Alice was dumbfounded, 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 acknowledged 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.

Alice was dumbfounded; 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 found it quite impossible to speak a word to him, but she acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod, and then stood silent, as though waiting for him to go.
"Mr. Fitzgerald, why do you not leave me?" said Lady Glencora.


Poor Burgo also found it difficult enough to speak. What could he say? His cause was one which certainly did not admit of being pleaded in the presence 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."

Poor Burgo also found it difficult enough to speak. What could he say?
"I had hoped to talk 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."

"No, Mr. Fitzgerald. I sent for my cousin 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 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 would at any rate have been--less hard to me." He then turned to go, bowing again very slightly to Miss Vavasor.

Burgo knew then that he must go - must skulk away as best he might. "No, Lady Glencora," he said, "I will not drive you from the room. I did think that you would at any rate have been less hard to me." He then turned to go.


He was on the threshold of the door before Glencora's voice recalled him. "Oh my God!" she said, "I am hard,--harder than flint. I am cruel. Burgo!" 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 advantage of her folly."

He was on the threshold before Glencora's voice recalled him.
"Oh my God!" she said. "I am hard - harder than flint. I am cruel. Burgo!" 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 advantage 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 husband 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.

"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. "Burgo," she said, with all the passion that she could throw into the word, "Burgo, no good can come of this. Now, you must go. I shall stay with my husband as I am bound to do. Because I have wronged you, I will not wrong him also. 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 honour 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."
"You are hard;--hard and cruel, as you said, yourself."
"Am I? May God forgive you for saying that of me!"

"Sir," said Alice, "if you have any feeling of honour 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. Go, and leave us; but I could not bear that you should tell me that I was hard."
"You are hard and cruel, as you said yourself."
"Am I? May God forgive you for saying that!"


"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!"

"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, and before she could pull away he 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 for ever, 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 wretchedness from first to last!"
"At any rate, he understands now that you meant it when you told him to leave you."

"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 for ever, and you bid me thank God that I have lost him. There is no room for thankfulness. It is all wretchedness 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 me. Mr. Palliser 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 sooth her by smoothing her hair, and nursing her like a child.

"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, but as for doing it, that is beyond me. Mr. Palliser is quite safe."
Alice came and sat by her, and tried to sooth 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 husband, and went to live 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 husband,--whom would a just God have punished worst,--me, or those two old women and my uncle, who tortured me into this marriage?"
"Come, Cora,--be silent."

"Of course I know that I ought to stay where I am," she said, breaking out almost with rage. "I am not such a fool as to mistake what I should be if I left my husband, and went to live with that man as his mistress. 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 to marry a man for whom they knew I never cared? If I had eloped with that man who ought to have been my husband, whom would a just God have punished worst - me, or those two old women and my uncle, who tortured 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 towards my husband, feigning that I love him; and I sin in loving that other man, who should have been my 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."

"I won't be silent! You have done what you liked, and no one has interfered with you. You have suffered, too; but at any rate you 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? But it is all sin. I sin towards my husband, pretending that I love him; and I sin in loving that other man, who should have been my 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 talking while I try to recover myself."


Mr. Palliser did at once as his wife had said, and came up-stairs 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.

Mr. Palliser came upstairs as soon as he had deposited his hat in the hall. Alice was, in fact, in doubt about whether she should mention Mr. Fitzgerald's name. 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. "Indeed, 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, without 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."
"Glencora was alone when he came in?"
"For a minute or two,--till I could get to her."

"I saw him as I went out," said Mr. Palliser. "Indeed, I met him at the hall door. He was, of course, wrong to come here."
"He has been punished, I think," said Alice.
"But as for Glencora," continued Mr. Palliser, without 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."
"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. Palliser, after waiting for a few moments. He had probably thought that Alice 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 certain evening in his own life, on which he had ventured to call that lady, Griselda.

"I have no questions to ask about it," said Mr. Palliser, after waiting for a few moments. "I am very glad that you were within reach of her, as otherwise her position might have been painful. Perhaps it may be as well that he has been here. 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 certain evening in his own life.


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 Matching. "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'll set us off yawning as bad as himself, and then he'll notice it. He has given himself up to politics, till nothing else has any salt in it left for him. I cannot think why such a man as that wanted a wife at all."
"You are very hard upon him, Cora."

The little party of three dined together very quietly, and after dinner they all read 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. When he left the room for a few minutes to wake himself up by walking about the house, Glencora told Alice of his yawning down at Matching. "I used to think that he would fall in pieces. What are we to do about it?"
"Pretend not to notice it," said Alice.
"That's all very well; but he'll set us off yawning too, and then he'll notice it. He has given himself up to politics, till nothing else has any salt in it left for him. I cannot think why such a man wanted a wife at all."
"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 disappointed." Then Mr. Palliser having walked off his sleep, returned to the room, and the remainder of the evening was passed in absolute tranquillity.

"I wish you were his wife. But, of course, I know why he got married. And I ought to feel for him as he has been so grievously disappointed." Then Mr. Palliser returned to the room, and the remainder of the evening was passed in 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 moment, hurried on. For half an hour, or thereabouts, something like true feeling was at work within his heart. He had once 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 consolation 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 pats and curaoa to a very large extent, and now it might be doubted whether the amount of pats and curaoa at his command would last him much longer.

Burgo Fitzgerald, when he left the house, turned back as far as his uncle's door, and then, having paused there for a moment, hurried on. For half an hour, or thereabouts, something like true feeling was at work within his heart. He had once more pressed to his bosom the woman he thought that he had loved. He had kissed her, and her voice was still ringing in his ears. He comforted himself for a minute with the conviction that she loved him. He felt - for a moment - that he could live on such consolation as that! But in truth, there was hardly a man less capable of living on such consolation.


He would not go in and tell his aunt at once of his failure, as he could gain nothing by doing so. Indeed, he thought that he would not tell his aunt at all. So he turned back from Grosvenor Square, and went down to his club in St. James's Street, feeling that billiards 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 contrive to get that spoil out of his aunt's possession.

He would not go in and tell his aunt at once of his failure. Indeed, he thought he would not tell his aunt at all. So he turned back from Grosvenor Square, and went to his club in St. James's Street, feeling that billiards and brandy-and-water might be the best restorative. He blamed himself greatly for letting Lady Monk take those banknotes from him. When he entered his club his mind had left Lady Glencora, and was considering how he might best get that spoil out of his aunt's possession.


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 behaved badly,--very badly; and the aunt had confessed to the niece that she regarded Captain Bellfield as a fit subject for compassion.

