Before breakfast Mr. Cheesacre surreptitiously carried out into the yard a bag containing all his apparatus for dressing,--his marrow oil for his hair, his shirt with the wondrous worked front upon an under-stratum of pink to give it colour, his shiny boots, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. When dining in Norwich on ordinary occasions, he simply washed his hands there, trusting to the chambermaid at the inn to find him a comb; and now he came down with his bag surreptitiously, and hid it away in the back of the dog-cart with secret, but alas, not unobserved hands, hoping that Bellfield would forget his toilet. But when did such a Captain ever forget his outward man? Cheesacre, as he returned through the kitchen from the yard into the front hall, perceived another bag lying near the door, apparently filled almost as well as his own.
"What the deuce are you going to do with all this luggage?" said he, giving the bag a kick.
"Put it where I saw you putting yours when I opened my window just now," said Bellfield.

Before breakfast Mr. Cheesacre surreptitiously carried out into the yard a bag containing all his apparatus for dressing - his marrow oil for his hair, his shirt with the wondrous embroidered front, his shiny boots, and all the rest. He hid the bag away secretly in the back of the dog-cart.
But when he returned into the front hall, he perceived another bag lying near the door.
"What the deuce are you going to do with this?" said he, giving the bag a kick.
"Put it where I saw you putting yours just now," said Bellfield.


"D---- the window," exclaimed Cheesacre, and then they sat down to breakfast. "How you do hack that ham about," he said. "If you ever found hams yourself you'd be more particular in cutting them." This was very bad. Even Bellfield could not bear it with equanimity, and feeling unable to eat the ham under such circumstances, made his breakfast with a couple of fresh eggs. "If you didn't mean to eat the meat, why the mischief did you cut it?" said Cheesacre.
"Upon my word, Cheesacre, you're too bad;--upon my word you are," said Bellfield, almost sobbing.
"What's the matter now?" said the other.

"D-- it," exclaimed Cheesacre; and then they sat down to breakfast. "How you hack that ham about," he said. "If you ever provided hams yourself you'd be more particular in cutting them."
This was very bad. Feeling unable to eat the ham under such circumstances, Bellfield made do with a couple of fresh eggs.
"If you didn't mean to eat the meat, why the mischief did you cut it?" said Cheesacre.
"Upon my word, Cheesacre, you're too bad," said Bellfield, upset.
"What's the matter now?"

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


"Who wants your ham?"
"You do, I suppose, or you wouldn't cut it."
"No I don't; nor anything else either that you've got. It isn't fair to ask a fellow into your house, and then say such things to him as that. And it isn't what I've been accustomed to either; I can tell you that, Mr. Cheesacre."
"Oh, bother!"
"It's all very well to say bother, but I choose to be treated like a gentleman wherever I go. You and I have known each other a long time, and I'd put up with more from you than from anyone else; but--"
"Can you pay me the money that you owe me, Bellfield?" said Cheesacre, looking hard at him.

"It isn't fair to ask a fellow into your house, and then say such things to him. And it isn't what I've been accustomed to either; I can tell you that, Mr. Cheesacre. You and I have known each other a long time, and I'd put up with more from you than from anyone else; but-"
"Can you pay me the money that you owe me, Bellfield?" said Cheesacre.


"No, I can't," said Bellfield; "not immediately."
"Then eat your breakfast, and hold your tongue."
After that Captain Bellfield did eat his breakfast,--leaving the ham however untouched, and did hold his tongue, vowing vengeance in his heart. But the two men went into Norwich more amicably together than they would have done had there been no words between them. Cheesacre felt that he had trespassed a little, and therefore offered the Captain a cigar as he seated himself in the cart. Bellfield accepted the offering, and smoked the weed of peace.
"Now," said Cheesacre, as he drove into the Swan yard, "what do you mean to do with yourself all day?"
"I shall go down to the quarters, and look the fellows up."
"All right. But mind this, Bellfield;--it's an understood thing, that you're not to be in the Close before four?"

"No," said Bellfield; "not immediately."
"Then eat your breakfast, and hold your tongue."
Captain Bellfield did eat his breakfast - leaving the ham untouched - and did hold his tongue, vowing vengeance in his heart. Yet the two men went into Norwich quite amicably. Cheesacre felt that he had trespassed a little, and offered the Captain a cigar in the cart. Bellfield accepted the peace offering.
"Now," said Cheesacre, as he drove into the Swan yard, "what do you mean to do with yourself all day?"
"I shall go down to the soldiers' quarters, and look the fellows up."
"All right. But mind this, Bellfield; you're not to be in the Close before four."


"I won't be in the Close before four!"
"Very well. That's understood. If you deceive me, I'll not drive you back to Oileymead to-night."
In this instance Captain Bellfield had no intention to deceive. He did not think it probable that he could do himself any good by philandering about the widow early in the day. She would be engaged with her dinner and with an early toilet. Captain Bellfield, moreover, had learned from experience that the first comer has not always an advantage in ladies' society. The mind of a woman is greedy after novelty, and it is upon the stranger, or upon the most strange of her slaves around her, that she often smiles the sweetest. The cathedral clock, therefore, had struck four before Captain Bellfield rang Mrs. Greenow's bell, and then, when he was shown into the drawing-room, he found Cheesacre there alone, redolent with the marrow oil, and beautiful with the pink bosom.

"I won't be!"
"Very well. If you deceive me, I'll not drive you back to Oileymead tonight."
In this instance Captain Bellfield had no intention to deceive. He did not think that he could do himself any good by hanging about the widow early in the day. She would be busy with the dinner.
The cathedral clock, therefore, had struck four before the Captain rang Mrs. Greenow's bell. When he was shown into the drawing-room, he found Cheesacre there alone, redolent with the marrow oil.


"Haven't you seen her yet?" asked the Captain almost in a whisper.
"No," said Cheesacre sulkily.
"Nor yet Charlie Fairstairs?"
"I've seen nobody," said Cheesacre.
But at this moment he was compelled to swallow his anger, as Mrs. Greenow, accompanied by her lady guest, came into the room. "Whoever would have expected two gentlemen to be so punctual," said she, "especially on market-day!"
"Market-day makes no difference when I come to see you," said Cheesacre, putting his best foot forward, while Captain Bellfield contented himself with saying something civil to Charlie. He would bide his time and ride a waiting race.

"Haven't you seen her yet?" asked the Captain.
"No," said Cheesacre sulkily.
"Nor Charlie Fairstairs?"
"I've seen nobody," said Cheesacre. But he was compelled to swallow his anger as the ladies came into the room.
"Whoever would have expected two gentlemen to be so punctual!" said Mrs. Greenow.


The widow was almost gorgeous in her weeds. I believe that she had not sinned in her dress against any of those canons which the semi-ecclesiastical authorities on widowhood have laid down as to the outward garments fitted for gentlemen's relicts. The materials were those which are devoted to the deepest conjugal grief. As regarded every item of the written law her suttee worship was carried out to the letter. There was the widow's cap, generally so hideous, so well known to the eyes of all men, so odious to womanhood. Let us hope that such headgear may have some assuaging effect on the departed spirits of husbands. There was the dress of deep, clinging, melancholy crape,--of crape which becomes so brown and so rusty, and which makes the six months' widow seem so much more afflicted a creature than she whose husband is just gone, and whose crape is therefore new. There were the trailing weepers, and the widow's kerchief pinned close round her neck and somewhat tightly over her bosom. But there was that of genius about Mrs. Greenow, that she had turned every seeming disadvantage to some special profit, and had so dressed herself that though she had obeyed the law to the letter, she had thrown the spirit of it to the winds. Her cap sat jauntily on her head, and showed just so much of her rich brown hair as to give her the appearance of youth which she desired.

The widow was almost gorgeous in her mourning dress. Widows' caps are generally hideous; as are dresses of clinging, melancholy crape. But Mrs. Greenow's cap sat jauntily on her head, and showed just enough of her rich brown hair to give her the appearance of youth.


Cheesacre had blamed her in his heart for her private carriage, but she spent more money, I think, on new crape than she did on her brougham. It never became brown and rusty with her, or formed itself into old lumpy folds, or shaped itself round her like a grave cloth. The written law had not interdicted crinoline, and she loomed as large with weeds, which with her were not sombre, as she would do with her silks when the period of her probation should be over. Her weepers were bright with newness, and she would waft them aside from her shoulder with an air which turned even them into auxiliaries. Her kerchief was fastened close round her neck and close over her bosom; but Jeannette well knew what she was doing as she fastened it,--and so did Jeannette's mistress.
Mrs. Greenow would still talk much about her husband, declaring that her loss was as fresh to her wounded heart, as though he, on whom all her happiness had rested, had left her only yesterday; but yet she mistook her dates, frequently referring to the melancholy circumstance, as having taken place fifteen months ago. In truth, however, Mr. Greenow had been alive within the last nine months,--as everybody around her knew. But if she chose to forget the exact day, why should her friends or dependents remind her of it? No friend or dependent did remind her of it, and Charlie Fairstairs spoke of the fifteen months with bold confidence,--false-tongued little parasite that she was.

Her crape never became faded and rusty, or formed itself into old lumpy folds of cloth.
Mrs. Greenow would still talk much about her husband, as though he had left her only yesterday; but she mistook her dates, referring to the melancholy circumstance as having taken place fifteen months ago. In truth, it was nine months, as everyone knew. But why should they remind her of it? Charlie Fairstairs spoke of the fifteen months with bold confidence, false-tongued little parasite that she was.


"Looking well," said the widow, in answer to some outspoken compliment from Mr. Cheesacre. "Yes, I'm well enough in health, and I suppose I ought to be thankful that it is so. But if you had buried a wife whom you had loved within the last eighteen months, you would have become as indifferent as I am to all that kind of thing."
"I never was married yet," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"And therefore you know nothing about it. Everything in the world is gay and fresh to you. If I were you, Mr. Cheesacre, I would not run the risk. It is hardly worth a woman's while, and I suppose not a man's. The sufferings are too great!" Whereupon she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Yes, I'm well enough in health," said the widow, "and I suppose I ought to be thankful for it. But if you had buried a wife whom you had loved within the last eighteen months, you too would be indifferent to all that kind of thing. If I were you, Mr. Cheesacre, I would not run the risk of marrying. The sufferings are too great!" Whereupon she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.


