech. ** Alice,"
he said, as he gave his hand to Miss Vavasor, '* give
my compliments to your father, and tell him that I
shall take the liberty of asking him to come down to
Matching for the early shooting in September, and that
I shall expect him to bring you with him. You may
tell him also that he will have to stay to see you off,
but that he will not be allowed to take you away."
Lady Glencora thought that this was very pretty as

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN HOME. 339

coming from her husband, and so she told him on their
way home.

Alice insisted on going to Queen Anne Street in a
cab by herself. Mr. Palliser had offered a carriage ;
and Mr. Grey, of course, offered himself as a protector ;
but she would have neither the one nor the other. If
he had gone with her he might by chance have met
her father, and she was most anxious that she should
not be encumbered by her lover's presence when she
first received her father's congratulations. They had
slept at Dover, and had come up by a midday train.
When she reached Queen Anne Street, the house was
desolate, and she might therefore have allowed Mr.
Grey to attend her. But she found a letter waiting for
her which made her for the moment forget both him
and her father. Lady Macleod, at Cheltenham, was
very ill, and wished to see her niece, as she said, before
she died. ** I have got your letter," said the kind old
woman, " and am now quite happy. It only wanted
that to reconcile me to my departure. I thought
through it all that my girl would be happy at last.
Will she forgive me if I say that I have forgiven her ? "
The letter then wjent on to beg Alice to come to Chel-
tenham at once. " It is not that I am dying now,"
said Lady Macleod, " though you will find me much
altered and keeping my bed. But the doctor says he
fears the first cold weather. I know what that means,
my dear ; and if I don't see you now, before yoiu* mar-
riage, I shall never see you again. Pray get married
as soon as you can. I want to know that you are Mrs.
Grey before I go. If I were to hear that it was post-
poned because of my illness, I think it would kill me
at once."

340 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

There was another letter for her from Kate, full, of
course, of congratulations, and promising to be at the
wedding ; " that is," said Kate, " unless it takes place
at the house of some one of your very grand friends ; "
and telling her that Aunt Greenow was to be married in
a fortnight ; — telling her of this, and begging her to at-
tend that wedding. " You should stand by your fam-
ily," said Kate. "And only think what my condi-
tion will be if I have no one here to support me. Do
come. Journeys are nothing now-a-days. Don't you
know I would go seven times the distance for you?
Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield are friends after
all, and Mr. Cheesacre is to be best man. Is it not
beautiful? As for poor me, I 'm told I have n*t a
chance left of becoming mistress of Oilymead and all
its wealth."

Alice began to think that her hands were almost too
full. If she herself were to be married in September,
even by the end of September, her hands were very
full indeed. Yet she did not know how to refuse any
of the requests made to her. As to Lady Macleod,
her visit to her was a duty which must of course be
performed at once. She would stay but one day in
London, and then go down to Cheltenham. Having
resolved upon this she at once wrote to her aunt to
that effect. As to that other affair down in Westmore-
land, she sighed as she thought of it, but she feared
that she must go there also. Kate had suffered too
much on her behalf to allow of her feeling indifferent
to such a request.

Then her father came in. " I did n*t in the least
know when you might arrive," said he, beginning with
an apology for his absence. '' How could I, my

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN HOME. 34 1

dear ? " Alice scorned to remind him that she herself
had named the precise hour of the train by which they
had arrived.

" It 's all right, papa," said she. " I was very glad
to have an hour to write a letter or two. Poor Lady
Macleod is very ill. I must go to her the day after
to-morrow."

" Dear, dear, dear! I had heard that she was poorly.
She is very old, you know. So, Alice, you Ve made it
all square with Mr. Grey at last ? "

" Yes, papa ; — if you call that square."

" Well ; I do call it square. It has all come round
to the proper thing."

" I hope he thinks so."

" What do you think yourself, my dear? "

" I 've no doubt it 's the proper thing for me, papa."

" Of course not ; of course not ; and I can tell you
this, Alice, he is a man in a thousand. You 've heard
about the money ? "

" What money, papa ? "

" The money that George had." As the reader is
aware, Alice had heard nothing special about this
money. She only knew, or supposed she knew, that
she had given three thousand pounds to her cousin.
But now her father explained to her the whole trans-
action. " We could n't have realised your money for
months, perhaps," said he ; " but Grey knew that some
men must have rope enough before they can hang
themselves."

Alice was unable to say anything on this subject to
her father, but to herself she did declare that not in
that way or with that hope had John Grey produced
his money. "He must be paid, papa," she said.

342 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

"Paid!" he answered; "he can pay himself now.
It may make some difference in the settlements, per-
haps, but he and the lawyers may arrange that. I
shan't think of interfering with such a man as Grey.
If you could only know, my dear, what I 've suffered! "
Alice in a penitential tone expressed her sorrow, and
then he too assured her that he had forgiven her.
" Bless you, my child ! " he said, " and make you happy,
and good, and — and — and very comfortable." After
that he went back to his club.

Alice made her journey down to Cheltenham with-
out any adventure, and was received by Lady Macleod
with open arms. " Dearest Alice, it is so good of
you."

" Good ! " said Ahce ; " would I not have gone a
thousand miles to you ? "

Lady Macleod was very eager to know all about the
coming marriage. " I can tell you now, my dear,
though I could n't do it before, that I knew he 'd per-
sist forever. He told me so himself in confidence."

" He has persisted, aunt ; that is certain."

" And I hope you '11 reward him. A beautiful woman
without discretion is like a pearl in a swine's snout ;
but a good wife is a crown of glory to her husband.
Remember that, my dear, and choose your part for his
sake."

" I won't be that unfortunate pearl, if I can help it,
aunt."

" We can all help it, if we set about it in the right
way. And Alice, you must be careful to find out all
his likes and his dislikes. Dear me! I remember how
hard I found it, but then I don't think I was so clever
as you are."

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN HOME. 343

" Sometimes I think nobody has ever been so stupid
as I have."

" Not stupid, my dear ; if I must say the word, it is
self-willed. But, dear, all that is forgiven now. Is it
not ? "

" Thore is a forgiveness which it is rather hard to
get," said Alice.

There was something said then as to the necessity of
looking for pardon beyond this world, which I need
not here repeat. To all her old friend's little sermons
Alice was infinitely more attentive than had been her
wont, so that Lady Macleod was comforted and took
heart of grace, and at last brought forth from under
her pillow a letter from the Countess of Midlothian,
which she had received a day or two since, and which
bore upon Alice's case. " I was not quite sure whether
I 'd show it you," said Lady Macleod, ** because you
would n't answer her when she wrote to you. But
when I 'm gone, as I shall be soon, she will be the
nearest relative you have on your mother's side, and

from her great position, you know, Alice " But

here Alice became impatient for the letter. Her aunt
handed it to her, and she read as follows: —

" Castle Reekie, July, 186— .

" Dear Lady Macleod, — I am so sorry to hear of
the symptoms you speak about. I strongly advise you
to depend chiefly on beef -tea. They should be very
careful to send it up quite free from grease, and it
should not be too strong of the meat. There should
be no vegetables in it. Not soup, you know, but beef-
tea. If anything acts upon your strength, that will.
I need not tell one who has hved as you have done

344 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

where to look for that other strength which alone can
support you at such a time as this. I would go to you
if I thought that my presence would be any comfort
to you, but I know how sensitive you are, and the
shock might be too much for you.

" If you see Alice Vavasor on her return to England,
as you probably will, pray tell her from me that I give
her my warmest congratulations, and that I am heart-
ily glad that matters are arranged. I think she treated
my attempts to heal the wound in a manner that they
did not deserve ; but all that shall be forgiven, as shall
also her original bad behaviour to poor Mr. Grey."