During these days Mrs. Greenow was mistress of the old Hall down in Westmorland, and was nursing Kate. The aunt and the niece had confided much in each other. Kate had acknowledged that her brother had behaved badly; and the aunt had confessed to the niece that she regarded Captain Bellfield 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 knew nothing about it. And if he had broken both my 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 have in the world to bring them together again," Kate said.

"And he broke your arm? I always knew he was violent," Mrs. Greenow had said.
But this Kate had denied. "No, that was an accident. And if he had broken both my arms, I could have forgiven him that." What she could not forgive was the fault which she had herself committed. For his sake she had tried to separate Alice and John Grey, and George had shown himself to be unworthy. "I would give all I have in the world to bring them together again," Kate said.


"They'll 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 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 young men are. All this nonsense about her cousin George,--what difference will it make? A man like Mr. Grey won't care about that,--especially not if she tells him all about it. My belief is that a girl can have anything forgiven her, if she'll only tell it herself."

"They'll 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 with her money won't have to seek far for a husband."
"You don't know Alice, aunt."
"No, I don't. But I know what young women are, and I know what young men are. A man like Mr. Grey won't care about all that nonsense with her cousin George - especially if she tells him all about it."


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 hump-backed, and had only one eye, they wouldn't be ashamed to tell her she was a Venus."
"But, aunt, you are a handsome woman, you know."

But Kate preferred the subject of the Captain, and so, I think, did Mrs. Greenow herself.
"Of course, my dear," she would say, "as for love, that has been all over for me since poor Greenow died. 'Captain Bellfield,' I said to him, 'if you were to kneel at my feet for years, it would not make me love you.'"
"And what did he say?"
"He talked nonsense about my beauty, as all the men do. If a woman were hump-backed, and had only one eye, they wouldn'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 didn't understand all about it; as if I didn't know what makes a woman run after? It isn't beauty,--and it isn't money altogether. I've seen women who had plenty of both, and not a man would come nigh them. They didn't dare. There are 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."

"Laws, my dear, it isn't beauty as makes men run after a woman - and it isn't money altogether. I've seen women who had plenty of both, and not a man dared come near them, they were so hard and stiff. You know you're a little that way yourself, Kate."
"I'm afraid I'm too old to mend, aunt."


"Not at all, if you'll 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 isn't that that's wanted. There's a stand-off about some women,--what the men call a 'nollimy 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 improper, and as if they believed that 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."

"Not at all, if you'll only try. You've plenty of money now, and you're good-looking enough, when you take the trouble. But, as I said before, that's not important. There's a stand-off about some women: they look as though marriage itself were improper, and as if they believed that little babies were found in the hedges and ditches. They talk of women being forward! There are some a deal too backward, according to my way of thinking.


"That's just what I want it to be. I want things to be comfortable. Why shouldn'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."

You remember the song? '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 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 he'll give me a deal of trouble. I know he will. He'll always be wanting my money, and, of course, he'll get more than he ought. I'm not a Solomon, nor yet a Queen of Sheba, no more than anybody else. And he'll smoke too many cigars, and perhaps drink more brandy-and-water than he ought. And he'll be making eyes, too, at some of the girls who'll be fools enough to let him."
"Dear me, aunt, if I thought all that ill of him, I'm sure I wouldn't marry him;--especially as you say you don't love him."

"Not so often as people say, my dear. Men and women don't melt because the water is sometimes warm. Now, if I do take Bellfield - and I really think I shall; but I know he'll give me a deal of trouble. He'll always be wanting my money, and, of course, he'll get more than he ought. And he'll smoke too many cigars, and perhaps drink more brandy-and-water than he should. And he'll be making eyes, too, at the girls who are fools enough to let him."
"Dear me, aunt, if I thought that ill of him, I wouldn'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!" 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, marriage 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 shouldn'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.

"As for love, my dear, that's gone!" Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "Some women can love twice, but I am not one of them." Then her solemn tone changed as she went on. "But my dear, marriage is a comfortable thing. And I don't doubt that I shall get the upper hand with the Captain at last. I shan't stop his cigars and brandy-and-water. Why shouldn't a man enjoy himself?


And then," she added, speaking tenderly 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 to have him."
"Quite, aunt."

And then," she added tenderly, "I do think he's fond of me - I do, indeed."
"So is Mr. Cheesacre, for that matter."
"Poor Cheesy! I believe he was, though he did talk so much about money. But there was no poetry about Cheesy. I don't care about saying it now, as you've made up your mind not to have him."
"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 doesn't mean much; but it's like artificial flowers,--it gives a little 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 haven'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.

"Your grandfather's will does make a difference. But, as I was saying, I do like a little romance - just a sniff, as I call it, of the rocks and valleys. One knows that it doesn't mean much; but it's like artificial flowers - it gives a little colour, and takes off the dowdiness. Thanks to dear Greenow, I shall never want. Of course I shan't let any of the money go into the Captain's hands. 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?"
[Illustration: A sniff of the rocks and valleys.]
"And you think you'll 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, isn'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 mustn't be choosers, my dear."

What's the good of a woman's wanting to keep it all to herself?"
"And you think you'll really take him, aunt?"
"Well, yes; I think I will."


In this way the aunt and niece became very confidential, 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 she did not like the idea of having Captain Bellfield as a visitor. "After all, perhaps he mayn'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."

Then Mrs. Greenow whispered to Kate her belief that Captain Bellfield might possibly travel to Westmorland.
"There would be no harm in offering him a bed, would there?" she asked. "The inn at Shap is a long way off for morning calls."
Kate did not like the idea of having Captain Bellfield as a visitor.


"If Captain Bellfield must come to Vavasor Hall, at any rate let him not come till Alice's visit had been completed." That was Kate's present wish, and so 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 shouldn'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.

"If he must come, at least let him not come till after Alice's visit."
But there seemed to be no way of stopping him. "I don't know where he is, my dear, and as for writing to him, I shouldn't know how to begin." Although Mrs. Greenow declared that she had not positively invited the Captain, Kate did not entirely believe her.


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 prohibition. 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 Haweswater, they did reach the spot upon which Kate had encountered her accident. "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 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.

Alice arrived, and, for a day or two, the three ladies lived very pleasantly together. Kate wore her arm in a sling; but she was able to walk out, and would take long walks in spite of the doctor's advice. Of course, they went up on the mountains. They walked up the beacon hill, and reached the spot where Kate had met with her accident.
"It was here I fell," she said; "and the last I saw of him was his back, as he went down into the valley. 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 feeling,--what people call a presentiment, that I should never see him again."
"He has never written?"

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 hardly know! He seemed to me to be going away from me, as though into another world. 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. But still, I had a feeling 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 sure, 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."

"Not a word. You must remember that he did not know that I had hurt myself. I am sure he will not write. If he wanted money I would send it to him, but I will 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! Of course, I ought not to have written it.