"But I mean to try all the same," said Cheesacre, looking the lover all over as he gazed into the fair one's face.
"I hope that you may be successful, Mr. Cheesacre, and that she may not be torn away from you early in life. Is dinner ready, Jeannette? That's well. Mr. Cheesacre, will you give your arm to Miss Fairstairs?"

"But I mean to try all the same," said Cheesacre, gazing lover-like into the fair one's face.
"Then I hope that she may not be torn away from you early in life. Is dinner ready, Jeannette? Good. Mr. Cheesacre, will you give your arm to Miss Fairstairs?"


There was no doubt as to Mrs. Greenow's correctness. As Captain Bellfield held, or had held, her Majesty's commission, he was clearly entitled to take the mistress of the festival down to dinner. But Cheesacre would not look at it in this light. He would only remember that he had paid for the Captain's food for some time past, that the Captain had been brought into Norwich in his gig, that the Captain owed him money, and ought, so to say, to be regarded as his property on the occasion. "I pay my way, and that ought to give a man higher station than being a beggarly captain,--which I don't believe he is, if all the truth was known." It was thus that he took an occasion to express himself to Miss Fairstairs on that very evening. "Military rank is always recognised," Miss Fairstairs had replied, taking Mr. Cheesacre's remarks as a direct slight upon herself. He had taken her down to dinner, and had then come to her complaining that he had been injured in being called upon to do so! "If you were a magistrate, Mr. Cheesacre, you would have rank; but I believe you are not." Charlie Fairstairs knew well what she was about.

There was no doubt as to Mrs. Greenow's correctness. As a former soldier, Captain Bellfield was entitled to take the mistress down to dinner. But Cheesacre did not look at it in this light. He only remembered that he had paid for the Captain's food, that the Captain had been brought into Norwich in his gig, that the Captain owed him money, and ought to be regarded as his property.
"I pay my way, and that ought to give a man a higher station than being a beggarly captain, which I don't believe he is, if the truth was known," he complained to Miss Fairstairs over dinner.
"If you were a magistrate, Mr. Cheesacre, you would have rank; but I believe you are not." Charlie Fairstairs knew what she was doing.


Mr. Cheesacre had striven much to get his name put upon the commission of the peace, but had failed. "Nasty, scraggy old cat," Cheesacre said to himself, as he turned away from her.
But Bellfield gained little by taking the widow down. He and Cheesacre were placed at the top and bottom of the table, so that they might do the work of carving; and the ladies sat at the sides. Mrs. Greenow's hospitality was very good. The dinner was exactly what a dinner ought to be for four persons. There was soup, fish, a cutlet, a roast fowl, and some game. Jeannette waited at table nimbly, and the thing could not have been done better. Mrs. Greenow's appetite was not injured by her grief, and she so far repressed for the time all remembrance of her sorrow as to enable her to play the kind hostess to perfection. Under her immediate eye Cheesacre was forced into apparent cordiality with his friend Bellfield, and the Captain himself took the good things which the gods provided with thankful good-humour.

Mr. Cheesacre had tried hard to get his name put up as a magistrate, but had failed.
"Nasty, scraggy old cat," he said to himself, as he turned away from her.
But Bellfield gained little by taking the widow down to dinner. He and Cheesacre were at either end of the table, and the ladies sat at the sides. Mrs. Greenow's hospitality was very good. There was soup, fish, a cutlet, a roast fowl, and some game. Jeannette waited at table nimbly, and the thing could not have been done better. Mrs. Greenow played the kind hostess to perfection. Under her eye Cheesacre was forced into apparent cordiality with Bellfield, and the Captain took the good things provided with thankful good-humour.


Nothing, however, was done at the dinner-table. No work got itself accomplished. The widow was so accurately fair in the adjustment of her favours, that even Jeannette could not perceive to which of the two she turned with the amplest smile. She talked herself and made others talk, till Cheesacre became almost comfortable, in spite of his jealousy. "And now," she said, as she got up to leave the room, when she had taken her own glass of wine, "We will allow these two gentlemen just half an hour, eh Charlie? and then we shall expect them up-stairs."
"Ten minutes will be enough for us here," said Cheesacre, who was in a hurry to utilize his time.
"Half an hour," said Mrs. Greenow, not without some little tone of command in her voice. Ten minutes might be enough for Mr. Cheesacre, but ten minutes was not enough for her.

The widow was so accurately fair in her favours that even Jeannette could not tell to which of the two men she gave the warmest smile. She talked and made others talk, till Cheesacre became almost comfortable, in spite of his jealousy.
"And now," she said, as she got up to leave the room, "We will allow these two gentlemen just half an hour, eh Charlie? and then we shall expect them upstairs."
"Ten minutes will be enough for us here," said Cheesacre.
"Half an hour," said Mrs. Greenow, with a little tone of command. Ten minutes might be enough for Mr. Cheesacre, but it was not enough for her.


Bellfield had opened the door, and it was upon him that the widow's eye glanced as she left the room. Cheesacre saw it, and resolved to resent the injury. "I'll tell you what it is, Bellfield," he said, as he sat down moodily over the fire, "I won't have you coming here at all, till this matter is settled."
"Till what matter is settled?" said Bellfield, filling his glass.
"You know what matter I mean."
"You take such a deuce of a time about it."
"No, I don't. I take as little time as anybody could. That other fellow has only been dead about nine months, and I've got the thing in excellent training already."

Bellfield had opened the door, and the widow glanced at him as she left the room. Cheesacre saw it, and resolved to resent it.
"I'll tell you what it is, Bellfield," he said moodily, "I won't have you coming here at all, till this matter is settled."
"What matter?" said Bellfield, filling his glass.
"You know what matter I mean."
"You take such a deuce of a time about it."
"No, I don't. That other fellow has only been dead about nine months, and I've got the thing in excellent train already."


"And what harm do I do?"
"You disturb me, and you disturb her. You do it on purpose. Do you suppose I can't see? I'll tell you what, now; if you'll go clean out of Norwich for a month, I'll lend you two hundred pounds on the day she becomes Mrs. Cheesacre."
"And where am I to go to?"
"You may stay at Oileymead, if you like;--that is, on condition that you do stay there."
"And be told that I hack the ham because it's not my own. Shall I tell you a piece of my mind, Cheesacre?"
"What do you mean?"

"And what harm do I do?"
"You disturb me, and you disturb her. You do it on purpose. I'll tell you what; if you'll go clean out of Norwich for a month, I'll lend you two hundred pounds on the day she becomes Mrs. Cheesacre."
"And where am I to go to?"
"You may stay at Oileymead, if you like."
"And be told that I hack the ham because it's not my own. Shall I tell you what I think, Cheesacre?


"That woman has no more idea of marrying you than she has of marrying the Bishop. Won't you fill your glass, old fellow? I know where the tap is if you want another bottle. You may as well give it up, and spend no more money in pink fronts and polished boots on her account. You're a podgy man, you see, and Mrs. Greenow doesn't like podgy men."
Cheesacre sat looking at him with his mouth open, dumb with surprise, and almost paralysed with impotent anger. What had happened during the last few hours to change so entirely the tone of his dependent captain? Could it be that Bellfield had been there during the morning, and that she had accepted him?

That woman has no more idea of marrying you than she has of marrying the Bishop. Won't you fill your glass, old fellow? You may as well give it up. You're a podgy man, you see, and Mrs. Greenow doesn't like podgy men."
Cheesacre sat looking at him with his mouth open, dumb with surprise, and almost paralysed with impotent anger. What had happened during the last few hours to change so entirely the tone of his dependent captain?


"You are very podgy, Cheesacre," Bellfield continued, "and then you so often smell of the farm-yard; and you talk too much of your money and your property. You'd have had a better chance if you had openly talked to her of hers,--as I have done. As it is, you haven't any chance at all."
Bellfield, as he thus spoke to the man opposite to him, went on drinking his wine comfortably, and seemed to be chuckling with glee. Cheesacre was so astounded, so lost in amazement that the creature whom he had fed,--whom he had bribed with money out of his own pocket, should thus turn against him, that for a while he could not collect his thoughts or find voice wherewith to make any answer. It occurred to him immediately that Bellfield was even now, at this very time, staying at his house,--that he, Cheesacre, was expected to drive him, Bellfield, back to Oileymead, to his own Oileymead, on this very evening; and as he thought of this he almost fancied that he must be in a dream. He shook himself, and looked again, and there sat Bellfield, eyeing him through the bright colour of a glass of port.
"Now I've told you a bit of my mind, Cheesy, my boy," continued Bellfield, "and you'll save yourself a deal of trouble and annoyance if you'll believe what I say. She doesn't mean to marry you. It's most probable that she'll marry me; but, at any rate, she won't marry you."

"You are very podgy, Cheesacre," Bellfield continued, "and then you so often smell of the farm-yard; and you talk too much of your money and your property. You'd have had a better chance if you had talked of hers - as I have done. As it is, you haven't any chance at all."
Bellfield went on drinking his wine comfortably. Cheesacre was so astounded that the creature whom he had fed - whom he had bribed - should thus turn against him, that for a while he could not speak. It occurred to him that he, Cheesacre, was expected to drive Bellfield home this very evening.
"Now I've told you my mind, Cheesy, my boy," continued Bellfield, "and you'll save yourself a deal of trouble if you'll believe what I say. She doesn't mean to marry you. It's most probable that she'll marry me; but, at any rate, she won't marry you."


"Do you mean to pay me my money, sir?" said Cheesacre, at last, finding his readiest means of attack in that quarter.
"Yes, I do."
"But when?"
"When I've married Mrs. Greenow,--and, therefore, I expect your assistance in that little scheme. Let us drink her health. We shall always be delighted to see you at our house, Cheesy, my boy, and you shall be allowed to hack the hams just as much as you please."
"You shall be made to pay for this," said Cheesacre, gasping with anger;--gasping almost more with dismay than he did with anger.
"All right, old fellow; I'll pay for it,--with the widow's money. Come; our half-hour is nearly over; shall we go up-stairs?"