Alice was becoming weary of so much forgiveness,
and told herself, as she was reading the letter, that
that of Lady Midlothian was at any rate unnecessary.

*' I trust that we may yet meet and be friends,"
continued Lady Midlothian. " I am extremely grat-
ified at finding that she has been thought so much of
by Mr. Palliser. I 'm told that Mr. Palliser and Mr.
Grey have become great friends, and if this is so, Alice
must be happy to feel that she has had it in her power
to confer so great a benefit on her future husband as
he will receive from this introduction."

" I ain't a bit happy, and I have conferred no bene-
fit on Mr. Grey," exclaimed Alice, who was unable to
repress the anger occasioned by the last paragraph.

'* But it is a great benefit, my dear."

'* Mr. Palliser has every bit as much cause to be grat-
ified for that as Mr. Grey, and perhaps more."

Poor Lady Macleod could not argue the matter in
her present state. She merely sighed, and moved her
shrivelled old hand up and down upon the counter-
pane. Ahce finished the letter without further remarks.

THE TRAVELLERS RETURN HOME. 345

It merely went on to say how happy the writer would
be to know something of her cousin as Mrs. Grey, as
also to know something of Mr. Grey, and then gave a
general invitation to both Mr. and Mrs. Grey, asking
them to come to Castle Reekie whenever they might
be able. The Marchioness, with whom Lady Midlo-
thian was staying, had expressly desired her to give
this message. Alice, however, could not but observe
that Lady Midlothian's invitation appHed only to an-
other person's house.

" I 'm sure she means well," said Alice.

" Indeed she does," said Lady Macleod ; " and then
you know you '11 probably have children ; and think
what a thing it will be for them to know the Midlo-
thian family. You shouldn't rob them of their natural
advantages."

Alice remained a week with her aunt, and went from
thence direct to Westmoreland. Some order as to
bridal preparations we must presume she, gave on that
single day which she passed in London. Much advice
she had received on this head from Lady Glencora,
and no inconsiderable amount of assistance was to be
rendered to her at Matching during the fortnight she
would remain there before her marriage. Something
also, let us hope, she might do at Cheltenham. Some-
thing no doubt she did do. Something also might
probably be achieved among the wilds in Westmoreland,
but that something would necessarily be of a nature
not requiring fashionable tradespeople. While at Chel-
tenham she determined that she would not again return
to London before her marriage. This resolve was
caused by a very urgent letter from Mr. Grey, and by
another, almost equally urgent, from Lady Glencora.

346 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

If the marriage did not take place in September she
would not be present at it. The gods of the world,
— of Lady Glencora's world, — had met together and
come to a great decision. Lady Glencora was to be
removed in October to Gatherum Castle, and remain
there till the following spring, so that the heir might,
in truth, be born in the purple. " It is such a bore,"
said Lady Glencora, " and I know it will be a girl. But
the Duke is n't to be there, except for the Christmas
week." An invitation for the ceremony at Matching
had been sent from Mr. Palliser to Mr. Vavasor, and
another from Lady Glencora to Kate, " whom I long
to know," said her ladyship, " and with whom I should
like to pick a crow, if I dared, as I *m sure she did
all the mischief."

CHAPTER XXVI.

MR. CHEESACRE's FATE.

It must be acknowledged that Mrs. Greenow was
a woman of great resources, and that she would be
very prudent for others, though I fear the verdict of
those who know her must go against her in regard to
prudence in herself. Her marriage with Captain Bell-
field was a rash act, — certainly a rash act, although she
did take so much care in securing the payment of her
own income into her own hands ; but the manner in
which she made him live discreetly for some months
previous to his marriage, the tact with which she re
newed the friendship which had existed between him
and Mr. Cheesacre, and the skill she used in at last
providing Mr. Cheesacre with a wife, oblige us all to
admit that, as a general, she had great powers.

When Alice reached Vavasor Hall she found Charlie
Fairstairs established there on a long visit. Charlie
and Kate were to be the two bridesmaids, and, as Kate
told her cousin in their first confidential intercourse on
the evening of Alice's arrival, there were already great
hopes in the household that the master of Oilymead
might be brought to surrender. It was true that Charlie
had not a shilling, and that Mr. Cheesacre had set his
heart on marrying an heiress. It was true that Miss
Fairstairs had always stood low in the gentleman's es-
timation, as being connected with people who were as
much without rank and fashion as they were without

347

348 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

money, and that the gentleman loved rank and fashion
dearly. It was true that Charlie was no beauty, and
that Cheesacre had an eye for feminine charms. It
was true that he had despised Charhe, and had spoken
his contempt openly ; — that he had seen the girl on
the sands at Yarmouth every summer for the last ten
years, and about the streets of Norwich every winter,
and had learned to regard her as a thing poor and des-
picable, because she was common in his eyes. It is
thus that the Cheesacres judge of people. But in spite
of all these difficulties Mrs. Greenow had taken up poor
Charlie's case, and Kate Vavasor expressed a strong
opinion that her aunt would win.

** What has she done to the man? " Alice asked.

'* Coaxed him ; simply that. She has made herself
so much his master that he does n't know how to say
no to her. Sometimes I have thought that he might
possibly run away, but I have abandoned that fear now.
She has little confidences with him from day to day,
which are so alluring to him that he cannot tear him-
self off. In the middle of one of them he will find
himself engaged."

" But the unfortunate girl! Won't it be a wretched
marriage for her? "

"Not at all. She '11 make him a very good wife.
He 's one of those men to whom any woman, after a
little time, will come to be the same. He '11 be rough
with her once a month or so, and perhaps tell her that
she brought no money with her ; but that won't break
any bones, and Charlie will know how to fight her own
battles. She '11 save his money if she brings none, and
in a few years' time they will quite understand each
other."

MR. CHEESACRE*S FATE. 349

Mr. Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield were at this
time living in lodgings together, at Penrith, but came
over and spent every other day at Vavasor, returning
always to their lodgings in the evening. It wanted
but eight days to the marriage when Alice arrived, and
preparations for that event were in progress. "It *s
to be very quiet, Alice," said her aunt ; " as quiet as
such ,a thing can be made. I owe that to the memory
of the departed one. I know that he is looking down
upon me, and that he approves all that I do. Indeed,
he told me once that he did not want me to live deso-
late for his sake. If I did n't feel that he was looking
down and approving it, I should be wretched indeed."
She took Alice up to see her trousseau, and gave the
other expectant bride some little hints which, under
present circumstances, might be useful. " Yes, indeed ;
only three-and six-pence a piece, and they 're quite real.
Feel them. You would n't get them in the shops under
six." Alice did feel them, and wondered whether her
aunt could have saved the half-crown honestly. " I
had my eyes about me when I was up in town, my
dear. And look here, these are quite new, — have never
been on yet, and I had them when I was married be-
fore. There is nothing like being careful, my dear.
I hate meanness, as everybody knows who knows me ;
but there is nothing like being careful. You have a
lot of rich people about you just now, and will have
ever so many things given you which you won't want.
Do you put them all by, and be careful. They may
turn out useful, you know." Saying this, Mrs. Green-
ow folded up, among her present bridal belongings,
sundries of the wealth which had accrued to her in an
earlier stage of her career.

350 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

And then Mrs. Greenow opened her mind to Alice
about the captain. "He 's good as gold, my dear ;
he is, indeed, — in his own way. Of course, I know
that he has faults, and I should like to know who has n't.
Although poor dear Greenow certainly was more
without them than anybody else I ever knew." As
this remembrance came upon Mrs. Greenow she put
her handkerchief to her eyes, and Alice observed that
that which she held still bore the deepest hem of widow-
hood. They would be used, no doubt, till the last
day, and then put by in lavender for future possible
occasions. *' Bellfield may have been a little extrava-
gant. I dare say he has. But how can a man help
being extravagant when he has n't got any regular in-
come? He has been ill-treated in his profession ; very.
It makes my blood curdle when I think of it. After
fighting his country's battles through blood, and dust,
and wounds; — but I '11 tell you about that another
time."