"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 Parliament, and everything else! I had doubted much 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.

It was a mean letter. The whole thing was mean! He should have starved in the street before he took your money. It was that which first turned my heart against him. I began to fear that he was not such a man as I had always thought him, and spoken of him."
"I had judged 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 wrong,--things that were foreign to my own nature; and yet I almost worshipped 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."

"Of course you did. But I had tried to make you judge kindly. Alice, dear! we have both suffered for him. I, too, have given up everything for him. My whole life has been at his service. He made me do things that I knew were wrong, and yet I almost worshipped him. Even now, if he came 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 hardened 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."

"But he will never come back. He will never ask us to forgive him, or even wish it. He has no heart. And yet how tender he could be when he chose! Do you remember Switzerland? Do you remember that balcony at Basle, and the night we sat there?"
"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 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?"

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


"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."

"Kate, what happened with Mr. Grey 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 about Mr. Grey. Alice could not bring herself to talk freely about him. She would never allow herself to think, for a moment, that she had been persuaded by others to treat him as she had. She had acted on her own convictions.
They walked back to the Hall mostly in silence.


"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 further speech; but when they reached the end of the little path which led out of the wood, on to the gravelled 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 little 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 something very like dismay in her voice.

As they came out of the wood, they were arrested by the sight of a man standing with a cigar in his mouth, swinging a little cane, and looking around. He wore a jaunty little straw-hat, a jacket with brass buttons, and white trousers. It was now nearly the middle of May, but the summer does not come to Westmorland so early as that, and the man seemed to be cold and uncomfortable. He had not yet seen the two girls.
"Who is it?" whispered Alice.
"Captain Bellfield," said Kate, dismayed.


"What! aunt Greenow's Captain?"
"Yes; aunt Greenow's Captain. I have been fearing 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."

"I have been fearing this. 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 to move, 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 delighted," 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 my word, the woods looked so black that I did not dare to venture;--and then, of course, I shouldn't have found you."

The Captain had finished his cigar, and as he threw it away among the shrubs his eye fell upon the two ladies. He uttered an exclamation, came forward, and saluted them.
"Miss Vavasor, I am delighted," he said. "Miss Alice Vavasor, if I am not mistaken? I have been asked by my dear friend Mrs. Greenow to go out and seek 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 Yarmouth, though he wore the same jacket and waistcoat, and must now have enjoyed the internal satisfaction of feeling 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 Westmoreland, but it did not suffice to make him comfortable 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 ceremony of introduction, and then expressed her surprise at seeing him so far north.

Kate introduced her cousin to the Captain, who strove to bear himself as though he were comfortably at home. But he failed. He was not the Bellfield who had conquered Mr. Cheesacre on the sands at Yarmouth, though he wore the same jacket and waistcoat. Here he was not at his ease. Kate instantly saw this, and wickedly resolved that she would make no effort to help him. She expressed her surprise at seeing him so far north.


"Well," said he; "I am a little surprised myself;--I am, indeed! But I had nothing to do in Norwich,--literally nothing; and your aunt had so often talked to me of the beauties of this place,"--and he waved his hand round at the old house and the dark trees,--"that I thought I'd take the liberty of paying you a flying visit. I didn't mean to intrude in the way of sleeping; I didn't indeed, Miss Vavasor; only Mrs. Greenow has been so kind as to say--"
"We are so very far out of the world, Captain Bellfield, that we always give our visitors beds."
"I didn't intend it; I didn't indeed, miss!" Poor Captain Bellfield was becoming very uneasy in his agitation. "I did just put my bag, with a change of things, into the gig, which brought me over, not knowing quite where I might go on to."
"We won't send you any further to-day, at any rate," said Kate.
"Mrs. Greenow has been very kind,--very kind, indeed. She has asked me to stay till--Saturday!"

"Well," said he; "I am a little surprised myself. But your aunt had so often talked to me of the beauties of this place that I thought I'd take the liberty of paying you a flying visit. I didn't mean to intrude in the way of sleeping; I didn't indeed, Miss Vavasor; only Mrs. Greenow has been so kind as to say-"
"We are so very far out of the world, Captain Bellfield, that we always give our visitors beds."
"I didn't intend it, indeed, miss!" Poor Captain Bellfield was becoming very uneasy. "I did just put my bag, with a change of things, into the gig, not knowing quite where I might go on to."
"We won't send you any further today, at any rate," said Kate.
"Mrs. Greenow has been very kind. 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 remembered that her aunt had been kind to her at Norwich 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 impossible!"
"And how have you left your friend, Mr. Cheesacre?"

Kate bit her lips in a momentary fit of anger. The house was not her aunt's. But she remembered that her aunt had been kind to her, and she allowed this feeling to die away. "We shall be very glad to see you," she said, "though I'm afraid you will find us rather dull."
"Oh dear, no - dull with you! That would be impossible!"
"And how have you left your friend, Mr. Cheesacre?"


"Quite well;--very well, thank you. That is to say, I haven't seen him much lately. He and I did have a bit of a breeze, you know."
"I can't say that I did know, Captain Bellfield."
"I thought, perhaps, you had heard. He seemed to think that I was too particular in a certain quarter! Ha--ha--ha--ha! That's only my joke, you know, ladies."

"Quite well, thank you. That is to say, I haven't seen him much lately. He and I did have a bit of a breeze, you know."
"I can't say that I did know, Captain Bellfield."
"I thought, perhaps, you had heard. He seemed to think that I was too particular in a certain quarter! Ha - ha - ha! That's only my joke, 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 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 didn't walk very far."
"And have you seen your room?"

They went into the house, and the Captain straggled in after them. Mrs. Greenow, who had been somewhat discomposed by the manner of her lover's arrival - even though she had expected it - had retired to her room.
"Have you seen your room, Captain?"


"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 Oileymead. "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."

Kate asked him.
"Yes - yes. Mrs. Greenow was kind enough to show me. Very nice indeed, thank you. I shan't stay long, Miss Vavasor - only 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."

He actually simpered like a young girl. He fidgeted, and shifted from one leg to the other. Perhaps he was remembering that he had not money enough left to take him back to Norwich.
The two girls left him. "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. I knew this was coming, but I did hope it would not be while you were here."


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 purpose, there is Captain Bellfield 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, aunt; it would be inhospitable."
"But he is such an oaf. I hope you understand, my dear, that I couldn't help it?"
"But you do mean to--to marry him, aunt; don't you?"

Kate boldly knocked at her aunt's door.
"Here I am, aunt; and, what is more to the purpose, there is Captain Bellfield in the drawing-room."
"Stupid man! I told him to take himself away till dinner-time. I've half a mind to send him back to Shap at once. He is such an oaf."
"But you do mean to - to marry him, aunt; don't you?"