"Do you mean to pay me my money, sir?" said Cheesacre, at last.
"Yes, I do."
"When?"
"When I've married Mrs. Greenow - and therefore, I expect your assistance in that little scheme. Let us drink her health. We shall always be delighted to see you at our house, Cheesy, my boy, and you shall be allowed to hack the hams as much as you please."
"You shall pay for this," said Cheesacre, gasping with anger and dismay.
"All right, old fellow; I'll pay for it - with the widow's money. Come; our half-hour is nearly over; shall we go upstairs?"


"I'll expose you."
"Don't now;--don't be ill-natured."
"Will you tell me where you mean to sleep to-night, Captain Bellfield?"
"If I sleep at Oileymead it will only be on condition that I have one of the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms."
"You'll never put your foot in that house again. You're a rascal, sir."
"Come, come, Cheesy, it won't do for us to quarrel in a lady's house. It wouldn't be the thing at all. You're not drinking your wine. You might as well take another glass, and then we'll go up-stairs."

"I'll expose you."
"Don't be ill-natured."
"Where do you mean to sleep tonight, Captain Bellfield?"
"If I sleep at Oileymead it will only be on condition that I have one of the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms."
"You'll never put your foot in that house again. You're a rascal, sir."
"Come, come, Cheesy, it won't do for us to quarrel in a lady's house. It wouldn't be the thing at all. You're not drinking your wine. Take another glass, and then we'll go upstairs.


"You've left your traps at Oileymead, and not one of them you shall have till you've paid me every shilling you owe me. I don't believe you've a shirt in the world beyond what you've got there."
"It's lucky I brought one in to change; wasn't it, Cheesy? I shouldn't have thought of it only for the hint you gave me. I might as well ring the bell for Jeannette to put away the wine, if you won't take any more." Then he rang the bell, and when Jeannette came he skipped lightly up-stairs into the drawing-room.
"Was he here before to-day?" said Cheesacre, nodding his head at the doorway through which Bellfield had passed.

No? I might as well ring the bell for Jeannette to take away the wine." Then he rang the bell, and when Jeannette came he skipped lightly upstairs into the drawing-room.
"Was he here earlier today?" demanded Cheesacre of Jeanette.


"Who? The Captain? Oh dear no. The Captain don't come here much now;--not to say often, by no means."
"He's a confounded rascal."
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre!" said Jeannette.
"He is;--and I ain't sure that there ain't others nearly as bad as he is."
"If you mean me, Mr. Cheesacre, I do declare you're a wronging me; I do indeed."
"What's the meaning of his going on in this way?"

"Who? The Captain? Oh dear no. The Captain don't come here often now."
"He's a confounded rascal."
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre!" said Jeannette.
"He is; and others are nearly as bad."
"If you mean me, Mr. Cheesacre, I do declare you're wronging me.


"I don't know nothing of his ways, Mr. Cheesacre; but I've been as true to you, sir;--so I have;--as true as true." And Jeannette put her handkerchief up to her eyes.
He moved to the door, and then a thought occurred to him. He put his hand to his trousers pocket, and turning back towards the girl, gave her half-a-crown. She curtsied as she took it, and then repeated her last words. "Yes, Mr. Cheesacre,--as true as true." Mr. Cheesacre said nothing further, but followed his enemy up to the drawing-room. "What game is up now, I wonder," said Jeannette to herself, when she was left alone. "They two'll be cutting each other's throatses before they've done, and then my missus will take the surwiver." But she made up her mind that Cheesacre should be the one to have his throat cut fatally, and that Bellfield should be the survivor.

I've been as true as true to you, sir; so I have." And Jeannette put her handkerchief up to her eyes.
A thought occurred to Mr. Cheesacre. He put his hand to his trousers pocket, and gave her half-a-crown. He said nothing further, but followed his enemy up to the drawing-room.
"What game is up now, I wonder," said Jeannette to herself. "They'll cut each other's throats before they've done." But she decided that in that case Bellfield should be the survivor.


Cheesacre, when he reached the drawing-room, found Bellfield sitting on the same sofa with Mrs. Greenow looking at a book of photographs which they both of them were handling together. The outside rim of her widow's frill on one occasion touched the Captain's whisker, and as it did so the Captain looked up with a gratified expression of triumph. If any gentleman has ever seen the same thing under similar circumstances, he will understand that Cheesacre must have been annoyed.

In the drawing-room Cheesacre found Bellfield sitting on the sofa with Mrs. Greenow looking at a book of photographs together. The outside rim of her widow's frill on one occasion touched the Captain's whisker, and the Captain looked up with an expression of triumph.


"Yes," said Mrs. Greenow, waving her handkerchief, of which little but a two-inch-deep border seemed to be visible. Bellfield knew at once that it was not the same handkerchief which she had waved before they went down to dinner. "Yes,--there he is. It's so like him." And then she apostrophized the _carte de visite_ of the departed one. "Dear Greenow; dear husband! When my spirit is false to thee, let thine forget to visit me softly in my dreams. Thou wast unmatched among husbands. Whose tender kindness was ever equal to thine? whose sweet temper was ever so constant?

"Yes," said Mrs. Greenow, waving her handkerchief. "Yes, there he is. It's so like him. Dear man! Thou wast unmatched among husbands. Whose tender kindness was ever equal to thine? whose sweet temper was so constant?


whose manly care so all-sufficient?" While the words fell from her lips her little finger was touching Bellfield's little finger, as they held the book between them. Charlie Fairstairs and Mr. Cheesacre were watching her narrowly, and she knew that they were watching her. She was certainly a woman of great genius and of great courage.
[Illustration: "Dear Greenow; dear husband!"]

whose manly care so great?" While she spoke her little finger was touching Bellfield's little finger, as they held the book between them. Charlie Fairstairs and Mr. Cheesacre were watching her narrowly, and she knew that they were watching her. She was certainly a woman of great courage.


Bellfield, moved by the eloquence of her words, looked with some interest at the photograph. There was represented there before him, a small, grey-looking, insignificant old man, with pig's eyes and a toothless mouth,--one who should never have been compelled to submit himself to the cruelty of the sun's portraiture! Another widow, even if she had kept in her book the photograph of such a husband, would have scrambled it over silently,--would have been ashamed to show it. "Have you ever seen it, Mr. Cheesacre?" asked Mrs. Greenow. "It's so like him."
"I saw it at Yarmouth," said Cheesacre, very sulkily.
"That you did not," said the lady with some dignity, and not a little of rebuke in her tone; "simply because it never was at Yarmouth. A larger one you may have seen, which I always keep, and always shall keep, close by my bedside."

Bellfield looked with some interest at the photograph. It showed a small, grey-looking, insignificant old man, with pig's eyes and a toothless mouth. Any other widow, even if she had kept the photograph of such a husband, would have been ashamed to show it.
"Have you ever seen it, Mr. Cheesacre?" asked Mrs. Greenow.
"I saw it at Yarmouth," said Cheesacre, very sulkily.
"That you did not," said the lady with some dignity, and rebuke in her tone; "because it never was at Yarmouth."


"Not if I know it," said Captain Bellfield to himself. Then the widow punished Mr. Cheesacre for his sullenness by whispering a few words to the Captain; and Cheesacre in his wrath turned to Charlie Fairstairs. Then it was that he spake out his mind about the Captain's rank, and was snubbed by Charlie,--as was told a page or two back.
After that, coffee was brought to them, and here again Cheesacre in his ill-humour allowed the Captain to out-manoeuvre him. It was the Captain who put the sugar into the cups and handed them round. He even handed a cup to his enemy. "None for me, Captain Bellfield; many thanks for your politeness all the same," said Mr. Cheesacre; and Mrs. Greenow knew from the tone of his voice that there had been a quarrel.

Then she punished Mr. Cheesacre for his sullenness by whispering a few words to the Captain; and Cheesacre in his wrath turned to Charlie Fairstairs.
After that, coffee was brought to them, and here again Cheesacre in his ill-humour allowed the Captain to out-manuvre him. It was the Captain who put the sugar into the cups and handed them round. He even handed a cup to his enemy, who refused it sulkily.


Cheesacre sitting then in his gloom, had resolved upon one thing,--or, I may perhaps say, upon two things. He had resolved that he would not leave the room that evening till Bellfield had left it; and that he would get a final answer from the widow, if not that night,--for he thought it very possible that they might both be sent away together,--then early after breakfast on the following morning. For the present, he had given up any idea of turning his time to good account. He was not perhaps a coward, but he had not that special courage which enables a man to fight well under adverse circumstances. He had been cowed by the unexpected impertinence of his rival,--by the insolence of a man to whom he thought that he had obtained the power of being always himself as insolent as he pleased. He could not recover his ground quickly, or carry himself before his lady's eye as though he was unconscious of the wound he had received. So he sat silent, while Bellfield was discoursing fluently. He sat in silence, comforting himself with reflections on his own wealth, and on the poverty of the other, and promising himself a rich harvest of revenge when the moment should come in which he might tell Mrs. Greenow how absolutely that man was a beggar, a swindler, and a rascal.

Cheesacre in his gloom resolved upon two things. He resolved that he would not leave the room that evening till Bellfield had left it; and that he would get a final answer from the widow, if not that night, then early after breakfast on the following morning. He sat silent, while Bellfield was talking fluently, and comforted himself with reflections on his own wealth, and promised himself a rich harvest of revenge when he should tell Mrs. Greenow how that man was a beggar, a swindler, and a rascal.


And he was astonished when an opportunity for doing so came very quickly. Before the neighbouring clock had done striking seven, Bellfield rose from his chair to go. He first of all spoke a word of farewell to Miss Fairstairs; then he turned to his late host; "Good night, Cheesacre," he said, in the easiest tone in the world; after that he pressed the widow's hand and whispered his adieu.
"I thought you were staying at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow.
"I came from there this morning," said the Captain.
"But he isn't going back there, I can tell you," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Greenow; "I hope there is nothing wrong."
"All as right as a trivet," said the Captain; and then he was off.

And he was astonished when an opportunity for doing so came very quickly. Before the neighbouring clock had finished striking seven, Bellfield rose from his chair to go.
He spoke a word of farewell to Miss Fairstairs; then he said "Good night, Cheesacre," in the easiest tone in the world. After that he pressed the widow's hand and whispered his adieu.
"I thought you were staying at Oileymead?" said Mrs. Greenow.
"I came from there this morning," said the Captain.
"But he isn't going back there, I can tell you," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Greenow; "I hope there is nothing wrong."
"All as right as a trivet," said the Captain; and then he left.


