She was acknowledging that that which had to be told was not compatible with the love and perfect faith which she owed to the man who was her affianced husband.


She did not intend to tell him that she had been false in her love to him.

She had not been false in her love to him.


It was not that her heart had again veered itself round and given itself to that wild cousin of hers.

It was not that her heart had veered round and given itself to her wild cousin George.


Though she might feel herself constrained to part from John Grey, George Vavasor could never be her husband.

Although she felt herself constrained to part from John Grey, George Vavasor could never be her husband.


Of that she assured herself fifty times during the two days' grace which had been allowed her.

Of that she assured herself fifty times.


Nay, she went farther than that with herself, and pronounced a verdict against any marriage as possible to her if she now decided against this marriage which had for some months past been regarded as fixed by herself and all her friends.

Nay, she went farther, and vowed to herself that if she did not marry John Grey, she would never marry.


People often say that marriage is an important thing, and should be much thought of in advance, and marrying people are cautioned that there are many who marry in haste and repent at leisure.

People often say that marriage is an important thing, and should be deeply considered.


I am not sure, however, that marriage may not be pondered over too much; nor do I feel certain that the leisurely repentance does not as often follow the leisurely marriages as it does the rapid ones.

However, I feel that marriage may be pondered over too much.


That some repent no one can doubt; but I am inclined to believe that most men and women take their lots as they find them, marrying as the birds do by force of nature, and going on with their mates with a general, though not perhaps an undisturbed satisfaction, feeling inwardly assured that Providence, if it have not done the very best for them, has done for them as well as they could do for themselves with all the thought in the world.

I am inclined to believe that most men and women take their lots as they find them, marrying by force of nature, and going on with their mates with a general if not an undisturbed satisfaction.


I do not know that a woman can assure to herself, by her own prudence and taste, a good husband any more than she can add two cubits to her stature; but husbands have been made to be decently good,--and wives too, for the most part, in our country,--so that the thing does not require quite so much thinking as some people say.


That Alice Vavasor had thought too much about it, I feel quite sure.


She had gone on thinking of it till she had filled herself with a cloud of doubts which even the sunshine of love was unable to drive from her heavens.

She had gone on thinking of it till she had filled herself with a cloud of doubts which even the sunshine of love was unable to drive away.


That a girl should really love the man she intends to marry,--that, at any rate, may be admitted.


With all her doubts Alice never doubted her love for Mr. Grey.

With all her doubts, Alice never doubted her love for Mr. Grey.


Nor did she doubt his character, nor his temper, nor his means.


But she had gone on thinking of the matter till her mind had become filled with some undefined idea of the importance to her of her own life.


There had arisen round her a flock of learned ladies asking that question, to whom it seems that the proper answer has never yet occurred.

At that time a flock of learned women asked that question.


Fall in love, marry the man, have two children, and live happy ever afterwards.

Fall in love, marry, have two children, and live happy ever afterwards


I maintain that answer has as much wisdom in it as any other that can be given;--or perhaps more.

- that answer has as much wisdom in it as any other.


The advice contained in it cannot, perhaps, always be followed to the letter; but neither can the advice of the other kind, which is given by the flock of learned ladies who ask the question.

That advice cannot, perhaps, always be followed to the letter; but neither can the advice given by the flock of learned ladies.


A woman's life is important to her,--as is that of a man to him,--not chiefly in regard to that which she shall do with it.

A woman's life is important to her - as is a man's to him - not chiefly with regard to what she shall do with it.


The chief thing for her to look to is the manner in which that something shall be done.

The chief thing is the manner in which that something shall be done.


It is of moment to a young man when entering life to decide whether he shall make hats or shoes; but not of half the moment that will be that other decision, whether he shall make good shoes or bad.

It is important to a young man to decide whether he shall make hats or shoes; but not half so important as that other decision, whether he shall make good shoes or bad.


And so with a woman;--if she shall have recognised the necessity of truth and honesty for the purposes of her life, I do not know that she need ask herself many questions as to what she will do with it.

And so with a woman; if she recognises the necessity of truth and honesty in her life, I do not know that she need ask what she will do with it.


Alice Vavasor was ever asking herself that question, and had by degrees filled herself with a vague idea that there was a something to be done; a something over and beyond, or perhaps altogether beside that marrying and having two children;--if she only knew what it was.

Alice Vavasor was always asking herself that question, and had filled herself with a vague idea that there was a something to be done beyond that marrying and having two children - if she only knew what it was.


She had filled herself, or had been filled by her cousins, with an undefined ambition that made her restless without giving her any real food for her mind.

She was full of an undefined ambition that made her restless without giving her any real food for her mind.


When she told herself that she would have no scope for action in that life in Cambridgeshire which Mr. Grey was preparing for her, she did not herself know what she meant by action.

When she told herself that she would have no scope for action in life in Cambridgeshire with Mr. Grey, she did not herself know what she meant by action.


Had any one accused her of being afraid to separate herself from London society, she would have declared that she went very little into society and disliked that little.

She assured herself that she cared little for London society,


Had it been whispered to her that she loved the neighbourhood of the shops, she would have scorned the whisperer.