"Well, Kate, I really think I do. Why shouldn'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."

"Well, Kate, I really think I do. Why shouldn't I? It's a lonely sort of life being by myself; and 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."
"Couldn't I, though? I could in a minute."
"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 shouldn'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 nobody 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 always easy with her, but on this occasion Kate almost respected her tears. "I'm sure I hope you'll be happy, aunt."
"If he makes me unhappy he shall pay for it;" and Mrs. Greenow, having done with the tears, shook her head, as though upon this occasion she quite meant all that she said.

"It's all very well for you to laugh, my dear. I might have had Cheesacre if I liked, who could have kept a carriage for me; but it was the rocks and valleys that prevented that; - and perhaps a feeling that I might do some good to a poor fellow who has nobody in the world to look after him."
"I'm sure I hope you'll be happy, aunt."
"If he makes me unhappy he shall pay for it;" and Mrs. Greenow shook her head, as though she meant it.


At dinner they were not very comfortable. Either the gloomy air of the place and the neighbourhood of the black pines had depressed the Captain, or else the glorious 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 soberly. And he behaved himself at dinner and after dinner with a wonderful sobriety, being very unlike the Captain who had sat at the head of the table at Mrs. Greenow's picnic. When left to himself after dinner he barely swallowed two glasses of the old Squire's port wine before he sauntered out into the garden to join the ladies, whom he had seen there; and when pressed by Kate to light a cigar he positively declined.
On the following morning Mrs. Greenow had recovered her composure, but Captain Bellfield 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.
"I suppose I'd better take a walk," he said; "and perhaps the young ladies--"

At dinner they were not very comfortable. The Captain had laid aside the jacket with the brass buttons, and had dressed himself for dinner very soberly. And he behaved himself with an amazing sobriety, very unlike the Captain of Mrs. Greenow's picnic. After dinner he swallowed only two glasses of the old Squire's port wine before he sauntered out into the garden to join the ladies; and when pressed by Kate to light a cigar, he declined.
On the following morning Mrs. Greenow had recovered her composure, but Captain Bellfield was still in a rather disturbed state of mind. He now knew that his efforts were to be crowned with success, 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, and was flummoxed when the widow asked him what he meant to do before dinner.
"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'll find they are engaged. But if I'm not too old to walk with--" The Captain assured her that she was just of the proper 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 women laughed heartily. "Never mind, Captain," said Mrs. Greenow. "We'll have our walk all the same, and won't mind those young girls. Come along." They started, not up towards 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 politely opened the old gate for the widow, and then carefully closed it again,--not allowing it to swing, as he would have done at Yarmouth. 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?

"I'm afraid my nieces are busy," said Mrs. Greenow. "But if I'm not too old to walk with you-"
The Captain assured her that she was just the proper age for a walking companion, and then attempted some apology, at which the three women laughed.
"Never mind, Captain," said Mrs. Greenow. "We'll have our walk, and won't mind those young girls. Come along."
They started at a gentle pace, as beseemed their years, along the road towards Shap. The Captain politely opened the gate for the widow, and then carefully closed it again, not allowing it to swing, as he would have done at Yarmouth. Then he offered her his arm, which she declined, and they walked on slowly in silence. What on earth was he to say to her?


"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'll make me the happiest man in the world."
"That's all fudge." She would have said, "all rocks and valleys," only he would not have understood her.
"Upon my word, you will."
"I hope I shall make you respectable?"

"Well, Captain Bellfield," said she. "So I suppose I'm to be good-natured; am I?"
"Arabella, you'll make me the happiest man in the world."
"That's all fudge."
"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 course, I was only thinking of your beauty."

"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."
"I know that I'm lucky. The very first day I saw you I thought what a lucky fellow I was to meet you. Then, of course, 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 recovered 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."

"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 recovered something of his usual manner; 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."


"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 footing 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 Bellfield, let us have the truth at once, and then we shall understand each other." The Captain still hesitated, and said nothing. "You must have had something 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 allowed to him. That was all. He had been obliged to sell out of the army, because he was unable to live on his pay as a lieutenant.

"Have you anything?" The Captain hesitated, and poked the ground with his cane. "Come, Captain Bellfield, let us have the truth at once, and then we shall understand each other. You must have had something to live upon, I suppose."
Then the Captain told his story. He had a married sister from whom a guinea a week was allowed to him. That was all. He had been obliged to sell out of the army, because he was unable 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 Yarmouth, over seventeen pounds at his lodgings in Norwich. 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 enabled 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 satisfied 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."

The price of his commission had gone to pay his debts, and now he was in debt again. He owed ninety pounds to Cheesacre, thirty-two pounds ten to a tailor at Yarmouth, and seventeen pounds at his lodgings in Norwich. At the present moment he had less than thirty shillings in his pocket. The tailor at Yarmouth had lent him three pounds to make his journey into Westmorland, and perhaps to get a rich wife.
Thus Mrs. Greenow got much information out of him; and then, when she was satisfied that she had learned at least some of the truth, she forgave him his offences.
"And now you will give a fellow a kiss," said the ecstatic Captain.
"Hush!" said the widow, "there's a carriage coming close to us."


Lady Macleod lived at No. 3, Paramount Crescent, in Cheltenham, where she occupied a very handsome first-floor drawing-room, with a bedroom behind it, looking over a stable-yard, and a small room which would have been the dressing-room had the late Sir Archibald been alive, but which was at present called the dining-room: and in it Lady Macleod did dine whenever her larger room was to be used for any purposes of evening company. The vicinity of the stable-yard was not regarded by the tenant as among the attractions of the house; but it had the effect of lowering the rent, and Lady Macleod was a woman who regarded such matters. Her income, though small, would have sufficed to enable her to live removed from such discomforts; but she was one of those women who regard it as a duty to leave something behind them,--even though it be left to those who do not at all want it; and Lady Macleod was a woman who wilfully neglected no duty. So she pinched herself, and inhaled the effluvia of the stables, and squabbled with the cabmen, in order that she might bequeath a thousand pounds or two to some Lady Midlothian, who cared, perhaps, little for her, and would hardly thank her memory for the money.
Had Alice consented to live with her, she would have merged that duty of leaving money behind her in that other duty of finding a home for her adopted niece. But Alice had gone away, and therefore the money was due to Lady Midlothian rather than to her. The saving, however, was postponed whenever Alice would consent to visit Cheltenham; and a bedroom was secured for her which did not look out over the stables. Accommodation was also found for her maid much better than that provided for Lady Macleod's own maid. She was a hospitable, good old woman, painfully struggling to do the best she could in the world. It was a pity that she was such a bore, a pity that she was so hard to cabmen and others, a pity that she suspected all tradesmen, servants, and people generally of a rank of life inferior to her own, a pity that she was disposed to condemn for ever and ever so many of her own rank because they played cards on week days, and did not go to church on Sundays,--and a pity, as I think above all, that while she was so suspicious of the poor she was so lenient to the vices of earls, earl's sons, and such like.