"I promised mamma that I would be home by seven," said Charlie Fairstairs, rising from her chair. It cannot be supposed that she had any wish to oblige Mr. Cheesacre, and therefore this movement on her part must be regarded simply as done in kindness to Mrs. Greenow. She might be mistaken in supposing that Mrs. Greenow would desire to be left alone with Mr. Cheesacre; but it was clear to her that in this way she could give no offence, whereas it was quite possible that she might offend by remaining. A little after seven Mr. Cheesacre found himself alone with the lady.
"I'm sorry to find," said she, gravely, "that you two have quarrelled."
"Mrs. Greenow," said he, jumping up, and becoming on a sudden full of life, "that man is a downright swindler."
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre."

"I promised mamma that I would be home by seven," said Charlie Fairstairs, rising from her chair. So Mr. Cheesacre found himself alone with the lady.
"I'm sorry," said she, gravely, "that you two have quarrelled."
"Mrs. Greenow," said he, jumping up, and becoming on a sudden full of life, "that man is a downright swindler."
"Oh, Mr. Cheesacre."


"He is. He'll tell you that he was at Inkerman, but I believe he was in prison all the time." The Captain had been arrested, I think twice, and thus Mr. Cheesacre justified to himself this assertion. "I doubt whether he ever saw a shot fired," he continued.
"He's none the worse for that."
"But he tells such lies; and then he has not a penny in the world. How much do you suppose he owes me, now?"
"However much it is, I'm sure you are too much of a gentleman to say."

"He is. He'll tell you that he was at Inkerman, but I believe he was in prison all the time. I doubt whether he ever saw a shot fired."
"He's none the worse for that."
"But he tells such lies; and he has not a penny in the world. How much do you suppose he owes me, now?"
"However much it is, I'm sure you are too much of a gentleman to say."


"Well;--yes, I am," said he, trying to recover himself. "But when I asked him how he intended to pay me, what do you think he said? He said he'd pay me when he got your money."
"My money! He couldn't have said that!"
"But he did, Mrs. Greenow; I give you my word and honour. 'I'll pay you when I get the widow's money,' he said."
"You gentlemen must have a nice way of talking about me when I am absent."
"I never said a disrespectful word about you in my life, Mrs. Greenow,--or thought one. He does;--he says horrible things."

"Well - yes, I am," said he, trying to recover himself. "But when I asked him how he intended to pay me, what do you think he said? He said he'd pay me when he got your money."
"My money! He couldn't have said that!"
"But he did, Mrs. Greenow; I give you my word. 'I'll pay you when I get the widow's money,' he said."
"You gentlemen must have a nice way of talking about me when I am absent."
"I never said a disrespectful word about you in my life, Mrs. Greenow. He does - he says horrible things."


"What horrible things, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Oh, I can't tell you;--but he does. What can you expect from such a man as that, who, to my knowledge, won't have a change of clothes to-morrow, except what he brought in on his back this morning. Where he's to get a bed to-night, I don't know, for I doubt whether he's got half-a-crown in the world."
"Poor Bellfield!"
"Yes; he is poor."
"But how gracefully he carries his poverty."
"I should call it very disgraceful, Mrs. Greenow." To this she made no reply, and then he thought that he might begin his work. "Mrs. Greenow,--may I say Arabella?"

"What horrible things, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Oh, I can't tell you - but he does. What can you expect from such a man as that, who doesn't have a spare set of clothes for his back? Where he's to get a bed tonight, I don't know, for I doubt whether he's got half-a-crown in the world."
"Poor Bellfield!"
"Yes; he is poor."
"But how gracefully he carries his poverty."
"I should call it very disgraceful, Mrs. Greenow." To this she made no reply, and then he thought that he might begin his work. "Mrs. Greenow - may I say Arabella?"


"Mr. Cheesacre!"
"But mayn't I? Come, Mrs. Greenow. You know well enough by this time what it is I mean. What's the use of shilly-shallying?"
"Shilly-shallying, Mr. Cheesacre! I never heard such language. If I bid you good night, now, and tell you that it is time for you to go home, shall you call that shilly-shallying?"

"Mr. Cheesacre!"
"But mayn't I? Come, Mrs. Greenow. You know well enough by this time what it is I mean. What's the use of shilly-shallying?"
"Shilly-shallying, Mr. Cheesacre! I never heard such language?"


He had made a mistake in his word and repented it. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greenow; I do indeed. I didn't mean anything offensive."
"Shilly-shallying, indeed! There's very little shall in it, I can assure you."
The poor man was dreadfully crestfallen, so much so that the widow's heart relented, and she pardoned him. It was not in her nature to quarrel with people;--at any rate, not with her lovers. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greenow," said the culprit, humbly. "It is granted," said the widow; "but never tell a lady again that she is shilly-shallying. And look here, Mr. Cheesacre, if it should ever come to pass that you are making love to a lady in earnest--"

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greenow."
"Shilly-shallying, indeed! There's very little shall in it, I can assure you."
The poor man was so dreadfully crestfallen that the widow relented. It was not in her nature to quarrel with her lovers.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greenow," said the culprit, humbly.
"It is granted," said the widow; "but never tell a lady again that she is shilly-shallying. And look here, Mr. Cheesacre, if it should ever come to pass that you are making love to a lady in earnest-"


"I couldn't be more in earnest," said he.
"That you are making love to a lady in earnest, talk to her a little more about your passion and a little less about your purse. Now, good night."
"But we are friends."
"Oh yes;--as good friends as ever."
Cheesacre, as he drove himself home in the dark, tried to console himself by thinking of the miserable plight in which Bellfield would find himself at Norwich, with no possessions but what he had brought into the town that day in a small bag. But as he turned in at his own gate he met two figures emerging; one of them was laden with a portmanteau, and the other with a hat case.
"It's only me, Cheesy, my boy," said Bellfield. "I've just come down by the rail to fetch my things, and I'm going back to Norwich by the 9.20.
"If you've stolen anything of mine I'll have you prosecuted," roared Cheesacre, as he drove his gig up to his own door.

"I couldn't be more in earnest," said he.
"-talk to her a little more about your passion and a little less about your purse. Now, good night."
Cheesacre, as he drove himself home in the dark, tried to console himself by thinking of the miserable plight in which Bellfield would find himself at Norwich. But as he turned in at his own gate he met two figures emerging; one of them was laden with a portmanteau, and the other with a hat case.
"It's only me, Cheesy, my boy," said Bellfield. "I've just come down by rail to fetch my things, and I'm going back to Norwich by the 9.20."
"If you've stolen anything of mine I'll have you prosecuted," roared Cheesacre, as he drove his gig up to his door.


It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening,--a hot, July evening,--when the woman went from Vavasor's room, and left him there alone. It was necessary that he should immediately do something. In the first place he must dine, unless he meant to carry out his threat, and shoot himself at once. But he had no such intention as that, although he stood for some minutes with the pistol in his hand. He was thinking then of shooting some one else. But he resolved that, if he did so at all, he would not do it on that evening, and he locked up the pistol again in the standing desk. After that, he took up some papers, referring to steam packets, which were lying on his table. They contained the programmes of different companies, and showed how one vessel went on one day to New York, and another on another day would take out a load of emigrants for New Zealand and Australia. "That's a good line," said he, as he read a certain prospectus. "They generally go to the bottom, and save a man from any further trouble on his own account."

It was nearly seven in the evening when the woman left Vavasor's room. Now he needed to do something. He must dine, unless he meant to shoot himself at once. But he had no such intention - not for that evening at least, and he locked the pistol away again.
Then he took up some leaflets about steam packets which were lying on his table. They listed ships of various lines that went to New York, or carried emigrants to New Zealand and Australia.
"That's a good line," said he, as he read one. "They generally go to the bottom, and save a man from any further trouble."

Chapter 72: Showing How George Vavasor Paid a Visit


Then he dressed himself, putting on his boots and coat, and went out to his club for his dinner.

Then he dressed, and went out to his club for dinner.


London was still fairly full,--that is to say, the West End was not deserted, although Parliament had been broken up two months earlier than usual, in preparation for the new elections. Many men who had gone down into the country were now back again in town, and the dining-room at the club was crowded. Men came up to him condoling with him, telling him that he was well rid of a great nuisance, that the present Members for the Chelsea Districts would not sit long, or that there would be another general election in a year or two. To all these little speeches he made cheerful replies, and was declared by his acquaintance to bear his disappointment well. Calder Jones came to him and talked hunting talk, and Vavasor expressed his intention of being at Roebury in November. "You had better join our club," said Calder Jones. In answer to which Vavasor said that he thought he would join the club. He remained in the smoking-room till nearly eleven; then he took himself home, and remained up half the night destroying papers. Every written document on which he could lay his hands he destroyed. All the pigeon-holes of his desk were emptied out, and their contents thrown into the flames.

London was still fairly full, and the dining-room at the club was crowded. Men came up to him condoling with him, telling him that he was well rid of a nuisance, or that there would be another election in a year or two. To all these little speeches he made cheerful replies. Calder Jones came over and talked about hunting, and Vavasor said he intended being at Roebury in November.
He remained in the smoking-room till nearly eleven; then he went home, and stayed up half the night destroying papers. Every compartment of his desk was emptied out, and the contents thrown into the flames


At first he looked at the papers before he burned them; but the trouble of doing so soon tired him, and he condemned them all, as he came to them, without examination. Then he selected a considerable amount of his clothes, and packed up two portmanteaus, folding his coats with care, and inspecting his boots narrowly, so that he might see which, out of the large number before him, it might be best worth his while to take with him. When that was done, he took from his desk a bag of sovereigns, and, pouring them out upon the table, he counted them out into parcels of twenty-five each, and made them up carefully into rouleaus with paper. These, when complete, he divided among the two portmanteaus and a dressing-bag which he also packed and a travelling desk, which he filled with papers, pens, and the like. But he put into it no written document. He carefully looked through his linen, and anything that had been marked with more than his initials he rejected. Then he took out a bundle of printed cards, and furnished a card-case with them. On these cards was inscribed the name of Gregory Vance. When all was finished, he stood for awhile with his back to the fireplace contemplating his work. "After all," he said to himself, "I know that I shall never start; and, if I do, nobody can hinder me, and my own name would be as good as any other.