" I suppose a man seldom does make a fortune, aunt,
by being a soldier? "

'' Never, my dear ; much better be a tailor. Don't
you ever marry a soldier. But as I was saying, he is
the best-tempered creature alive, and the staunchest
friend I ever met. You should hear what Mr. Cheesacre
says of him! But you don't know Mr. Cheesacre ? "

" No, aunt, not yet. If you remember, he went
away before I saw him when he came here before."

'' Yes, I know, poor fellow! Between you and me,
Kate might have had him if she liked ; but perhaps
Kate was right."

'' I don't think he would have suited Kate at all."

"Because of the farmyard, you mean? Kate

MR. CHEESACRE S FATE. 351

should n't give herself airs. Money *s never dirty, you
know. But perhaps it *s all for the best. There 's a
sweet girl here to whom he is violently attached, and
who I hope will become Mrs. Cheesacre. But as I
was saying, the friendship between these two men is
quite wonderful, and I have always observed that
when a man can create that kind of affection in the
bosom of another man, he invariably is, — is the sort of
man, — ^the man, in fact, who makes a good husband."

Alice knew the story of Charlie Fairstairs and her
hopes; knew of the quarrels between Bellfield and
Cheesacre; knew almost as much of Bellfield's past
life as Mrs. Greenow did herself ; and Mrs. Greenow
was no doubt aware that such was the case. Never-
theless, she had a pleasure in telling her own story, and
told it as though she believed every word that she
spoke.

On the following day the two gentlemen came over,
according to custom, and Alice observed that Miss
Fairstairs hardly spoke to Mr. Cheesacre. Indeed her
manner of avoiding that gentleman was so very marked
that it was impossible not to observe it. They drank
tea out-of-doors, and when Mr. Cheesacre on one oc-
casion sauntered across towards the end of the bench
on which Charlie was sitting, Charlie got up and walked
away. And in strolling about the place afterwards, and
in going up through the wood, she was at great pains
to attach herself to some other person, so that there
should be no such attaching between her and the owner
of Oilymead. At one time Mr. Cheesacre did get
close up to her and spoke some word, some very indif-
ferent word. He knew that he was being cut and he
wanted to avoid the appearance of a scene. " I don't

352 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

know, sir," said Charlie, again moving away with excel-
lent dignity, and she at once attached herself to Alice,
who was close by. " I know you have just come home
from Switzerland," said Charlie. " Beautiful Switzer-
land! My heart pants for Switzerland. Do tell me
something about Switzerland!" Mr. Cheesacre had
heard that Alice was the dear friend of a lady who
would probably some day become a duchess. He
therefore naturally held her in awe, and slunk away.
On this occasion Mrs. Greenow clung lovingly to her
future husband, and the effect was that Mr. Cheesacre
found himself to be very much alone and unhappy.
He had generally enjoyed these days at Vavasor Hall,
having found himself, or fancied himself, to be the
dominant spirit there. That Mrs. Greenow was always
in truth the dominant spirit I need hardly say; but
she knew how to make a companion happy, and well
also how to make him wretched. On the whole of
this day poor Cheesacre was very wretched.

'* I don't think I shall go there any more," he said
to Bellfield, as he drove the gig back to Penrith that
evening.

'* Not go there any more, Cheesy," said Bellfield ;
'' why, we are to have the dinner out in the field on
Friday. It 's your own bespeak."

** Well, yes ; I '11 go on Friday, but not after that.**
" You '11 stop and see me turned off, old fellow ? "
'' What 's the use? You '11 get your wife, and that 's
enough for you. The truth is, that since that girl came

down from London with her d d airs " — the girl

from London with the airs was poor Alice — " the place
is quite changed. I 'm blessed if the whole thing is n't
as dark as ditch-water. I 'm a plain man, I am ; and

MR. CHEESACRE*S FATE. 353

I do hate your swells." Against this view of the case
Captain Bellfield argued stoutly; but Cheesacre had
been offended, and throughout the next day he was
cross and touchy. He would n't play billiards, and on
one occasion hinted that he hoped he should get that
money soon.

" You did it admirably, my dear," said Mrs. Greenow
that night to Charlie Fairstairs. The widow was now
on terms almost more confidential with Miss Fairstairs
than with her own niece, Kate Vavasor. She loved a
little bit of intrigue ; and though Kate could intrigue,
as we have seen in this story, Kate would not join her
aunt's intrigues. " You did it admirably. I really did
not think you had so much in you."

*' Oh, I don't know," said Charlie, blushing at the
praise.

" And it *s the only way, my dear ; — the only way, I
mean, for you with such a one as him. And if he does
come round, you '11 find him an exceUent husband."

" I don't think he cares for me a bit," said Charlie,
whimpering.

" Pooh, nonsense ! Girls never know whether men
care for them or not. If he asks you to marry him,
won't that be a sign that he cares for you? and if he
don't, why, there '11 be no harm done."

" If he thinks it 's his money " began Charlie.

" Now, don't talk nonsense, Charlie," said Mrs.
Greenow, " or you '11 make me sick. Of course it 's his
money, more or less. You don't mean to tell me you 'd
go and fall in love with him if he was like Bellfield,
and had n't got a rap ? I can afford that sort of thing ;
you can't. I don't mean to say you ain't to love him.
Of course you 're to love him ; and I 've no doubt

354 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

you will, and make him a very good wife. I always
think that worldliness and sentimentality are like brandy
and water. I don*t like either of them separately, but
taken together they make a very nice drink. I like
them warm, with, — as the gentlemen say." To this
little lecture Miss Fairstairs listened with dutiful pa-
tience, and when it was over she said nothing more of
her outraged affections or of her disregard for money.
" And now, my dear, mind you look your best on Fri-
day. I *11 get him away immediately after dinner, and
when he 's done with me you can contrive to be in his
way, you know."

The next day was what Kate called the blank day
at the Hall. The ladies were all alone, and devoted
themselves, as was always the case on the blank days,
to millinery and household cares. Mrs. Greenow, as
has before been stated, had taken a lease of the place,
and her troubles extended beyond her mere bridal
wardrobe. Large trunks of household linen had ar-
rived, and all this linen was marked with the name
of Greenow; Greenow, 5.58; Greenow, 7.52; and a
good deal had to be done before this ancient wealth
of housewifery could be properly converted to Bellfield
purposes. " We must cut out the pieces, Jeannette,
and work 'em in again ever so carefully," said the
widow, after some painful consideration. " It will al-
ways show," said Jeannette, shaking her head. *' But
the other would show worse," said the widow; ''and
if you finedraw it, not one person in ten will notice it.
We 'd always put them on with the name to the feet,
you know."

It was not quite true that Cheesacre had bespoke
the dinner out in the field, although no doubt he

MR. CHEESACRE's FATE. 355

thought he had done so. The httle treat, if treat it
was, had all been arranged by Mrs. Greenow, who was
ever ready to create festivities. There was not much
scope for a picnic here. Besides their own party,
which, of course, included the captain and Mr. Chees-
acre, no guest could be caught except the clergyman ;
— that low-church clergyman, who was so anxious
about his income, and with whom the old squire had
quarrelled. Mrs. Greenow had quickly obtained the
advantage of his alliance, and he, who was soon to
perform on her behalf the marriage ceremony, had
promised to grace this little festival. The affair simply
amounted to this, that they were to eat their dinner un-
comfortably in the field instead of comfortably in the
dining-room. But Mrs. Greenow knew that Charlie's
charms would be much strengthened by a dinner out-
of-doors. " Nothing," she said to Kate, *' nothing
makes a man come forward so well as putting him al-
together out of his usual tack. A man who would n't
think of such a thing in the drawing-room would be
sure to make an offer if he spent an evening with a
young lady downstairs in the kitchen.'*

At two o'clock the gig from Penrith arrived at the
Hall, and for the next hour both Cheesacre and the
captain were engaged in preparing the tables and
carrying out the viands. The captain and Charlie
Fairstairs were going to lay the cloth. " Let me do
it," said Cheesacre, taking it out of the captain's hands.