Lady Macleod lived at No. 3, Paramount Crescent, in Cheltenham, where she occupied a very handsome first-floor drawing-room, with a bedroom behind it overlooking the stable-yard, and a small dining-room. The stable-yard was not attractive; but it lowered the rent. Lady Macleod's income, though small, would have sufficed for her to live without such discomforts; but she thought it her duty to leave some money behind to be inherited. So she inhaled the scent of the stables, and squabbled with the cabmen, in order that she might bequeath a thousand pounds or two to some Lady Midlothian, who would hardly thank her memory for the money.
The saving, however, was postponed whenever Alice visited Cheltenham; and a bedroom was secured for her which did not look out over the stables. Lady Macleod was a hospitable, good old woman, painfully struggling to do the best she could in the world. It was a pity that she was such a bore, a pity that she suspected all tradesmen, servants, cabmen and people of an inferior rank generally - and a pity that while she was so suspicious of the poor she was so lenient to the vices of the high-born.


Alice, having fully considered the matter, had thought it most prudent to tell Lady Macleod by letter what she had done in regard to Mr. Grey. There had been many objections to the writing of such a letter, but there appeared to be stronger objection to that telling it face to face which would have been forced upon her had she not written. There would in such case have arisen on Lady Macleod's countenance a sternness of rebuke which Alice did not choose to encounter. The same sternness of rebuke would come upon the countenance on receipt of the written information; but it would come in its most aggravated form on the immediate receipt of the letter, and some of its bitterness would have passed away before Alice's arrival. I think that Alice was right. It is better for both parties that any great offence should be confessed by letter.
But Alice trembled as the cab drew up at No. 3, Paramount Crescent. She met her aunt, as was usual, just inside the drawing-room door, and she saw at once that if any bitterness had passed away from that face, the original bitterness must indeed have been bitter. She had so timed her letter that Lady Macleod should have no opportunity of answering it. The answer was written there in the mingled anger and sorrow of those austere features.

Alice had thought it prudent to tell Lady Macleod by letter about Mr. Grey. This had seemed preferable to telling her face to face; some of Lady Macleod's bitterness of rebuke would have passed away before Alice's arrival.
But Alice trembled as the cab drew up at Paramount Crescent. She met her aunt at the drawing-room door, and saw at once that if any bitterness had passed away from that face, the original bitterness must indeed have been bitter. Anger and sorrow were mingled in those austere features.


"Alice!" she said, as she took her niece in her arms and kissed her; "oh, Alice, what is this?"
"Yes, aunt; it is very bad, I know," and poor Alice tried to make a jest of it. "Young ladies are very wicked when they don't know their own minds. But if they haven't known them and have been wicked, what can they do but repent?"
"Repent!" said Lady Macleod. "Yes; I hope you will repent. Poor Mr. Grey;--what must he think of it?"
"I can only hope, aunt, that he won't think of it at all for very long."

"Alice!" she said, as she kissed her niece; "oh, Alice, what is this?"
"Yes, aunt; it is very bad, I know." Poor Alice tried to make a jest of it. "Young ladies are very wicked when they don't know their own minds. But if they haven't known them, what can they do but repent?"
"Repent!" said Lady Macleod. "Yes; I hope you will repent. Poor Mr. Grey; what must he think?"
"I hope, aunt, that he won't think of it at all for very long."


"That's nonsense, my dear, Of course he'll think of it, and of course you'll marry him."
"Shall I, aunt?"
"Of course you will. Why, Alice, hasn't it been all settled among families? Lady Midlothian knew all the particulars of it just as well as I did. And is not your word pledged to him? I really don't understand what you mean. I don't see how it is possible you should go back. Gentlemen when they do that kind of thing are put out of society;--but I really think it is worse in a woman."
"Then they may if they please put me out of society;--only that I don't know that I'm particularly in it."

"That's nonsense, my dear, Of course he'll think of it, and of course you'll marry him."
"Shall I, aunt?"
"Of course you will. Why, Alice, is not your word pledged to him? I don't see how you can go back on it. Gentlemen when they do that kind of thing are expelled from society; but I really think it is worse in a woman."
"Then they may expel from society; only I don't think I'm particularly in it."


"And the wickedness of the thing, Alice! I'm obliged to say so."
"When you talk to me about society, aunt, and about Lady Midlothian, I give up to you, willingly;--the more willingly, perhaps, because I don't care much for one or the other." Here Lady Macleod tried to say a word; but she failed, and Alice went on, boldly looking up into her aunt's face, which became a shade more bitter than ever. "But when you tell me about wickedness and my conscience, then I must be my own judge. It is my conscience, and the fear of committing wickedness, that has made me do this."
"You should submit to be guided by your elders, Alice."
"No; my elders in such a matter as this cannot teach me. It cannot be right that I should go to a man's house and be his wife, if I do not think that I can make him happy."
"Then why did you accept him?"

"The wickedness of it, Alice!"
"When you talk to me about society, aunt, I let you," answered Alice boldly. "But when you tell me about wickedness, then I must be my own judge. It is my conscience, and the fear of committing wickedness, that has made me do this."
"You should be guided by your elders, Alice."
"No; in such a matter my elders cannot teach me. It cannot be right that I should be a man's wife if I do not think that I can make him happy."
"Then why did you accept him?"


"Because I was mistaken. I am not going to defend that. If you choose to scold me for that, you may do so, aunt, and I will not answer you. But as to marrying him or not marrying him now,--as to that, I must judge for myself."
"It was a pity you did not know your own mind earlier."
"It was a pity,--a great pity. I have done myself an injury that is quite irretrievable;--I know that, and am prepared to bear it. I have done him, too, an injustice which I regret with my whole heart. I can only excuse myself by saying that I might have done him a worse injustice."

"Because I was mistaken. If you choose to scold me for that, you may do so, aunt. But as to marrying him, I must judge for myself."
"It was a pity you did not know your own mind earlier."
"It was a great pity. I have done myself an injury that is quite irretrievable; I know that. I have done him, too, an injustice which I regret with my whole heart. I can only excuse myself by saying that I might have done him a worse injustice."