; he did not even bother to look at many of them. Then he selected some clothes, and packed up two portmanteaus, folding his coats with care. Next he took out a bag of sovereigns, and, pouring them out upon the table, he counted them into parcels of twenty-five each. Rolling them up in paper, he divided them among the two portmanteaus, a dressing-bag and a travelling desk, which he filled with paper and pens, but no documents. He carefully looked through his linen, and anything that had been marked with more than his initials he rejected. Then he took out a bundle of printed cards, on which was inscribed the name of Gregory Vance.
When all was finished, he stood contemplating his work with satisfaction.


As for a man with such a face as mine not being known, that is out of the question." But still he liked the arrangements which he had made, and when he had looked at them for awhile he went to bed.
He was up early the next morning, and had some coffee brought to him by the servant of the house, and as he drank it he had an interview with his landlady. "He was going," he said;--"going that very day." It might be possible that he would change his mind; but as he would desire to start without delay, if he did go, he would pay her then what he owed her, and what would be due for her lodgings under a week's notice. The woman stared, and curtseyed, and took her money. Vavasor, though he had lately been much pressed for money, had never been so foolish as to owe debts where he lived. "There will be some things left about, Mrs. Bunsby," he said, "and I will get you to keep them till I call or send." Mrs. Bunsby said that she would, and then looked her last at him. After that interview she never saw him again.

Then he went to bed.
He was up early the next morning, and spoke to his landlady. He was going that very day, he said. He paid her what he owed her; for he had never been so foolish as to owe debts where he lived.
"There will be some things left here, Mrs. Bunsby," he said, "and I will get you to keep them till I send for them." Mrs. Bunsby said that she would. After that interview she never saw him again.


When he was left alone he put on a rough morning coat, and taking up the pistol, placed it carefully in his pocket, and sallied forth. It was manifest enough that he had some decided scheme in his head, for he turned quickly towards the West when he reached the Strand, went across Trafalgar Square to Pall Mall East, and then turned up Suffolk Street. Just as he reached the club-house at the corner he paused and looked back, facing first one way and then the other. "The chances are that I shall never see anything of it again," he said to himself. Then he laughed in his own silent way, shook his head slightly, and turning again quickly on his heel, walked up the street till he reached the house of Mr. Jones, the pugilistic tailor. The reader, no doubt, has forgotten all he ever knew of Mr. Jones, the pugilistic tailor. It can soon be told again. At Mr. Jones's house John Grey lodged when he was in London, and he was in London at this moment.

When he was alone he put on a morning coat, and taking up the pistol, placed it in his pocket, and sallied forth. He went West, across Trafalgar Square to Pall Mall East, and then turned up Suffolk Street. He walked up the street till he reached the house of Mr. Jones, the tailor, where John Grey lodged.


Vavasor rang the bell, and as soon as the servant came he went quickly into the house, and passed her in the passage. "Mr. Grey is at home," he said. "I will go up to him." The girl said that Mr. Grey was at home, but suggested that she had better announce the gentleman. But Vavasor was already halfway up the stairs, and before the girl had reached the first landing place, he had entered Mr. Grey's room and closed the door behind him.
Grey was sitting near the open window, in a dressing-gown, and was reading. The breakfast things were on the table, but he had not as yet breakfasted. As soon as he saw George Vavasor, he rose from his chair quickly, and put down his book. "Mr. Vavasor," he said, "I hardly expected to see you in my lodgings again!"

Vavasor rang the bell, and as soon as the servant came he pushed past her into the house.
"Mr. Grey is at home," he said. "I will go up to him." He went ahead of her up the stairs, entered Mr. Grey's room and closed the door behind him.
Grey was sitting near the open window, in a dressing-gown, reading, with the breakfast things on the table. As soon as he saw George Vavasor, he rose from his chair quickly.
"Mr. Vavasor," he said, "I hardly expected to see you in my lodgings again!"


"I dare say not," said Vavasor; "but, nevertheless, here I am." He kept his right hand in the pocket which held the pistol, and held his left hand under his waistcoat.
"May I ask why you have come?" said Grey.
"I intend to tell you, at any rate, whether you ask me or not. I have come to declare in your own hearing,--as I am in the habit of doing occasionally behind your back,--that you are a blackguard,--to spit in your face, and defy you." As he said this he suited his action to his words, but without any serious result. "I have come here to see if you are man enough to resent any insult that I can offer you; but I doubt whether you are."
"Nothing that you can say to me, Mr. Vavasor, will have any effect upon me;--except that you can, of course, annoy me."

"I dare say not," said Vavasor; "but, nevertheless, here I am." He kept his right hand in the pocket which held the pistol.
"May I ask why you have come?" said Grey.
"I have come to declare that you are a blackguard - to spit in your face, and defy you." And he did what he said, though without any serious result. "I have come here to see if you are man enough to resent any insult that I can offer you; but I doubt whether you are."
"Nothing that you can say to me, Mr. Vavasor, will have any effect - except, of course, to annoy me."


"And I mean to annoy you, too, before I have done with you. Will you fight me?"
"Fight a duel with you,--with pistols? Certainly not."
"Then you are a coward, as I supposed."
"I should be a fool if I were to do such a thing as that."
"Look here, Mr. Grey. You managed to worm yourself into an intimacy with my cousin, Miss Vavasor, and to become engaged to her. When she found out what you were, how paltry, and mean, and vile, she changed her mind, and bade you leave her."
"Are you here at her request?"

"And I mean to annoy you, too, before I have done. Will you fight me?"
"Fight a duel with you - with pistols? Certainly not."
"Then you are a coward, as I supposed."
"I should be a fool if I were to do such a thing."
"Look here, Mr. Grey. You managed to worm yourself into intimacy with my cousin, Miss Vavasor, and to become engaged to her. When she found out what you were, how paltry, mean, and vile, she changed her mind, and bade you leave her."
"Are you here at her request?"


"I am here as her representative."
"Self-appointed, I think."
"Then, sir, you think wrong. I am at this moment her affianced husband; and I find that, in spite of all that she has said to you,--which was enough, I should have thought, to keep any man of spirit out of her presence,--you still persecute her by going to her house, and forcing yourself upon her presence. Now, I give you two alternatives. You shall either give me your written promise never to go near her again, or you shall fight me."
"I shall do neither one nor the other,--as you know very well yourself."
"Stop till I have done, sir. If you have courage enough to fight me, I will meet you in any country. I will fight you here in London, or, if you are afraid of that, I will go over to France, or to America, if that will suit you better."

"I am here as her representative."
"Self-appointed, I think."
"I am her affianced husband; and I find that, in spite of all that she has said to you, you still persecute her by going to her house, and forcing yourself upon her presence. Now, I give you two alternatives. You shall either give me your written promise never to go near her again, or you shall fight me."
"I shall do neither, as you know very well."
"If you have courage enough to fight me, I will meet you in any country. I will fight you here in London, or, if you are afraid of that, I will go over to France."


"Nothing of the kind will suit me at all. I don't want to have anything to do with you."
"Then you are a coward."
"Perhaps I am;--but your saying so will not make me one."
"You are a coward, and a liar, and a blackguard. I have given you the option of behaving like a gentleman, and you have refused it. Now, look here. I have come here with arms, and I do not intend to leave this room without using them, unless you will promise to give me the meeting that I have proposed." And he took the pistol out of his pocket.

"I don't want to have anything to do with you."
"Then you are a coward."
"Perhaps I am; but your saying so will not make me one."
"You are a coward, and a liar, and a blackguard. I have given you the option of behaving like a gentleman, and you have refused it. Now, look here. I have come here with arms, and I do not intend to leave this room without using them, unless you will promise to fight me." And he took the pistol out of his pocket.


"Do you mean that you are going to murder me?" Grey asked. There were two windows in the room, and he had been sitting near to that which was furthest removed from the fireplace, and consequently furthest removed from the bell, and his visitor was now standing immediately between him and the door. He had to think what steps he might best take, and to act upon his decision instantly. He was by no means a timid man, and was one, moreover, very little prone to believe in extravagant action. He did not think, even now, that this disappointed, ruined man had come there with any intention of killing him. But he knew that a pistol in the hands of an angry man is dangerous, and that it behoved him to do his best to rid himself of the nuisance which now encumbered him. "Do you mean that you are going to murder me?" he had said.

"Do you mean that you are going to murder me?" Grey asked. He was at a distance from the bell, and his visitor was standing between him and the door. He had to think what he might best do, and act upon his decision instantly. He was not timid, and he did not think, even now, that this disappointed, ruined man had come with any intention of killing him. But he knew that a pistol in the hands of an angry man is dangerous.


"I mean that you shall not leave this room alive unless you promise to meet me, and fight it out." Upon hearing this, Grey turned himself towards the bell. "If you move a step, I will fire at you," said Vavasor. Grey paused a moment, and looked him full in the face. "I will," said Vavasor again.
"That would be murder," said Grey.
"Don't think that you will frighten me by ugly words," said Vavasor. "I am beyond that."

"You shall not leave this room alive unless you promise to meet me, and fight it out."
Upon hearing this, Grey turned towards the bell.
"If you move a step, I will fire at you," said Vavasor. Grey paused a moment, and looked him full in the face. "I will," said Vavasor again.
"That would be murder," said Grey.
"Don't think that you will frighten me by ugly words," said Vavasor. "I am beyond that."


Grey had stopped for a moment to fix his eyes on the other man's face; but it was only for a moment, and then he went on to the bell. He had seen that the pistol was pointed at himself, and had once thought of rushing across the room at his adversary, calculating that a shot fired at him as he did so might miss him, and that he would then have a fair chance of disarming the madman. But his chief object was to avoid any personal conflict, to escape the indignity of a scramble for the pistol,--and especially to escape the necessity of a consequent appearance at some police-office, where he would have to justify himself, and answer the questions of a lawyer hired to cross-question him. He made, therefore, towards the bell, trusting that Vavasor would not fire at him, but having some little thought also as to the danger of the moment. It might be that everything was over for him now,--that the fatal hour had come, and that eternity was close upon him. Something of the spirit of a prayer flashed across his mind as he moved. Then he heard the click of the pistol's hammer as it fell, and was aware that his eyes were dazzled, though he was unconscious of seeing any flame. He felt something in the air, and knew that the pistol had been fired;--but he did not know whether the shot had struck him or had missed him. His hand was out for the bell-handle, and he had pulled it, before he was sure that he was unhurt.