Oh, certainly," said the captain, giving up his prize.

Captain Bellfield would do it much better," said
Charlie, with a Httle toss of her head ; " he 's as good
as a married man, and they always do these things
best'*

35^ CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

The day was fine, and although the shade was not
perfect, and the midges were troublesome, the dinner
went off very nicely. It was beautiful to see how well
Mrs. Greenow remembered herself about the grace,
seeing that the clergyman was there. She was just in
time and would have been very angry with herself, and
have thought herself awkward, had she forgotten it.
Mr. Cheesacre sat on her right hand, and the clergy-
man on her left, -and she hardly spoke a word to Bell-
field. Her sweetest smiles were all given to Chees-
acre. She was specially anxious to keep her neighbour,
the parson, in good-humour, and therefore illuminated
him once in every five minutes with a passing ray;
but the full splendour of her light was poured out upon
Cheesacre, as it never had before been poured. How
she did flatter him, and with what a capacious gullet
did he swallow her flatteries ! Oilymead was the only
paradise she had ever seen. "Ah me! when I think
of it sometimes, — but never mind." A moment came
to him when he thought that even yet he might win the
race, and send Bellfield away howling into outer dark-
ness. A moment came to him, and the widow saw
the moment well. *' I know I have done for the best,"
said she, " and therefore I shall never regret it ; at any
rate, it 's done now."

'' Not done yet," said he plaintively.

" Yes ; done, and done, and done. Besides, a man
in your position in the county should always marry a
wife younger than yourself, — a good deal younger."
Cheesacre did not understand the argument, but he
hked the allusion to his position in the county, and he
perceived that it was too late for any changes in the
present arrangements. But he was happy ; and all

MR. CHEESACRE'S FATE. 357

that feeling of animosity to Alice had vanished from
his breast. Poor Alice! she, at any rate, was inno-
cent. With so much of her own to fill her mind, she
had been but little able to take her share in the Green-
ow festivities; and we may safely say, that if Mr.
Cheesacre's supremacy was on any occasion attacked,
it was not attacked by her. His supremacy on this
occasion was paramount, and during the dinner, and
after the dinner, he was allowed to give his orders to
Bellfield in a manner that must have gratified him
much. " You must have another glass of champagne
with me, my friend," said Mrs. Greenow; and Mr.
Cheesacre drank the other glass of champagne. It
was not the second nor the third that he had taken.

After dinner they started off for a ramble through
the fields, and Mrs. Greenow and Mr. Cheesacre were
together. I think that Charlie Fairstairs did not go
with them at all. I think she went into the house and
washed her face, and brushed her hair, and settled her
muslin. I should not wonder if she took off her frock
and ironed it again. Captain Bellfield, I know, went
with Alice, and created some astonishment by assuring
her that he fully meant to correct the error of his ways.
" I know what it is," he said, " to be connected with
such a family as yours. Miss Vavasor." He too had
heard about the future duchess, and wished to be
on his best behaviour. Kate fell to the lot of the
parson.

" This is the last time we shall ever be together in
this way," said the widow to her friend.

" Oh no," said Cheesacre ; " I hope not."

"The last time. On Wednesday I become Mrs.
Bellfield, and I need hardly say that I have many

358 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

things to think of before that ; but, Mr. Cheesacre, I
hope we are not to be strangers hereafter ? " Mr.
Cheesacre said that he hoped not. Oilymead would
always be open to Captain and Mrs. Bellfield.

'' We all know your hospitality," said she ; " it is not
to-day nor to-morrow that I or my husband, — that is
to be, — will have to learn that. He always declares
that you are the very beau ideal of an English country
gentleman."

" Merely a poor Norfolk farmer," said Cheesacre.
" I never want to put myself beyond my own place.
There has been some talk about the Commission of the
Peace, but I don't think anything of it."

" It has been the greatest blessing in the world for
him that he has ever known you," said Mrs. Greenow,
still talking about her future husband.

"I 've tried to be good-natured ; that *s all. D

me, Mrs. Greenow, what 's the use of Hving if one
does n't try to be good-natured? There is n't a better
fellow than Bellfield living. He and I ran for the
same plate, and he has won it. He 's a lucky fellow,
and I don't begrudge him his luck."

** That's so manly of you, Mr. Cheesacre! But,
indeed, the plate you speak of was not worth your
running for."

" I may have my own opinion about that, you
know."

''It was not. Nobody knows that as well as I do,
or could have thought over the whole matter so often.
I know very well what my mission is in life. The mis-
tress of your house, Mr. Cheesacre, should not be any
man's \vidow."

" She would n't be a widow then, you know."

MR. CHEESACRE'S FATE. 359

" A virgin heart should be yours ; and a virgin heart
may be yours, if you choose to accept it."

"Oh, bother!"

*' If you choose to take my solicitude on your behalf
m that way, of course I have done. You were good
enough to say just now that you wished to see me and
my husband in your hospitable halls. After all that
has passed, do you think that I could be a visitor at
your house unless there is a mistress there ? "

*' Upon my word, I think you might."

" No, Mr. Cheesacre ; certainly not. For all our
sakes, I should decline. But if you were married "

"You are always wanting to marry me, Mrs.
Greenow."

" I do, I do. It is the only way in which there can
be any friendship between us, and not for worlds would
I lose that advantage for my husband, — let alone what
I may feel for myself."

*' Why did n't you take me yourself, Mrs. Greenow? "

" If you can't understand, it is not for me to say
anything more, Mr. Cheesacre. If you value the warm
affection of a virgin heart "

" Why, Mrs. Greenow, all yesterday she would n't
say a word to me."

" Not say a word to you? Is that all you know
about it ? Are you so ignorant that you cannot see
when a girl's heart is breaking beneath her stays ? "
This almost improper allusion had quite an effect on
Mr. Cheesacre's sensitive bosom. " Did you say a
word to her yesterday ? And if not, why have you
said so many words before ? "

"Oh! Mrs. Greenow; come!"

" It is, oh ! Mrs. Greenow. But it is time that we

360 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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

" If she likes she shall, of course."

" Do you ask her, and she '11 like it quick enough.
But remember, Mr. Cheesacre, I *m quite serious in
what I say about your having a mistress for your
house. Only think what an age you '11 be when your
children grow up, if you don't marry soon now."

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

It had been necessary to put the bait very close
before Cheesacre's eyes, or there would have been no
hope that he might take it. The bait had been put so
very close that we must feel sure that he saw the hook.
But there are fish so silly that they will take the bait
although they know the hook is there. Cheesacre un-
derstood it all. Many things he could not see, but he
could see that Mrs. Greenow was trying to catch him
as a husband for Charlie Fairstairs ; and he knew also
that he had always despised Charlie, and that no
worldly advantage whatever would accrue to him by
a marriage with such a girl. But there she was, and
he did n't quite know how to avoid it. She did look

MR. CHEESACRE's FATE. 36 1

rather nice in her clear-starched muslin frock, and he
felt that he should like to kiss her. He need n't marry
her because he kissed her. The champagne which had
created the desire also gave him the audacity. He
gave one glance around him to see that he was not
observed, and then he did kiss Charlie Fairstairs under
the trees. " Oh! Mr. Cheesacre," said Charlie. " Oh!
Mr. Cheesacre," echoed a laughing voice; and poor
Cheesacre, looking round, saw that Mrs. Greenow,
who ought to have been inside the house looking after
the boiling water, was moving about for some unknown
reason within sight of the spot which he had chosen
for his dalliance.