All this was said at the very moment of her arrival, and the greeting did not seem to promise much for the happiness of the next month; but perhaps it was better for them both that the attack and the defence should thus be made suddenly, at their first meeting. It is better to pull the string at once when you are in the shower-bath, and not to stand shivering, thinking of the inevitable shock which you can only postpone for a few minutes. Lady Macleod in this case had pulled the string, and thus reaped the advantage of her alacrity.
"Well, my dear," said her ladyship, "I suppose you will like to go up-stairs and take off your bonnet. Mary shall bring you some tea when you come down." So Alice escaped, and when she returned to the comfort of her cup of tea in the drawing-room, the fury of the storm had passed away. She sat talking of other things till dinner; and though Lady Macleod did during the evening make one allusion to "poor Mr. Grey," the subject was allowed to drop. Alice was very tender as to her aunt's ailments, was more than ordinarily attentive to the long list of Cheltenham iniquities which was displayed to her, and refrained from combating any of her aunt's religious views. After a while they got upon the subject of Aunt Greenow, for whose name Lady Macleod had a special aversion,--as indeed she had for all the Vavasor side of Alice's family; and then Alice offered to read, and did read to her aunt many pages out of one of those terrible books of wrath, which from time to time come forth and tell us that there is no hope for us. Lady Macleod liked to be so told; and as she now, poor woman, could not read at nights herself, she enjoyed her evening.

All this was said at the very moment of her arrival, and did not seem to promise much for the happiness of the next month; but perhaps it was better for them both that the attack and the defence should be made at once.
"Well, my dear," said her ladyship, "I suppose you will like to go upstairs and take off your bonnet. Mary shall bring you some tea when you come down."
So Alice escaped, and when she returned to the drawing-room, the fury of the storm had passed away. They talked of other things till dinner; and though Lady Macleod did make one allusion to "poor Mr. Grey," the subject was allowed to drop. Alice was very attentive in asking about her aunt's ailments, and listening to her long list of Cheltenham iniquities, and refrained from combating any of her aunt's religious views.
After a while they got onto the subject of Aunt Greenow, for whom Lady Macleod had a special aversion - as indeed she had for all the Vavasor side of Alice's family; and then Alice offered to read from one of those terrible books of wrathful sermons which Lady Macleod took much pleasure in.


Lady Macleod no doubt did enjoy her niece's sojourn at Cheltenham, but I do not think it could have been pleasant to Alice. On the second day nothing was said about Mr. Grey, and Alice hoped that by her continual readings in the book of wrath her aunt's heart might be softened towards her. But it seemed that Lady Macleod measured the periods of respite, for on the third day and on the fifth she returned to the attack. "Did John Grey still wish that the match should go on?" she asked, categorically. It was in vain that Alice tried to put aside the question, and begged that the matter might not be discussed. Lady Macleod insisted on her right to carry on the examination, and Alice was driven to acknowledge that she believed he did wish it. She could hardly say otherwise, seeing that she had at that moment a letter from him in her pocket, in which he still spoke of his engagement as being absolutely binding on him, and expressed a hope that this change from London to Cheltenham would bring her round and set everything to rights. He certainly did, in a fashion, wave his hand over her, as Kate had said of him. This letter Alice had resolved that she would not answer.

Lady Macleod no doubt did enjoy her niece's stay, but Alice did not. On the second day nothing was said about Mr. Grey, and Alice hoped that by her continual readings in the book of wrath her aunt's heart might be softened towards her. But on the third day Lady Macleod returned to the attack.
"Did John Grey still wish that the match should go on?" she asked. Alice had to admit that she believed he did wish it. She could hardly say otherwise, seeing that she had a letter from him in her pocket, in which he still spoke of his engagement as binding on him, and expressed a hope that this change to Cheltenham would bring her round and set everything to rights. This letter Alice had resolved that she would not answer.


He would probably write again, and she would beg him to desist. Instead of Cheltenham bringing her round, Cheltenham had made her firmer than ever in her resolution. I am inclined to think that the best mode of bringing her round at this moment would have been a course of visits from her cousin George, and a series of letters from her cousin Kate. Lady Macleod's injunctions would certainly not bring her round.

He would probably write again, and she would beg him to stop. Instead of bringing her round, Cheltenham had made her firmer than ever in her resolution.


After ten days, ten terrible days, devoted to discussions on matrimony in the morning, and to the book of wrath in the evening,--relieved by two tea-parties, in which the sins of Cheltenham were discussed at length,--Lady Macleod herself got a letter from Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey's kindest compliments to Lady Macleod. He believed that Lady Macleod was aware of the circumstances of his engagement with Miss Vavasor. Might he call on Miss Vavasor at Lady Macleod's house in Cheltenham? and might he also hope to have the pleasure of making Lady Macleod's acquaintance? Alice had been in the room when her aunt received this letter, but her aunt had said nothing, and Alice had not known from whom the letter had come. When her aunt crept away with it after breakfast she had suspected nothing, and had never imagined that Lady Macleod, in the privacy of her own room looking out upon the stables, had addressed a letter to Nethercoats. But such a letter had been addressed to Nethercoats, and Mr. Grey had been informed that he would be received in Paramount Crescent with great pleasure.

After ten terrible days devoted to discussions on matrimony in the morning, and to the book of wrath in the evening - relieved by two tea-parties, in which the sins of Cheltenham were discussed at length - Lady Macleod herself got a letter from Mr. Grey.
Mr. Grey sent her his kindest compliments. He believed that Lady Macleod was aware of the circumstances of his engagement with Miss Vavasor. Might he call on Miss Vavasor at Lady Macleod's house? and also have the pleasure of making Lady Macleod's acquaintance?
Alice was in the room when her aunt received this letter, but her aunt said nothing. After breakfast Lady Macleod privately wrote a reply to Nethercoats, informing Mr. Grey that he would be received in Paramount Crescent with great pleasure.


Mr. Grey had even indicated the day on which he would come, and on the morning of that day Lady Macleod had presided over the two teacups in a state of nervous excitement which was quite visible to Alice. More than once Alice asked little questions, not supposing that she was specially concerned in the matter which had caused her aunt's fidgety restlessness, but observing it so plainly that it was almost impossible not to allude to it. "There's nothing the matter, my dear, at all," at last Lady Macleod said; but as she said so she was making up her mind that the moment had not come in which she must apprise Alice of Mr. Grey's intended visit. As Alice had questioned her at the breakfast table she would say nothing about it then, but waited till the teacups were withdrawn, and till the maid had given her last officious poke to the fire. Then she began. She had Mr. Grey's letter in her pocket, and as she prepared herself to speak, she pulled it out and held it on the little table before her.
"Alice," she said, "I expect a visitor here to-day."
Alice knew instantly who was the expected visitor. Probably any girl under such circumstances would have known equally well. "A visitor, aunt," she said, and managed to hide her knowledge admirably.