Grey had stopped for a moment; and then he went on to the bell. He had thought of rushing across the room at his adversary, calculating that a shot might miss him. But his chief object was to avoid any conflict. So he moved towards the bell.
Although he trusted that Vavasor would not fire at him, he was aware that his fatal hour might have come, and that eternity could be close upon him. Something of the spirit of a prayer flashed across his mind as he moved. Then he heard the click of the pistol's hammer as it fell, felt something in the air, and knew that the pistol had been fired - but he did not know whether the shot had struck him. His hand was on the bell-handle, and he had pulled it, before he was sure that he was unhurt.


"D----ation!" exclaimed the murderer. But he did not pull the trigger again. Though the weapon had of late been so often in his hands, he forgot, in the agitation of the moment, that his missing once was but of small matter if he chose to go on with his purpose. Were there not five other barrels for him, each making itself ready by the discharge of the other? But he had paused, forgetting, in his excitement, the use of his weapon, and before he had bethought himself that the man was still in his power, he heard the sound of the bell. "D----ation!" he exclaimed. Then he turned round, left the room, hurried down the stairs, and made his way out into the street, having again passed the girl on his way.

"D--ation!" exclaimed the murderer. But he did not pull the trigger again, forgetting, in his excitement, that there were five other barrels. He turned, hurried down the stairs, and made his way out into the street, passing the girl on his way.


Grey, when he perceived that his enemy was gone, turned round to look for the bullet or its mark. He soon found the little hole in the window-shutter, and probing it with the point of his pencil, came upon the morsel of lead which might now just as readily have been within his own brain. There he left it for the time, and then made some not inaccurate calculation as to the narrowness of his own escape. He had been standing directly between Vavasor and the shutter, and he found, from the height of the hole, that the shot must have passed close beneath his ear. He remembered to have heard the click of the hammer, but he could not remember the sound of the report, and when the girl entered the room, he perceived at once from her manner that she was unaware that firearms had been used.

Grey turned to look for the bullet or its mark. He soon found the little hole in the window-shutter. The shot must have passed close beneath his ear. He remembered to have heard the click of the hammer, but he could not remember the sound of the shot, and when the girl entered the room, he saw from her manner that she was unaware that firearms had been used.


"Has that gentleman left the house?" Grey asked. The girl said that he had left the house. "Don't admit him again," said he;--"that is, if you can avoid it. I believe he is not in his right senses." Then he asked for Mr. Jones, his landlord, and in a few minutes the pugilistic tailor was with him.

"Has that gentleman left the house?" Grey asked. The girl said that he had. "Don't admit him again," said he; "if you can avoid it, for I believe he is not in his right senses." Then he asked for Mr. Jones, his landlord, and in a few minutes the tailor was with him.


During those few minutes he had been called upon to resolve what he would do now. Would he put the police at once upon the track of the murderer, who was, as he remembered too well, the first cousin of the woman whom he still desired to make his wife? That cross-examination which he would have to undergo at the police-office, and again probably in an assize court, in which all his relations with the Vavasor family would be made public, was very vivid to his imagination. That he was called upon by duty to do something he felt almost assured. The man who had been allowed to make such an attempt once with impunity, might probably make it again. But he resolved that he need not now say anything about the pistol to the pugilistic tailor, unless the tailor said something to him.
"Mr. Jones," he said, "that man whom I had to put out of the room once before, has been here again."
"Has there been another tussle, sir?"
"No;--nothing of that kind. But we must take some steps to prevent his getting in again, if we can help it."

During those few minutes he had to resolve what he would do now. Would he put the police at once upon the track of the murderer - the cousin of the woman whom he wished to make his wife? That cross-examination which he would have to undergo at the police-office, and again probably in court, was very vivid to his imagination. Yet he needed to do something in case Vavasor made some attempt again. But he need not now say anything about the pistol to the tailor.
"Mr. Jones," he said, "that man whom I had to put out of the room once before, has been here. We must take some steps to prevent his getting in again, if we can."


Jones promised his aid, and offered to go at once to the police. To this, however, Mr. Grey demurred, saying that he should himself seek assistance from some magistrate. Jones promised to be very vigilant as to watching the door; and then John Grey sat down to his breakfast. Of course he thought much of what had occurred. It was impossible that he should not think much of so narrow an escape. He had probably been as near death as a man may well be without receiving any injury; and the more he thought of it, the more strongly he was convinced that he could not allow the thing to pass by without some notice, or some precaution as to the future.
At eleven o'clock he went to Scotland Yard, and saw some officer great in power over policemen, and told him all the circumstances,--confidentially. The powerful officer recommended an equally confidential reference to a magistrate; and towards evening a very confidential policeman in plain clothes paid a visit to Vavasor's lodgings in Cecil Street. But Vavasor lodged there no longer. Mrs. Bunsby, who was also very confidential,--and at her wits' end because she could not learn the special business of the stranger who called,--stated that Mr. George Vavasor left her house in a cab at ten o'clock that morning, having taken with him such luggage as he had packed, and having gone, "she was afraid, for good," as Mrs. Bunsby expressed it.

Jones offered to go at once to the police. However, Mr. Grey said that he himself would seek assistance from some magistrate. Jones promised to be very vigilant about watching the door; and then John Grey sat down to his breakfast. The more he thought about what had happened, the more strongly he was convinced that he could not allow it to pass without some precaution.
At eleven o'clock he went to Scotland Yard, and saw a senior officer, and told him all the circumstances, confidentially. The officer recommended an equally confidential magistrate; and towards evening a very confidential policeman in plain clothes paid a visit to Vavasor's lodgings in Cecil Street.
But Vavasor lodged there no longer. Mrs. Bunsby stated that he had left her house in a cab at ten o'clock that morning, with his luggage, and that she thought he was gone for good.


He had gone for good, and at the moment in which the policeman was making the inquiry in Cecil Street, was leaning over the side of an American steamer which had just got up her steam and weighed her anchor in the Mersey. He was on board at six o'clock, and it was not till the next day that the cabman was traced who had carried him to Euston Square Station. Of course, it was soon known that he had gone to America, but it was not thought worth while to take any further steps towards arresting him. Mr. Grey himself was decidedly opposed to any such attempt, declaring his opinion that his own evidence would be insufficient to obtain a conviction. The big men in Scotland Yard were loth to let the matter drop. Their mouths watered after the job, and they had very numerous and very confidential interviews with John Grey. But it was decided that nothing should be done. "Pity!" said one enterprising superintendent, in answer to the condolings of a brother superintendent. "Pity's no name for it.

He had gone for good, and at that moment he was leaning over the side of an American steamer which weighed her anchor in the Mersey, at Liverpool. He had boarded at six o'clock, and it was not till the next day that the cabman was traced who had carried him to Euston Square Station. Once it was known that he had set sail for America, it was not thought worthwhile to take any further steps towards arresting him.


It's the greatest shame as ever I knew since I joined the force. A man as was a Member of Parliament only last Session,--as belongs to no end of swell clubs, a gent as well known in London as any gent about the town! And I'd have had him back in three months, as sure as my name's Walker." And that superintendent felt that his profession and his country were alike disgraced.


And now George Vavasor vanishes from our pages, and will be heard of no more. Roebury knew him no longer, nor Pall Mall, nor the Chelsea Districts. His disappearance was a nine days' wonder, but the world at large knew nothing of the circumstances of that attempt in Suffolk Street. Mr. Grey himself told the story to no one, till he told it to Mr. Palliser at Lucerne. Mr. Scruby complained bitterly of the way in which Vavasor had robbed him; but I doubt whether Scruby, in truth, lost much by the transaction. To Kate, down in Westmoreland, no tidings came of her brother, and her sojourn in London with her aunt had nearly come to an end before she knew that he was gone. Even then the rumour reached her through Captain Bellfield, and she learned what few facts she knew from Mrs. Bunsby in Cecil Street.
"He was always mysterious," said Mrs. Greenow, "and now he has vanished. I hate mysteries, and, as for myself, I think it will be much better that he should not come back again." Perhaps Kate was of the same opinion, but, if so, she kept it to herself.

So now George Vavasor vanishes from our pages, and will be heard of no more. His disappearance was a nine days' wonder, but Mr. Grey told the story to no one, till he told it to Mr. Palliser at Lucerne. Kate received no news of her brother, and her stay in London with her aunt had nearly ended before she knew that he was gone. The rumour reached her through Captain Bellfield, and she learned what few facts she knew from Mrs. Bunsby.
"He was always mysterious," said Mrs. Greenow, "and now he has vanished. I think it will be much better that he should not come back again." Perhaps Kate was of the same opinion, but, if so, she kept it to herself.


Men, like planets, have both a visible and an invisible history. The astronomer threads the darkness with strict deduction, accounting so for every visible arc in the wanderer's orbit; and the narrator of human actions, if he did his work with the same completeness, would have to thread the hidden pathways of feeling and thought which lead up to every moment of action, and to those moments of intense suffering which take the quality of action--like the cry of Prometheus, whose chained anguish seems a greater energy than the sea and sky he invokes and the deity he defies.
Deronda's circumstances, indeed, had been exceptional. One moment had been burned into his life as its chief epoch--a moment full of July sunshine and large pink roses shedding their last petals on a grassy court enclosed on three sides by a gothic cloister. Imagine him in such a scene: a boy of thirteen, stretched prone on the grass where it was in shadow, his curly head propped on his arms over a book, while his tutor, also reading, sat on a camp-stool under shelter. Deronda's book was Sismondi's _History of the Italian Republics_; the lad had a passion for history, eager to know how time had been filled up since the flood, and how things were carried on in the dull periods. Suddenly he let down his left arm and looked at his tutor, saying in purest boyish tones,
"Mr. Fraser, how was it that the popes and cardinals always had so many nephews?"
The tutor, an able young Scotchman, who acted as Sir Hugo Mallinger's secretary, roused rather unwillingly from his political economy, answered with the clear-cut emphatic chant which makes a truth doubly telling in Scotch utterance,
"Their own children were called nephews."