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

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

" And what will she think of me ? "

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

" But I do ; — I think a great deal about it. I don't
know what to do, I don't; — I don't." Whereupon
Charlie got up from her seat under the trees and began
to move away slowly. Cheesacre thought about it for
a moment or two. Should he follow her or should he
not? He knew that he had better not follow her. He
knew that she was bait with a very visible hook. He
knew that he was a big fish for whom these two women
were angling. But after all, perhaps it would n't do
him much harm to be caught. So he got up and fol-
lowed her. I don't suppose she meant to take the way
towards the woods, — towards the little path leading to
the old summer-house up in the trees. She was too
much beside herself to know where she was going, no

362 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

doubt. But that was the path she did take, and before
long she and Cheesacre were in the summer-house to-
gether. " Don't, Sam, don't! Somebody really will be
coming. Well, then, there. Now I won't do it again."
'T was thus she spoke when the last kiss was given on
this occasion ; — unless there may have been one or two
later in the evening, to which it is not necessary more
especially to allude here. But on the occasion of that
last kiss in the summer-house Miss Fairstairs was per-
fectly justified by circumstances, for she was then the
promised bride of Mr. Cheesacre.

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

It would be too long to tell now, in these last pages
of our story, how Cheesacre strove to escape, and with
what skill Mrs. Greenow kept him to his bargain. I
hope that Charhe Fairstairs was duly grateful. Before
that evening was over, under the comfortable influ-
ence of a glass of hot brandy and water, — the widow
had, I think, herself mixed the second glass for Mr.

MR. CHEESACRE'S FATE. 363

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

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

364 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

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

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

CHAPTER XXVII.

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS.

Kate and Alice, as they drew near to their journey's
end, were both a little flurried, and I cannot but own
that there was cause for nervousness. Kate Vavasor
was to meet Mr. Grey for the first time. Mr. Grey
was now staying at Matching and was to remain there
until a week of his marriage. He was then to return
to Cambridgeshire for a day or two, and after that was
to become a guest at the rector's house at Matching
the evening before the ceremony. " Why not let him
come here at once ? " Lady Glencora had said to her
husband. " It is such nonsense, you know." But Mr.
Palliser would not hear of it. Mr. Palliser, though a
radical in public life, would not for worlds transgress
the social laws of his ancestors ; and so the matter
was settled. Kate on this very day of her arrival at
Matching would thus see Mr. Grey for the first time,
and she could not but feel that she had been the
means of doing Mr. Grey much injury. She had
moreover something, — not much indeed, but still some-
thing, — of that feeling which made the Pallisers terrible
to the imagination, because of their rank and wealth.
She was a little afraid of the Pallisers, but of Mr. Grey
she was very much afraid. And Alice also was not
at her ease. She would fain have prevented so very
quick a marriage had she not felt that now, — after all
the trouble that she had caused, — there was nothing

365

366 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

left for her but to do as others wished. When a day
had been named she had hardly dared to demur, and
had allowed Lady Glencora to settle everything as she
had wished. But it was not only the suddenness of
her marriage which dismayed her. Its nature and
attributes were terrible to her. Both Lady Midlothian
and the Marchioness of Auld Reekie were coming.
When this was told to her by letter she had no means
of escape. " Lady Macleod is right in nearly all that
she says," Lady Glencora had written to her. " At any
rate, you need n't be such a fool as to run away from
your cousins, simply because they have handles to their
names. You must take the thing as it comes." Lady
Glencora, moreover, had settled for her the list of
bridesmaids. Alice had made a petition that she might
be allowed to go through the ceremony with only one,
— with none but Kate to back her. But she ought
to have known that when she consented to be mar-
ried at Matching, — and indeed she had had very little
power of resisting that proposition, — all such questions
would be decided for her. Two daughters, therefore,
of Lady Midlothian were to act, Lady Jane and Lady
Mary, and the one daughter of the Marchioness, who
was also a Lady Jane, and there were to be two Miss
Howards down from London, — girls who were known
both to Alice and to Lady Glencora, and who were in
some distant way connected with them both. A great
attempt was made to induce the two Miss Pallisers to
join the bevy, but they had frankly pleaded their age.
*' No woman should stand up as a bridesmaid," said
the strong-minded Sophy, *' who does n't mean to get
married if she can. Now I don't mean to get married,
and I won't put myself among the young people."

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS. 367

Lady Glencora was therefore obliged to submit to
do the work with only six. But she swore that they
should be very smart. She was to give all the dresses,
and Mr. Palliser was to give a brooch and an armlet
to each. " She is the only person in the world I want
to pet, except yourself," Lady Glencora had said to
her husband, and he had answered by giving her carte
blanche as regards expense.

All this was very terrible to Kate, who had not much
feminine taste for finery. Of the dress she had heard, —
of the dress which was waiting at Matching to be made
up after her arrival, — though as yet she knew nothing
of the trinkets. There are many girls who could sub-
mit themselves at a moment to the kindness of such a
woman as Lady Glencora. Perhaps most girls would
do so, for of all such women in the world, Lady Glen-
cora was the least inclined to patronise or to be con-
descending in her kindnesses. But Kate Vavasor was
one to whom such submission would not come easily.

'* I wish I was out of this boat," she said to Alice in
the train.

*' So that I might be shipwrecked alone ! "

" No ; there can be no shipwreck to you. When the
day of action- comes you will be taken away, up to
heaven, upon the clouds. But what am I to do with
all these Lady Janes and Lady Marys? Or what are
they to do with me? "

"You '11 find that Glencora will not desert you.
You can't conceive what taste she has."

" I 'd sooner be bridesmaid to Charlie Fairstairs. I
would indeed. My place in the world is not among
Cabinet Ministers and old countesses."

" Nor mine."

368 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

"Yes; it seems that yours is to be there. They
are your cousins, and you have made at any rate one
great friend among them, — one yrho is to be the big-
'gest of them aU."

And you are going to throw me over, Kate? "
To tell the truth, Alice, I sometimes think you had
better throw me over. I know it would be sad^ — sad
// for both, but perhaps it would be better. I have done

you much harm and no good ; and now where I am
going I shall disgrace you." She talked even of getting
out at some station and returning, and would have done
so had not Alice made it impossible. As it was, the
evening found her and Alice together entering the park-
gate at Matching, in Lady Glencora's carriage. Lady
Glencora had sent a note to the station. " She could
not come herself," she said, " because Mr. Palliser was
a little fussy. You 11 understand, dear, but don't say
a word." Alice did n*t say a word, having been very
anxious not to lower Mr. Palliser in her cousin's respect.

None of the Lady Janes and Lady Marys were at
Matching when they arrived. Indeed, there was no
guest there but Mr. Grey, for which Kate felt herself
to be extremely grateful. Mr. Gtey came into the hall,
standing behind Mr. Palliser, who stood behind his
wife. Alice passed by them both, and was at once in
her lover's arms. "Then I must introduce myself,"
said Lady Glencora to Kate, " and my husband also."
This she did, and no woman in England could have
excelled her in the manner of doing it. " I have heard
so much about you," said she, still keeping Kate's

hand, '* and I know how good you Ve been ; and

how wicked you have been," she added in a whisper.
Then Mr. Grey was brought up to her, and they were

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS. 369

introduced. It was not till some days had passed over
them that she felt herself at all at her ease with Mr.
Grey, and I doubt whether she ever reached that point
with Mr. Palliser ; but Lady Glencora she knew, and
liked, and almost loved, from the first moment of their
meeting.