On the morning of his visit Lady Macleod had presided over the teacups in a state of nervous excitement which was quite visible to Alice. She asked about her aunt's restlessness without suspecting it had anything to do with her.
"There's nothing the matter, my dear," Lady Macleod said. She waited until after breakfast to pull Mr. Grey's letter out of her pocket.
"Alice," she said, "I expect a visitor here today."
Alice knew instantly who the visitor was. "A visitor, aunt?"


"Yes, Alice a visitor. I should have told you before, only I thought,--I thought I had better not. It is Mr.--Mr. Grey."
"Indeed, aunt! Is he coming to see you?"
"Well;--he is desirous no doubt of seeing you more especially; but he has expressed a wish to make my acquaintance, which I cannot, under the circumstances, think is unnatural. Of course, Alice, he must want to talk over this affair with your friends."
"I wish I could have spared them," said Alice,--"I wish I could."

"Yes, Alice. Mr. Grey."
"Indeed, aunt! Is he coming to see you?"
"Well, no doubt he wants to see you more; but he has expressed a wish to make my acquaintance.


"I have brought his letter here, and you can see it if you please. It is very nicely written, and as far as I am concerned I should not think of refusing to see him. And now comes the question. What are we to do with him? Am I to ask him to dinner? I take it for granted that he will not expect me to offer him a bed, as he knows that I live in lodgings."
"Oh no, aunt; he certainly will not expect that."
"But ought I to ask him to dinner? I should be most happy to entertain him, though you know how very scanty my means of doing so are;--but I really do not know how it might be,--between you and him, I mean."
"We should not fight, aunt."

I have his letter here, and you can see it if you wish. It is very nicely written. And now comes the question. What are we to do with him? Am I to ask him to dinner? I should be most happy to entertain him, though you know how very scanty my means are; but I really do not know how it might be - between you and him, I mean."
"We would not fight, aunt.


"No, I suppose not;--but if you cannot be affectionate in your manner to him--"
"I will not answer for my manners, aunt; but you may be sure of this,--that I should be affectionate in my heart. I shall always regard him as a dearly loved friend; though for many years, no doubt, I shall be unable to express my friendship."
"That may be all very well, Alice, but it will not be what he will want. I think upon the whole that I had better not ask him to dinner."
"Perhaps not, aunt."
"It is a period of the day in which any special constraint among people is more disagreeable than at any other time, and then at dinner the servants must see it. I think there might be some awkwardness if he were to dine here."
"I really think there would," said Alice, anxious to have the subject dropped.

I shall always regard him as a dearly loved friend; though for many years, no doubt, I shall be unable to express my friendship."
"That is all very well, Alice, but it is not what he will want. I think upon the whole that I had better not ask him to dinner. I think there might be some awkwardness if he were to dine here."
"I really think there would," said Alice, anxious to have the subject dropped.


"I hope he won't think that I am inhospitable. I should be so happy to do the best I could for him, for I regard him, Alice, quite as though he were to be your husband. And when anybody at all connected with me has come to Cheltenham I always have asked them to dine, and then I have Gubbins's man to come and wait at table,--as you know."
"Of all men in the world Mr. Grey is the last to think about it."
"That should only make me the more careful. But I think it would perhaps be more comfortable if he were to come in the evening."
"Much more comfortable, aunt."


"I suppose he will be here in the afternoon, before dinner, and we had better wait at home for him. I dare say he'll want to see you alone, and therefore I'll retire to my own rooms,"--looking over the stables! Dear old lady. "But if you wish it, I will receive him first--and then Martha,"--Martha was Alice's maid--"can fetch you down."
This discussion as to the propriety or impropriety of giving her lover a dinner had not been pleasant to Alice, but, nevertheless, when it was over she felt grateful to Lady Macleod. There was an attempt in the arrangement to make Mr. Grey's visit as little painful as possible; and though such a discussion at such a time might as well have been avoided, the decision to which her ladyship had at last come with reference both to the dinner and the management of the visit was, no doubt, the right one.

I dare say he'll want to see you alone, and therefore I'll retire to my own rooms. But if you wish, I will receive him first, and then the maid can fetch you down." Although this discussion was not pleasant to Alice, she felt grateful to Lady Macleod, who was attempting to make Mr. Grey's visit as little painful as possible.


Lady Macleod had been quite correct in all her anticipations. At three o'clock Mr. Grey was announced, and Lady Macleod, alone, received him in her drawing-room. She had intended to give him a great deal of good advice, to bid him still keep up his heart and as it were hold up his head, to confess to him how very badly Alice was behaving, and to express her entire concurrence with that theory of bodily ailment as the cause and origin of her conduct. But she found that Mr. Grey was a man to whom she could not give much advice. It was he who did the speaking at this conference, and not she. She was overawed by him after the first three minutes. Indeed her first glance at him had awed her. He was so handsome,--and then, in his beauty, he had so quiet and almost saddened an air! Strange to say that after she had seen him, Lady Macleod entertained for him an infinitely higher admiration than before, and yet she was less surprised than she had been at Alice's refusal of him. The conference was very short; and Mr. Grey had not been a quarter of an hour in the house before Martha attended upon her mistress with her summons.

At three o'clock Mr. Grey was announced, and Lady Macleod received him alone in her drawing-room. She had intended to give him a great deal of good advice: to bid him keep up his heart and hold up his head, to confess to him how badly Alice was behaving, and to express her agreement with his theory of illness.
But she found that Mr. Grey was a man to whom she could not give much advice. It was he who did the speaking. She was overawed by him after the first three minutes. He was so handsome - and had so quiet and almost saddened an air! Strange to say, after she had seen him, Lady Macleod admired him much more than before, and yet she was less surprised than she had been at Alice's refusal of him. The conference was very short; and after fifteen minutes the maid went to Alice with her summons.


Alice was ready and came down instantly. She found Mr. Grey standing in the middle of the room waiting to receive her, and the look of majesty which had cowed Lady Macleod had gone from his countenance. He could not have received her with a kinder smile, had she come to him with a promise that she would at this meeting name the day for their marriage. "At any rate it does not make him unhappy," she said to herself.
"You are not angry," he said, "that I should have followed you all the way here, to see you."
"No, certainly; not angry, Mr. Grey. All anger that there may be between us must be on your side. I feel that thoroughly."

Alice came down instantly. She found Mr. Grey waiting to receive her, and the look of majesty which had cowed Lady Macleod had gone. He could not have received her with a kinder smile.
"At any rate it does not make him unhappy," she said to herself.
"You are not angry," he said, "that I should have followed you all the way here, to see you?"
"No, certainly not. Any anger must be on your side."


"Then there shall be none on either side. Whatever may be done, I will not be angry with you. Your father advised me to come down here to you."
"You have seen him, then?"
"Yes, I have seen him. I was in London the day you left."
"It is so terrible to think that I should have brought upon you all this trouble."
"You will bring upon me much worse trouble than that unless--. But I have not now come down here to tell you that. I believe that according to rule in such matters I should not have come to you at all, but I don't know that I care much about such rules."