Deronda's circumstances, indeed, had been exceptional. One early moment had been burned into his life - a moment full of July sunshine and large pink roses shedding petals on a grassy court enclosed on three sides by a Gothic cloister. Imagine him: a boy of thirteen, stretched on the grass, his curly head propped on his arms over a book, while his tutor, also reading, sat on a camp-stool. Deronda's book was Sismondi's "History of the Italian Republics"; the lad had a passion for history. Suddenly he looked at his tutor, saying-
"Mr. Fraser, how was it that the popes and cardinals always had so many nephews?"
The tutor, an able young Scotsman who acted as Sir Hugo Mallinger's secretary, answered with his clear-cut emphatic chant-
"Their own children were called nephews."


"Why?" said Deronda.
"It was just for the propriety of the thing; because, as you know very well, priests don't marry, and the children were illegitimate."
Mr. Fraser, thrusting out his lower lip and making his chant of the last word the more emphatic for a little impatience at being interrupted, had already turned his eyes on his book again, while Deronda, as if something had stung him, started up in a sitting attitude with his back to the tutor.

"Why?" said Deronda.
"For propriety; because, as you know, priests don't marry, and the children were illegitimate."
Mr. Fraser had already turned his eyes on his book again, while Deronda, as if something had stung him, sat up abruptly.


He had always called Sir Hugo Mallinger his uncle, and when it once occurred to him to ask about his father and mother, the baronet had answered, "You lost your father and mother when you were quite a little one; that is why I take care of you." Daniel then straining to discern something in that early twilight, had a dim sense of having been kissed very much, and surrounded by thin, cloudy, scented drapery, till his fingers caught in something hard, which hurt him, and he began to cry. Every other memory he had was of the little world in which he still lived. And at that time he did not mind about learning more, for he was too fond of Sir Hugo to be sorry for the loss of unknown parents. Life was very delightful to the lad, with an uncle who was always indulgent and cheerful--a fine man in the bright noon of life, whom Daniel thought absolutely perfect, and whose place was one of the finest in England, at once historical, romantic, and home-like: a picturesque architectural outgrowth from an abbey, which had still remnants of the old monastic trunk. Diplow lay in another county, and was a comparatively landless place which had come into the family from a rich lawyer on the female side who wore the perruque of the restoration; whereas the Mallingers had the grant of Monk's Topping under Henry the Eighth, and ages before had held the neighboring lands of King's Topping, tracing indeed their origin to a certain Hugues le Malingre, who came in with the Conqueror--and also apparently with a sickly complexion which had been happily corrected in his descendants. Two rows of these descendants, direct and collateral, females of the male line, and males of the female, looked down in the gallery over the cloisters on the nephew Daniel as he walked there: men in armor with pointed beards and arched eyebrows, pinched ladies in hoops and ruffs with no face to speak of; grave-looking men in black velvet and stuffed hips, and fair, frightened women holding little boys by the hand; smiling politicians in magnificent perruques, and ladies of the prize-animal kind, with rosebud mouths and full eyelids, according to Lely; then a generation whose faces were revised and embellished in the taste of Kneller; and so on through refined editions of the family types in the time of Reynolds and Romney, till the line ended with Sir Hugo and his younger brother Henleigh. This last had married Miss Grandcourt, and taken her name along with her estates, thus making a junction between two equally old families, impaling the three Saracens' heads proper and three bezants of the one with the tower and falcons _argent_ of the other, and, as it happened, uniting their highest advantages in the prospects of that Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt who is at present more of an acquaintance to us than either Sir Hugo or his nephew Daniel Deronda.

He had always called Sir Hugo Mallinger his uncle, and when he once asked about his parents, the baronet had answered, "You lost your father and mother when you were quite little; that is why I take care of you." Daniel, trying to remember, had a dim sense of having been kissed very much, and surrounded by thin, scented drapery. Every other memory was of the world in which he lived now.
At that time he did not mind, for he was too fond of Sir Hugo to be sorry for the loss of unknown parents. His uncle was always indulgent and cheerful; Daniel thought him absolutely perfect, and his place was one of the finest in England, a picturesque outgrowth from an abbey. Diplow lay in another county, and was a comparatively landless place; whereas the Mallingers had the grant of Monk's Topping and its land under Henry the Eighth. Two rows of Mallinger ancestors looked down on Daniel as he walked in the gallery: men in armour with pointed beards and arched eyebrows, pinched ladies in hoops and ruffs with no face to speak of; smiling politicians in magnificent wigs, and ladies of the prize-animal kind, till the line ended with Sir Hugo and his younger brother Henleigh.
This last had married Miss Grandcourt, taking her name along with her estates: thus joining two old families, and uniting their advantages in the prospects of that Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt whom we have already met.


In Sir Hugo's youthful portrait with rolled collar and high cravat, Sir Thomas Lawrence had done justice to the agreeable alacrity of expression and sanguine temperament still to be seen in the original, but had done something more than justice in slightly lengthening the nose, which was in reality shorter than might have been expected in a Mallinger. Happily the appropriate nose of the family reappeared in his younger brother, and was to be seen in all its refined regularity in his nephew Mallinger Grandcourt. But in the nephew Daniel Deronda the family faces of various types, seen on the walls of the gallery, found no reflex. Still he was handsomer than any of them, and when he was thirteen might have served as model for any painter who wanted to image the most memorable of boys: you could hardly have seen his face thoroughly meeting yours without believing that human creatures had done nobly in times past, and might do more nobly in time to come. The finest childlike faces have this consecrating power, and make us shudder anew at all the grossness and basely-wrought griefs of the world, lest they should enter here and defile.

Grandcourt's portrait was one of these; but the other nephew, Daniel Deronda, found in the family faces on the walls no reflection of his own. Still he was handsomer than any of them, and at thirteen appeared the most memorable of boys, whose face would make you believe in the innate nobility of humankind.


But at this moment on the grass among the rose-petals, Daniel Deronda was making a first acquaintance with those griefs. A new idea had entered his mind, and was beginning to change the aspect of his habitual feelings as happy careless voyagers are changed with the sky suddenly threatened and the thought of danger arises. He sat perfectly still with his back to the tutor, while his face expressed rapid inward transition. The deep blush, which had come when he first started up, gradually subsided; but his features kept that indescribable look of subdued activity which often accompanies a new mental survey of familiar facts. He had not lived with other boys, and his mind showed the same blending of child's ignorance with surprising knowledge which is oftener seen in bright girls. Having read Shakespeare as well as a great deal of history, he could have talked with the wisdom of a bookish child about men who were born out of wedlock and were held unfortunate in consequence, being under disadvantages which required them to be a sort of heroes if they were to work themselves up to an equal standing with their legally born brothers. But he had never brought such knowledge into any association with his own lot, which had been too easy for him ever to think about it--until this moment when there had darted into his mind with the magic of quick comparison, the possibility that here was the secret of his own birth, and that the man whom he called uncle was really his father. Some children, even younger than Daniel, have known the first arrival of care, like an ominous irremovable guest in their tender lives, on the discovery that their parents, whom they had imagined able to buy everything, were poor and in hard money troubles. Daniel felt the presence of a new guest who seemed to come with an enigmatic veiled face, and to carry dimly-conjectured, dreaded revelations. The ardor which he had given to the imaginary world in his books suddenly rushed toward his own history and spent its pictorial energy there, explaining what he knew, representing the unknown.

But at this moment on the grass among the rose-petals, Daniel Deronda was making a first acquaintance with grief. A new idea was changing his habitual feelings as happy careless voyagers are changed with the sky suddenly threatening danger. He sat perfectly still with his back to the tutor, surveying familiar facts anew.
He had not lived with other boys, and his mind showed the same blending of ignorance with surprising knowledge which is oftener seen in bright girls. Having read Shakespeare as well as a great deal of history, he could have talked with the wisdom of a bookish child about men who were born out of wedlock and were held unfortunate in consequence. But he had never associated these ideas with his own lot - until this moment, when there darted into his mind the possibility that here was the secret of his own birth, and that the man whom he called uncle was really his father.
Daniel felt the presence of trouble like a new guest with an enigmatic veiled face.


The uncle whom he loved very dearly took the aspect of a father who held secrets about him--who had done him a wrong--yes, a wrong: and what had become of his mother, for whom he must have been taken away?--Secrets about which he, Daniel, could never inquire; for to speak or to be spoken to about these new thoughts seemed like falling flakes of fire to his imagination. Those who have known an impassioned childhood will understand this dread of utterance about any shame connected with their parents. The impetuous advent of new images took possession of him with the force of fact for the first time told, and left him no immediate power for the reflection that he might be trembling at a fiction of his own. The terrible sense of collision between a strong rush of feeling and the dread of its betrayal, found relief at length in big slow tears, which fell without restraint until the voice of Mr. Fraser was heard saying:
"Daniel, do you see that you are sitting on the bent pages of your book?"

The uncle whom he loved dearly became a father who held secrets about him - and what had become of his mother?- secrets about which he, Daniel, could never inquire; for to speak about these new thoughts seemed like falling flakes of fire to his imagination. The impetuous force of these new images took possession of him, and left him no power to reflect that he might be trembling at a fiction of his own. This strong rush of feeling, and his dread of its betrayal, brought big slow tears, which fell until the voice of Mr. Fraser said:
"Daniel, you are sitting on the bent pages of your book."


Daniel immediately moved the book without turning round, and after holding it before him for an instant, rose with it and walked away into the open grounds, where he could dry his tears unobserved. The first shock of suggestion past, he could remember that he had no certainty how things really had been, and that he had been making conjectures about his own history, as he had often made stories about Pericles or Columbus, just to fill up the blanks before they became famous. Only there came back certain facts which had an obstinate reality, almost like the fragments of a bridge, telling you unmistakably how the arches lay. And again there came a mood in which his conjectures seemed like a doubt of religion, to be banished as an offense, and a mean prying after what he was not meant to know; for there was hardly a delicacy of feeling this lad was not capable of. But the summing-up of all his fluctuating experience at this epoch was, that a secret impression had come to him which had given him something like a new sense in relation to all the elements of his life. And the idea that others probably knew things concerning which they did not choose to mention, set up in him a premature reserve which helped to intensify his inward experience. His ears open now to words which before that July day would have passed by him unnoted; and round every trivial incident which imagination could connect with his suspicions, a newly-roused set of feelings were ready to cluster themselves.