" Have you heard the news? " said Lady Glencora
to Alice, the first minute that they were alone. Alice,
of course, had not heard the news. " Mr. Bott is
going to marry Mrs. Marsham. There is such a row
about it. Plantagenet is nearly mad. I never knew
him so disgusted in my life. Of course I don't dare
to tell him so, but I am so heartily rejoiced. You
know how I love them both, and I could not possibly
wish any better reward for either." Alice, who had
personally known more of Mr. Bott than of Mrs. Mar-
sham, said that she could n't but be sorry for the lady.
" She 's old enough to be his mother," said Lady
Glencora, " otherwise I really don't know any people
better suited to each other. The best is, that Mr. Bott
is doing it to regain his footing with Mr. Palliser! I
am sure of that ; — and Plantagenet will never speak to
him again. But, Alice, there is other news."

"What other news?"

"It is hardly news yet, and of course I am very
wicked to tell you. But I feel sure Mr. Grey knows
all about it, and if I did n't tell, he would."
He has n't told me anything yet."
He has n't had time ; and when he does, you
must n't pretend to know. I believe Mr. Palliser will
certainly be Chancellor^ the Exchequer before next
month, and, if so, he '11 neVer come in for Silverbridge
again."

370 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" But he '11 be in Parliament ; will he not ? "

" Oh yes ; he '11 be in Parliament. I don't under-
stand all about it. There is a man going out for the
county, — for Barsetshire, — some man whom the Duke
used to favour, and he wants Plantagenet to come in
for that, I can't understand what difference it makes."

" But he will be in the Cabinet? "

" Oh yes. But who do you suppose is to be the
new member for Silverbridge? "

" I can't guess," said AHce. Though, of course, she
did guess.

" Mind, I don't know it. He has never told me.
But he told me that he had been with the Duke, and
asked the Duke to let Jeffrey have the seat. The
Duke became as black as thunder, and said that
Jeffrey had no fortune. In short, he would n't hear
of it. Poor Jeffrey ! we must try to do something for
him, but I really don't know how. Then the Duke
said that Plantagenet should put in for Silverbridge
some friend who would support himself ; and I fancy,
— mind, it 's only fancy, — but I fancy that Plantagenet
mentioned to his Grace — one Mr. Grey."

"Oh, Glencora!"

" They've been talking together till sometimes I think
Mr. Grey is worse than Plantagenet. When Mr. Grey
began to say something the other night in the drawing-
room about sugar, I knew it was all up with you.
He '11 be a financial secretary ; you see if he is n't ; or
a lord of something, or an under-somebody of state ;
and then some day he '11 go mad, either because he
does or because he does n't get into the Cabinet."
Lady Glencora, as she said all this, knew well that the

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS. 37 1

news she was giving would please her cousin better than
any other tidings that could be told.

By degrees the guests came. The two Miss How-
ards were the first, and they expressed themselves as
delighted with Lady Glencora's taste and with Mr.
Palliser's munificence, — for at that time the brooches
and armlets had been produced. Kate had said very
Httle about these matters, but the Miss Howards were
loud in their thanks. But they were good-humoured,
merry girls, and the house was pleasanter after their
arrival than it had been before. Then came the
dreaded personage, — the guest, — Lady Midlothian !
On the subject of Lady Midlothian Kate had really
become curious. She had a real desire to see the face
and gait of the woman, and to hear her voice. Lady
Midlothian came,, and with her came Lady Jane and
Lady Mary. I am by no means sure that Lady Jane
and Lady Mary were not nearly as old as the two Miss
Pallisers ; but they were not probably so fully resolved
as to the condition of their future modes of living as
were those two ladies, and if so, they were not wrong
to shine as bridesmaids. With them Alice had made
some slight acquaintance during the last spring in
London, and as they were now to attend upon her as
the bride they were sufficiently gracious. To Kate,
too, they were civil enough, and things, in public,
went on very pleasantly at Matching.

A scene there was, of course, between Alice and
Lady Midlothian; — a scene in private. ** You must
go through it," Lady Glencora had said, with jocose
mournful n ess ; " and why should you not let her jump
upon you a little? It can't hurt you now."

372 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

" But I don't like people to jump upon me," Alice
said.

" And why are you to have everything just as you
like it? You are so unreasonable. Think how I Ve
been jumped on ! Think what I have borne from
them ! If you knew the things she used to say to
me, you would not be such a coward. I was sent
down to her for a week, and had no power of helping
myself. And the Marchioness used to be sent for to
look at me, for she never talks. She used to look at
me, and groan, and hold up her hands till I hated her
the worst of the two. Think what they did to me,
and yet they are my dear friends now. Why should
you escape altogether? "

Alice could not escape altogether, and therefore was
closeted with Lady Midlothian for the best part of an
hour. " Did Lady Macleod read to you what I
wrote ? " the Countess asked.

** Yes, — that is, she gave me the letter to read."

"And I hope you understand me, Alice? "

" Oh yes, I suppose so."

" You suppose so, my dear ! If you only suppose
so I shall not be contented. I want you to appreciate
my feelings towards you thoroughly. I want you to
know that I am most anxious as to your future life,
and that I am thoroughly satisfied with the step you
are now taking." The Countess paused, but Alice
said nothing. Her tongue was itching to tell the old
woman that she cared nothing for this expression of
satisfaction ; but she was aware that she had done
much that was deserving of punishment, and resolved
to take this as part of her penance. She was being
jumped upon, and it was unpleasant ; but, after all

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS. 373

that had happened, it was only fitting that she should
undergo much unpleasantness. " Thoroughly satisfied,"
continued the Countess; "and now, I only wish to
refer, in the slightest manner possible, to what took
place between us when we were both of us under this
roof last winter."

" Why refer to it at all, Lady Midlothian? "
" Because I think* it may do good, and because I
cannot make you understand that I have thoroughly
forgiven everything, unless I tell you that I have for-
given that also. On that occasion I had come all the
way from Scotland on purpose to say a few words to
you."

" I am so sorry that you should have had the trouble."
" I do not regret it, Alice. I never do regret doing
anything which I believe to have been my duty. There
is no knowing how far what I said then may have
operated for good." Alice thought that she knew
very well, but she said nothing. " I must confess that
what I then understood to be your obstinacy, — and I
must say also, if I tell the truth, your indifference to —
to — to all prudential considerations whatever, not to
talk of appearances and decorum, and I might say,
anything like a high line of duty or moral conduct, —
shocked me very much. It did, indeed, my dear.
Taking it altogether, I don't know that I was ever
more shocked in my life. The thing was so inscru-
table ! " Here Lady Midlothian held up one hand in
a manner that was truly imposing; '*so inscrutable!
But that is all over now. What was personally offen-
sive to myself I could easily forgive, and I do forgive
it. I shall never think of it any more." Here Lady
Midlothian put up both her hands gently, as though

374 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

wafting the injury away into the air. " But what I
wish specially to say to you is this ; your own conduct
is forgiven also!" Here she paused again, and Alice
winced. Who was this dreadful old Countess ; — what
was the Countess to her, that she should be thus tor-
mented with the old woman's forgiveness? .John Grey
had forgiven her, and of external forgiveness that was
enough. She had not forgiven herself, — would never
forgive herself altogether ; and the pardon of no old
woman in England could assist her in doing so. She
had sinned, but she had not sinned against Lady Mid-
lothian. " Let her jump upon you, and have done with
it," Lady Glencora had said. She had resolved that
it should be so, but it was very hard to keep her reso-
lution.