"Then there shall be none on either side. Whatever happens, I will not be angry with you. Your father advised me to come here. I believe that according to the rule in such matters I should not have come to you, but I don't know that I care much about such rules."


"It is I that have broken all rules."
"When a lady tells a gentleman that she does not wish to see more of him--"
"Oh, Mr. Grey, I have not told you that."
"Have you not? I am glad at any rate to hear you deny it. But you will understand what I mean. When a gentleman gets his dismissal from a lady he should accept it,--that is, his dismissal under such circumstances as I have received mine. But I cannot lay down my love in that way; nor, maintaining my love, can I give up the battle. It seems to me that I have a right at any rate to know something of your comings and goings as long as,--unless, Alice, you should take another name than mine."

"It is I who have broken all rules."
"When a lady tells a gentleman that she does not wish to see more of him-"
"Oh, Mr. Grey, I have not told you that."
"Have you not? I am glad to hear that. But you understand what I mean. When a gentleman gets his dismissal from a lady he should accept it. But I cannot lay down my love in that way; nor can I give up the battle. It seems to me that I have a right at any rate to know something of your comings and goings - unless, Alice, you should take another name than mine."


"My intention is to keep my own." This she said in the lowest possible tone,--almost in a whisper,--with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
"And you will not deny me that right?"
"I cannot hinder you. Whatever you may do, I myself have sinned so against you that I can have no right to blame you."
"There shall be no question between us of injury from one to the other. In any conversation that we may have, or in any correspondence--"
"Oh, Mr. Grey, do not ask me to write."
"Listen to me. Should there be any on either side, there shall be no idea of any wrong done."

"I intend to keep my own." This she said almost in a whisper, with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
"And you will not deny me that right?"
"I have sinned so against you that I can have no right to blame you."
"There shall be no question between us of injury. In any conversation that we may have, or in any correspondence-"
"Oh, Mr. Grey, do not ask me to write."
"Listen to me. Should there be any communication on either side, there shall be no idea of any wrong done."


"But I have done you wrong;--great wrong."
"No, Alice; I will not have it so. When I asked you to accept my hand,--begging the greatest boon which it could ever come to my lot to ask from a fellow-mortal,--I knew well how great was your goodness to me when you told me that it should be mine. Now that you refuse it, I know also that you are good, thinking that in doing so you are acting for my welfare,--thinking more of my welfare than of your own."
"Oh yes, yes; it is so, Mr. Grey; indeed it is so."
"Believing that, how can I talk of wrong? That you are wrong in your thinking on this subject,--that your mind has become twisted by false impressions,--that I believe. But I cannot therefore love you less,--nor, so believing, can I consider myself to be injured. Nor am I even so little selfish as you are. I think if you were my wife that I could make you happy; but I feel sure that my happiness depends on your being my wife."

"But I have done you great wrong."
"No, Alice. When I asked you to accept my hand - begging the greatest gift which I could ever ask for - I knew how great was your goodness to me in accepting it. Now that you refuse it, I know that in doing so you are thinking more of my welfare than of your own."
"Oh yes, indeed."
"Then how can I talk of wrong? That you are wrong in your thinking - that your mind has become twisted by false impressions - that I believe. But I cannot therefore love you less, nor consider myself to be injured. I am more selfish than you. I think if you were my wife that I could make you happy; but I feel sure that my happiness depends on your being my wife."


She looked up into his face, but it was still serene in all its manly beauty. Her cousin George, if he were moved to strong feeling, showed it at once in his eyes,--in his mouth, in the whole visage of his countenance. He glared in his anger, and was impassioned in his love. But Mr. Grey when speaking of the happiness of his entire life, when confessing that it was now at stake with a decision against him that would be ruinous to it, spoke without a quiver in his voice, and had no more sign of passion in his face than if he were telling his gardener to move a rose tree.
"I hope--and believe that you will find your happiness elsewhere, Mr. Grey."

She looked up into his face, but it was still serene in its manly beauty. Her cousin George, if he were moved to strong feeling, showed it at once in his whole expression. He glared in his anger, and was impassioned in his love. But Mr. Grey, when speaking of the happiness of his entire life, spoke without a quiver in his voice, and with no more sign of passion in his face than if he were telling his gardener to move a rose tree.
"I hope that you will find your happiness elsewhere, Mr. Grey."


"Well; we can but differ, Alice. In that we do differ. And now I will say one word to explain why I have come here. If I were to write to you against your will, it would seem that I were persecuting you. I cannot bring myself to do that, even though I had the right. But if I were to let you go from me, taking what you have said to me and doing nothing, it would seem that I had accepted your decision as final. I do not do so. I will not do so. I come simply to tell you that I am still your suitor. If you will let me, I will see you again early in January,--as soon as you have returned to town.

"Well; in that we differ, Alice. And now I will explain why I have come. I cannot accept your decision as final. I come simply to tell you that I am still your suitor. If you will let me, I will see you again early in January, when you return to town.


You will hardly refuse to see me."
"No," she said; "I cannot refuse to see you."
"Then it shall be so," he said, "and I will not trouble you with letters, nor will I trouble you longer now with words. Tell your aunt that I have said what I came to say, and that I give her my kindest thanks." Then he took her hand and pressed it,--not as George Vavasor had pressed it,--and was gone. When Lady Macleod returned, she found that the question of the evening's tea arrangements had settled itself.

You will hardly refuse to see me."
"No," she said; "I cannot refuse to see you."
"Meanwhile I will not trouble you with letters, nor will I trouble you any longer now with words. Tell your aunt that I give her my kindest thanks." Then he took her hand and pressed it - not as George Vavasor had pressed it - and was gone.


How deep and cunning are the wiles of love! When that Saturday morning arrived not a word was said by Cheesacre to his rival as to his plans for the day. "You'll take the dog-cart in?" Captain Bellfield had asked overnight. "I don't know what I shall do as yet," replied he who was master of the house, of the dog-cart, and, as he fondly thought, of the situation. But Bellfield knew that Cheesacre must take the dog-cart, and was contented. His friend would leave him behind, if it were possible, but Bellfield would take care that it should not be possible.

How deep and cunning are the wiles of love! When that Saturday morning arrived, Cheesacre said not a word to his rival about his plans for the day.
"You'll take the dog-cart?" Captain Bellfield had asked.
"I don't know yet," he replied. But Bellfield knew that Cheesacre must take the dog-cart, and was contented. He would make sure that he was not left behind.

Chapter 40: Mrs. Greenow's Little Dinner in the Close