Daniel immediately moved the book without turning round, and then rose and walked away into the grounds, where he could dry his tears unobserved. After the first shock, he could remember that he was not certain how things really stood, and that he had been conjecturing about his own history. Only some memories had an obstinate reality, like the fragments of a bridge, telling you unmistakably how the arches lay. His conjectures seemed like a mean offence; for he had great delicacy of feeling.
But at this time he acquired a new sense in relation to all the elements of his life. The idea that others knew things about him which they did not mention, made him reserved and sensitive. He noticed words which before that July day would have passed him by; and round every trivial incident, newly-roused feelings were ready to cluster.


One such incident a month later wrought itself deeply into his life. Daniel had not only one of those thrilling boy voices which seem to bring an idyllic heaven and earth before our eyes, but a fine musical instinct, and had early made out accompaniments for himself on the piano, while he sang from memory. Since then he had had some teaching, and Sir Hugo, who delighted in the boy, used to ask for his music in the presence of guests. One morning after he had been singing "Sweet Echo" before a small party of gentlemen whom the rain had kept in the house, the baronet, passing from a smiling remark to his next neighbor said:
"Come here, Dan!"
The boy came forward with unusual reluctance. He wore an embroidered holland blouse which set off the rich coloring of his head and throat, and the resistant gravity about his mouth and eyes as he was being smiled upon, made their beauty the more impressive. Every one was admiring him.
"What do you say to being a great singer? Should you like to be adored by the world and take the house by storm, like Mario and Tamberlik?"

One such incident a month later wrought itself deeply into his life. Daniel had not only a thrilling boy's soprano voice, but a fine musical instinct, and had worked out accompaniments for himself on the piano. Sir Hugo, who delighted in the boy, used to ask him to sing for guests. One morning after he had been singing "Sweet Echo" before a small party of gentlemen, the baronet said:
"Come here, Dan!"
He came forward with unusual reluctance. His rich colouring was set off by his resistant gravity, and everyone was admiring him.
"What do you say to being a great singer? Should you like to be adored by the world and take the house by storm?"


Daniel reddened instantaneously, but there was a just perceptible interval before he answered with angry decision,
"No; I should hate it!"

Daniel reddened instantaneously, and answered with angry decision-
"No; I should hate it!"


"Well, well, well!" said Sir Hugo, with surprised kindliness intended to be soothing. But Daniel turned away quickly, left the room, and going to his own chamber threw himself on the broad window-sill, which was a favorite retreat of his when he had nothing particular to do. Here he could see the rain gradually subsiding with gleams through the parting clouds which lit up a great reach of the park, where the old oaks stood apart from each other, and the bordering wood was pierced with a green glade which met the eastern sky. This was a scene which had always been part of his home--part of the dignified ease which had been a matter of course in his life. And his ardent clinging nature had appropriated it all with affection. He knew a great deal of what it was to be a gentleman by inheritance, and without thinking much about himself--for he was a boy of active perceptions and easily forgot his own existence in that of Robert Bruce--he had never supposed that he could be shut out from such a lot, or have a very different part in the world from that of the uncle who petted him. It is possible (though not greatly believed in at present) to be fond of poverty and take it for a bride, to prefer scoured deal, red quarries and whitewash for one's private surroundings, to delight in no splendor but what has open doors for the whole nation, and to glory in having no privileges except such as nature insists on; and noblemen have been known to run away from elaborate ease and the option of idleness, that they might bind themselves for small pay to hard-handed labor. But Daniel's tastes were altogether in keeping with his nurture: his disposition was one in which everyday scenes and habits beget not _ennui_ or rebellion, but delight, affection, aptitudes; and now the lad had been stung to the quick by the idea that his uncle--perhaps his father--thought of a career for him which was totally unlike his own, and which he knew very well was not thought of among possible destinations for the sons of English gentlemen. He had often stayed in London with Sir Hugo, who to indulge the boy's ear had carried him to the opera to hear the great tenors, so that the image of a singer taking the house by storm was very vivid to him; but now, spite of his musical gift, he set himself bitterly against the notion of being dressed up to sing before all those fine people, who would not care about him except as a wonderful toy.

"Well, well!" said Sir Hugo, with surprised kindliness. But Daniel turned away quickly, left the room, and going to his own chamber threw himself on the broad window-sill.
Here he could see the rain gradually subsiding over a great reach of the park, with old oaks and a green glade. This scene had always been part of his home, and his ardent nature clung to it with affection. He had never supposed that he could be shut out from the world of his uncle. The lad had been stung to the quick by the idea that his uncle - perhaps his father - thought of a career for him which was totally unlike his own, and which he knew very well was not possible for the son of an English gentleman. He had often stayed in London with Sir Hugo, and been taken to the opera to hear the great tenors, so that the image of a singer taking the house by storm was very vivid to him; but now he set himself bitterly against the notion of being dressed up to sing before fine people, who would not care about him except as a wonderful toy.


That Sir Hugo should have thought of him in that position for a moment, seemed to Daniel an unmistakable proof that there was something about his birth which threw him out from the class of gentlemen to which the baronet belonged. Would it ever be mentioned to him? Would the time come when his uncle would tell him everything? He shrank from the prospect: in his imagination he preferred ignorance. If his father had been wicked--Daniel inwardly used strong words, for he was feeling the injury done him as a maimed boy feels the crushed limb which for others is merely reckoned in an average of accidents--if his father had done any wrong, he wished it might never be spoken of to him: it was already a cutting thought that such knowledge might be in other minds. Was it in Mr. Fraser's? probably not, else he would not have spoken in that way about the pope's nephews. Daniel fancied, as older people do, that every one else's consciousness was as active as his own on a matter which was vital to him. Did Turvey the valet know?--and old Mrs. French the housekeeper?--and Banks the bailiff, with whom he had ridden about the farms on his pony?--And now there came back the recollection of a day some years before when he was drinking Mrs. Banks's whey, and Banks said to his wife with a wink and a cunning laugh, "He features the mother, eh?" At that time little Daniel had merely thought that Banks made a silly face, as the common farming men often did, laughing at what was not laughable; and he rather resented being winked at and talked of as if he did not understand everything.

Sir Hugo's suggestion seemed to Daniel proof that there was something about his birth which meant that he was not a gentleman.
Would his uncle ever tell him everything? He shrank from the prospect, preferring ignorance. If his father had been wicked - Daniel inwardly used strong words for the injury done him - if his father had done any wrong, he wished it might never be spoken of to him: it was already a cutting thought that such knowledge might be in other minds. Daniel fancied that everyone else's mind was as active as his own on a matter which was so vital to him. Did the valet know? - and the housekeeper? - and Banks the bailiff?
He recalled a time when Banks said to his wife with a wink, "He features the mother, eh?" At that time little Daniel had merely thought that Banks made a silly face.


But now that small incident became information: it was to be reasoned on. How could he be like his mother and not like his father? His mother must have been a Mallinger, if Sir Hugo were his uncle. But no! His father might have been Sir Hugo's brother and have changed his name, as Mr. Henleigh Mallinger did when he married Miss Grandcourt. But then, why had he never heard Sir Hugo speak of his brother Deronda, as he spoke of his brother Grandcourt? Daniel had never before cared about the family tree--only about that ancestor who had killed three Saracens in one encounter. But now his mind turned to a cabinet of estate-maps in the library, where he had once seen an illuminated parchment hanging out, that Sir Hugo said was the family tree. The phrase was new and odd to him--he was a little fellow then--hardly more than half his present age--and he gave it no precise meaning. He knew more now and wished that he could examine that parchment.

But now that small incident became information. How could he be like his mother and not like his father? His mother must have been a Mallinger. But no! His father might have been Sir Hugo's brother and have changed his name, as Mr. Henleigh Mallinger did when he married Miss Grandcourt. But then, why had he never heard Sir Hugo speak of his brother Deronda, as he spoke of his brother Grandcourt? He wished that he could examine the family tree in the library.


He imagined that the cabinet was always locked, and longed to try it. But here he checked himself. He might be seen: and he would never bring himself near even a silent admission of the sore that had opened in him.

But he might be seen: and he would never bring himself near even a silent admission of the sore that had opened in him.


It is in such experiences of a boy or girlhood, while elders are debating whether most education lies in science or literature, that the main lines of character are often laid down. If Daniel had been of a less ardently affectionate nature, the reserve about himself and the supposition that others had something to his disadvantage in their minds, might have turned into a hard, proud antagonism. But inborn lovingness was strong enough to keep itself level with resentment. There was hardly any creature in his habitual world that he was not fond of; teasing them occasionally, of course--all except his uncle, or "Nunc," as Sir Hugo had taught him to say; for the baronet was the reverse of a strait-laced man, and left his dignity to take care of itself. Him Daniel loved in that deep-rooted filial way which makes children always the happier for being in the same room with father or mother, though their occupations may be quite apart. Sir Hugo's watch-chain and seals, his handwriting, his mode of smoking and of talking to his dogs and horses, had all a rightness and charm about them to the boy which went along with the happiness of morning and breakfast time. That Sir Hugo had always been a Whig, made Tories and Radicals equally opponents of the truest and best; and the books he had written were all seen under the same consecration of loving belief which differenced what was his from what was not his, in spite of general resemblance. Those writings were various, from volumes of travel in the brilliant style, to articles on things in general, and pamphlets on political crises; but to Daniel they were alike in having an unquestionable rightness by which other people's information could be tested.
Who cannot imagine the bitterness of a first suspicion that something in this object of complete love was _not_ quite right? Children demand that their heroes should be fleckless, and easily believe them so: perhaps a first discovery to the contrary is hardly a less revolutionary shock to a passionate child than the threatened downfall of habitual beliefs which makes the world seem to totter for us in maturer life.

In such youthful experiences are the lines of character often laid down. If Daniel had been of a less affectionate nature, the reserve might have turned into a hard, proud antagonism. But he was a loving child, who had always trusted in his uncle.
Who cannot imagine the bitterness of a first suspicion that something in this object of complete love was not quite right? Children demand that their heroes should be flawless.