" The Marchioness and I have talked it over," con-
tinued Lady Midlothian, " and she has asked me to
speak for both her and myself." There is comfort at
any rate in that, thought Alice, who had never yet seen
the Marchioness. " We have resolved that all those
little mistakes should be as though tliey had never
been committed. We shall both be most happy to
receive you and your husband, who is, I must say,
one of the most gentlemanlike-looking men I ever saw.
It seems that he and Mr. Palliser are on most friendly,
— I may say, most confidential terms, and that must
be quite a pleasure to you."

'' It 's a pleasure to him, which is more to the pur-
pose," said Alice.

''Exactly so. And now, my dear, everything is for-
given and shall be forgotten. Come and give me a
kiss, and let me wish you joy." Alice did as she was
bidden, and accepted the kiss and the congratulations,

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS. 375

and a little box of jewellery which Lady Midlothian
produced from out of her pocket. " The diamonds
are from the Marchioness, my dear, whose means,
as you doubtless are aware, greatly exceed my own.
The garnets are from me. I hope they may both be
worn long and happily."

I hardly know which was the worst, the lecture, the
kiss, or the present. The latter she would have declined,
had it been possible ; but it was not possible. When
she had agreed to be married at Matching she had not
calculated the amount of punishment which would
thereby be inflicted on her. But I think that, though
she bore it impatiently, she was aware that she had de-
served it. Although she fretted herself greatly under
the infliction of Lady Midlothian, she acknowledged
to herself, even at the time, that she deserved all the
lashes she received. She had made a fool of herself
in her vain attempt to be greater and grander than
other girls, and it was only fair that her folly should
be in some sort punished before it was fully pardoned.
John Grey punished it after one fashion ; by declining
to allude to it, or to think of it, or to take any account
of it. And now Lady Midlothian had punished it
after another fashion, and Alice went out of the Count-
ess's presence with sundry inward exclamations of
" mea culpa," and with many unseen beatings of the
breast.

Two days before the ceremony came the Marchioness
and her august daughter. Her Lady Jane was much
more august than the other Lady Jane ; — very much
more august indeed. She had very long flaxen hair,
and very light blue eyes, which she did not move fre-
quently, and she spoke very little, — one may almost

376 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

say not at all, and she never seemed to do anything.
But she was very august, and was, as all the world
knew, engaged to marry the Duke of Dumfriesshire,
who, though twice her own age, was as yet childless,
as soon as he should have completed his mourning for
his first wife. Kate told her cousin that she did not
at all know how she should ever stand up as one in a
group with so august a person as this Lady Jane, and
Alice herself felt that such an attendant would quite
obliterate her. But Lady Jane and her mother were
both harmless. The Marchioness never spoke to Kate
and hardly spoke to Alice, and the Marchioness's Lady
Jane was quite as silent as her mother.

On the morning of this day, — the day on which
these very august people came, — a telegram arrived at
the Priory calling for Mr. Palliser's immediate pres-
ence in London. He came to Alice full of regret,
and behaved himself very nicely. Alice now regarded
him quite as a friend. " Of course, I understand,"
she said, *' and I know that the business which takes
you up to London pleases you."

''Well; yes; — it does please me. I am glad, — I
don't mind saying so to you But it does not please
me to think that I shall be away at your marriage.
Pray make your father understand that it was abso-
lutely unavoidable. But I shall see him, of course,
when I come back. And I shall see you too before
very long."
" Shall you? "

Oh yes."

And why so? "

Because Mr. Grey must be at Silverbridge for his
election. — But perhaps I ought not to tell you his

((

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS. 377

secrets." Then he took her into the breakfast-parlour
and showed her his present. It was a service of
Sevres china, — very precious and beautiful. " I got
you these things because Grey likes china."

" So do I like china," said she, with her face brighter
than he had ever yet seen it.

"I thought you would like them best," said he.
Alice looking up at him with her eyes full of tears
told him that she did like them best ; and then, as he
wished her all happiness, and as he was stooping over
her to kiss her. Lady Glencora came in.

** I beg pardon," said she, ** I was just one minute
too soon; was I not? "

"She would have them sent here and unpacked,"
said Mr. Palliser, " though I told her it was foolish."

" Of course I would," said Lady Glencora. " Every-
thing shall be unpacked and shown. It 's easy to get
somebody to pack them again."

Much of the wedding tribute had already been de-
posited with the china, and among other things there
were the jewels that Lady Midlothian had brought.

" Upon my word, her ladyship's diamonds are not
to be sneezed at," said Lady Glencora.

" I don't care for diamonds," said Alice.

Then Lady Glencora took up the Countess's trinkets,
and shook her head and turned up her nose. There was
a wonderful comic expressioi^i on her face as she did so.

" To me they are just as good as the others," said
Alice.

*' To me they are not, then," said Lady Glencora.
" Diamonds are diamonds, and garnets are garnets ;
and I am not so romantic but what I know the differ-
ence."

378 CAN YQV FORGIVE HER?

On the evening before the marriage Alice and Lady
Glencora walked for the last time through the Priory
ruins. It was now September^ and the evenings were
still long, so that the ladies could get out upon the
lawn after dinner. Whether Lady Glencora would
have been allowed to walk through the ruins so late
as half -past eight in the evening if her husband had
been there may be doubtful, but her husband was
away and she took this advantage of hiis absence.

" Do you remember that night we were here? " said
Lady Glencora.

'' When shall I forget it ; or how is it possible that
such a night should ever be forgotten? **

" No ; I shall never forget it. Oh dear, what won-
derful things have happened since that ! Do you
ever think of Jeffrey? "

'* Yes ; — of course I think of him. I did like him
so much. I hope I shall see him some day."

" And he liked you too, young woman ; and, what
was more, young woman, I thought at one time that,
perhaps, you were going to like him in earnest."

" Not in that way, certainly."

" You Ve done much better, of course ; especially
as poor Jeffrey's chance of promotion does n't look so
good now. If I have a boy, I wonder whether he '11
hate me? "

'' Why should he hate you? "

" I can't help it, you know, if he does. Only think
what it is to Plantagenet. Have you seen the differ-
ence it makes in him already ? "

'* Of course it makes a difference ; — the greatest dif-
ference in the world."

" And think what it will be to me, Alice. I used

DIAMONDS ARE DIAMONDS. 379

to lie in bed and wish myself dead, and make up
my mind to drown myself, — ^if I could only dare. I
shan't think any more of that poor fellow now." Then
she told Alice what had been done for Burgo ; how
his uncle had paid his bills once again, and had agreed
to give him a small income. "Poor fellow!" said
Lady Glencora, " it won't do more than buy him gloves,
you know."

The marriage was magnificent, greatly to the dis-
may of Alice and to the discomfort of Mr. Vavasor,
who came down on the eve of the ceremony, — arriv-
ing while his daughter and Lady Glencora were in the
ruins. Mr. Grey seemed to take it all very easily, and,
as Lady Glencora said, played his part exactly as
though he were in the habit of being married at any
rate once a year. " Nothing on earth will ever put
him out, so you need not try, my dear," she said, as
Alice stood with her a moment alone in the dressing-
room upstairs before her departiu-e.

" I know that," said Ahce, " and therefore I shall
never try."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE STORY IS FINISHED WITHIN THE HALLS OF THE

DUKE OF OMNIUM.

Mr. Grey and wife were duly carried away from
Matching Priory by post horses, and did their honey-
moon, we may be quite sure, with much satisfaction.
When Alice was first asked where she would go, she
simply suggested that it should not be to Switzerland.
They did, in truth, go by slow stages to Italy, to Venice,
Florence, and on to Rome ; but such had not been
their intention when they first started on their jour-
ney. At that time Mr. Grey believed that he would
be wanted again in England, down at Silverbridge
in Barsetshire, very shortly. But before he had been
married a week he learned that all that was to be post-
poned. The cup of fruition had not yet reached Mr.
Palliser's lips. " There will be no vacancy either in
the county or in the borough till Parliament meets."
That had been the message sent by Mr. Palliser to
Mr. Grey. Lady Glencora's message to Alice had
been rather more full, having occupied three pages of
note paper, the last of which had been crossed, but I
do not know that it was more expHcit. She had
abused Lord Brock, had abused Mr. Finespun, and
had abused all public things and institutions, because
the arrangements as now proposed would be very

comfortable to Alice, but would not, as she was pleased

380

THE STORY IS FINISHED. 38 1

to think, be very comfortable to herself. " You can
go to Rome and see everything and enjoy yourself,
which I was not allowed to do ; and all- this noise and
bother, and crowd of electioneering, will take place
down in Barsetshire just when I am in the middle of
all my trouble." There were many very long letters
came from Lady Glencora to Rome during the winter,
— letters which AHce enjoyed thoroughly, but which
she could not but regard as being very indiscreet.
The Duke was at the Castle during the Christmas
week, and the descriptions of the Duke and of his so-
licitude as to his heir were very comic. " He comes
and bends over me on the sofa in the most stupendous
way, as though a woman to be the mother of his heir
must be a miracle in nature. He is quite awful when
he says a word or two, and more awful in his silence.
The devil prompted me the other day, and I said I
hoped it would be a girl. There was a look came
over his face which almost frightened me. If it
should be, I believe he will turn me out of the house ;
but how can I help it? I wish you were going to
have a baby at the same time. Then, if yours was a
boy and mine a girl, we 'd make a change." This
was very indiscreet. Lady Glencora would write in-
discreet letters hke this, which Alice could not show to
her husband. It was a thousand pities.

But December and January wore themselves away,
and the time came in which the Greys were bound to
return to England. The husband had very fully dis-
cussed with his wife that matter of his parliamentary
ambition, and found in her a very ready listener.
Having made up his mind to do this thing, he was
resolved to do it thoroughly, and was becoming almost

382 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

as full of politics, almost as much devoted to sugar,
as Mr. Palliser himself. He at any rate could not
complain that his wife would not interest herself in his
pursuits. Then, as they returned, came letters from
Lady Glencora, written as her troubles drew nigh.
The Duke had gone, of course ; but he was to be there
at the appointed time. " Oh, I do so wish he would
have a fit of the gout in London, — or at Timbuctoo,"
said Lady Glencora. When they reached London
they first heard the news from Mr. Vavasor, who on
this occasion condescended to meet them at the rail-
way. "The Duke has got an heir," he said, before
the carriage-door was open; — "born this morning!"
One might have supposed that it was the Duke's baby,
and not the baby of Lady Glencora and Mr. Palliser.
There was a note from Mr. Palliser to Mr. Grey.
" Thank God ! " said the note, " Lady Glencora and
the boy " — Mr. Palliser had scorned to use the word
child — " Lady Glencora and the boy are quite as well
as can be expected. Both the new writs were moved
for last night." Mr. Palliser's honours, as will be seen,
came rushing upon him all at once.

Wondrous little baby, — purpureo-genitus ! What
have the gods not done for thee, if thou canst only
manage to live till thy good things are all thine own,
— to live through all the terrible solicitude with which
they will envelope thee! Better than royal rank will
be thine, with influence more than royal, and power
of action fettered by no royalty. Royal wealth which
will be really thine own, to do with as it beseemeth
thee. Thou wilt be at the top of an aristocracy in a
country where aristocrats need gird themselves with no
buckrum. All that the world can give will be thine ;

THE STORY IS FINISHED. ^S^

and yet when we talk of thee religiously, philosophic-
ally, or politico-economically, we are wont to declare
that thy chances of happiness are no better, — no better,
if they be no worse, — than are those of thine infant
neighbour just bom, in that farmyard cradle. Who
shall say that they are better or that they are worse?
Or if they be better, or if they be worse, how shall we
reconcile to ourselves that seeming injustice?

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

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

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

" I 'm sure Mr. Palliser would. not have said a word."
" No, he would have said nothing, — nor would the

her;

Dnke. The Dule would simply have gone away
instantly, and never have seen me again till the next
chance comes, — if it ever does come. And Mr. Pal-
User would have been as gentle as a do^'C; — much
2 genlle than he is now, for men are rarely gentle
niph. But I should iiave known what tliey
both thought and felL"

" It 's all right now, dear."

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

In the course of that afternoon Lady Glencora took
Alice all over the house. It was a castle of enormous
size, quite new, — having been built by the present pro-
prietor, — very cold, very handsome, and very dull.
" What an immense place ! " said Alice, as she stood
looking round her in the grand hall, which was never
used as an entrance except on very grand occasions.
"Is it not? And it cost — oh, I can't tell you how
much it cost. A hundred thousand pounds or more.

THE STORY IS FINISHED. 385

Well ; — that would be nothing, as the Duke no doubt
had the money in his pocket to do what he liked with
at the time. But the joke is, nobody ever thinks of
living here. Who *d live in such a great, overgrown
place as this, if they could get a comfortable house
like Matching ? Do you remember Longroyston and
the hot-water pipes ? I always think of the poor
Duchess when I come through here. Nobody ever
lives here, or ever will. The Duke comes for one
week in the year, and Plantagenet says he hates to do
that. As for me, nothing on earth shall ever make
me live here. I was completely in their power and
could n*t help their bringing me here the other day ; —
because I had, as it were, disgraced myself."

" How disgraced yourself ? ''

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

On the evening of that day Mr. Palliser and Mr.
Grey returned home from Silverbridge together. The
latter was then a member of Parliament, but the former
at that moment was the possessor of no such dignity.
The election for the borough was now over, whereas
that for the county had not yet taken plac^ But
there was no rival candidate for the position, and Mr.
Palliser was thoroughly contented with his fate. He
was at this moment actually Chancellor of the Excheq-

386 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

uer, and in about ten days* time would be on his legs
in the House proposing for his country's use his scheme
of finance. The two men were seated together in an
open carriage, and were being whirled along by four
horses. They were both no doubt happy in their am-'
bition, but I think that of the two, Mr. Palliser showed
his triumph the most. Not that he spoke even to his
friend a word that was triumphant in its tone. It was
not thus that he rejoiced. He was by nature too placid
for that. But there was a nervousness in his content-
ment which told the tale to any observer who might
know how to read it.

" I hope you '11 like it," he said to Grey.

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

" And why not ; — why not? "
In the first place, I have not begun it so young."
Any time before thirty-five is young enough."
For useful work, yes, — but hardly for enjoyment
in the thing. And then I don't believe in all, as you do.
To you the British House of Commons is everything."

" Yes ; everything," said Mr. Palliser with unwonted
enthusiasm ; — " everything, everything. That and the
Constitution are everything."
It is not so to me."

Ah, but it will be. If you really take to the work,
and put yourself into harness, it will be so. You '11 get
to feel it as I do. The man who is counted by his
colleagues as number one on the Treasury Bench in
the English House of Commons, is the first of living
men. That 's my opinion. I don't know that I ever
said it before ; but that 's my opinion."

*' And who is the second? — the purse-bearer to this
great man? "

((

T^E STORY IS FINISHED. 387

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

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

" They tell me so, but I don't know whether I act-
ually am one till I Ve taken the oaths."

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

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

" Oh, John, I am so happy. It is so much more
than I have deserv^ed. I hope, — that is, I sometimes
think "

"Think what, dearest? "

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

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

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

THE END.

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