Had it been suggested that the continued rattle of the big city was necessary to her happiness, she would have declared that she and her father had picked out for their residence the quietest street in London because she could not bear noise;--and yet she told herself that she feared to be taken into the desolate calmness of Cambridgeshire.

city's bustle; and yet she told herself that she feared the desolate calm of Cambridgeshire.


When she did contrive to find any answer to that question as to what she should do with her life,--or rather what she would wish to do with it if she were a free agent, it was generally of a political nature.

When she did manage to find any answer to that question of what she should do with her life, it was generally of a political nature.


She was not so far advanced as to think that women should be lawyers and doctors, or to wish that she might have the privilege of the franchise for herself; but she had undoubtedly a hankering after some second-hand political manoeuvering.

She was not so far advanced as to think that women should be lawyers and doctors, or to wish for the vote; but she undoubtedly hankered after some second-hand political manuvering.


She would have liked, I think, to have been the wife of the leader of a Radical opposition, in the time when such men were put into prison, and to have kept up for him his seditious correspondence while he lay in the Tower.


She would have carried the answers to him inside her stays,--and have made long journeys down into northern parts without any money, if the cause required it.


She would have liked to have around her ardent spirits, male or female, who would have talked of "the cause," and have kept alive in her some flame of political fire.

She would have liked to have around her ardent spirits, male or female, who talked of "the cause," and kept alive in her some flame of political fire.


Her father's political views were very mild.


Lady Macleod's were deadly conservative.


Kate Vavasor was an aspiring Radical just now, because her brother was in the same line; but during the year of the love-passages between George and Alice, George Vavasor's politics had been as conservative as you please.

Kate Vavasor was an aspiring Radical just now, because her brother was; but during the year of the love-passages between George and Alice, George Vavasor's politics had been as conservative as you please.


He did not become a Radical till he had quarrelled with his grandfather.

He did not become a Radical till he quarrelled with his grandfather.


Now, indeed, he was possessed of very advanced views,--views with which Alice felt that she could sympathize.

Now, indeed, George held very advanced Radical views, with which Alice felt that she could sympathize.


But what would be the use of sympathizing down in Cambridgeshire?


John Grey had, so to speak, no politics.

John Grey had no interest in modern politics.


He had decided views as to the treatment which the Roman Senate received from Augustus, and had even discussed with Alice the conduct of the Girondists at the time of Robespierre's triumph; but for Manchester and its cares he had no apparent solicitude, and had declared to Alice that he would not accept a seat in the British House of Commons if it were offered to him free of expense.

He had decided views about the Roman Senate and Augustus, and the Girondists in the French Revolution; but for Manchester and its concerns he cared nothing, and had declared to Alice that he would not accept a seat in the House of Commons if it were offered to him free.


What political enthusiasm could she indulge with such a companion down in Cambridgeshire?

What political enthusiasm could she indulge with such a companion?


She thought too much of all this,--and was, if I may say, over-prudent in calculating the chances of her happiness and of his.


For, to give her credit for what was her due, she was quite as anxious on the latter head as on the former.

to give her due credit, was quite as anxious for his happiness as for her own.


"I don't care for the Roman Senate," she would say to herself.

"I don't care for the Roman Senate," she said to herself


How am I to talk to him day after day, night after night, when we shall be alone together?"

How am I to talk to him day after day, when we are alone together?"


No doubt her tour in Switzerland with her cousin had had some effect in making such thoughts stronger now than they had ever been.

No doubt her tour in Switzerland with her cousin had strengthened these thoughts.


She had not again learned to love her cousin.


She was as firmly sure as ever that she could never love him more.

, and was firmly sure that she never could be.


He had insulted her love; and though she had forgiven him and again enrolled him among her dearest friends, she could never again feel for him that passion which a woman means when she acknowledges that she is in love.

He had insulted her love; and though she had forgiven him and he was a dear friend, she could never again feel that passion for him.


That, as regarded her and George Vavasor, was over.


But, nevertheless, there had been a something of romance during those days in Switzerland which she feared she would regret when she found herself settled at Nethercoats.

But, nevertheless, there had been something of romance during those days in Switzerland which she feared she would regret when she found herself settled at Nethercoats.


Kate could, as his sister, attach herself on to George's political career, and obtain from it all that excitement of life which Alice desired for herself.

She envied Kate, who could attach herself to George's political career, and obtain from it all that excitement of life which Alice desired for herself.


Alice could not love her cousin and marry him; but she felt that if she could do so without impropriety she would like to stick close to him like another sister, to spend her money in aiding his career in Parliament as Kate would do, and trust herself and her career into the boat which he was to command.

Alice could not marry her cousin; but she felt that if she could do so without impropriety, she would like to stick close to him like another sister, and to spend her money in aiding his career in Parliament as Kate would do.


She did not love her cousin; but she still believed in him,--with a faith which he certainly did not deserve.

She did not love her cousin; but she still believed in him - with a faith which he certainly did not deserve.


As the two days passed over her, her mind grew more and more fixed as to its purpose.

In the two days before she was to see Mr. Grey, her mind grew more fixed in its purpose.


She would tell Mr. Grey that she was not fit to be his wife--and she would beg him to pardon her and to leave her.

She would tell Mr. Grey that she was not fit to be his wife.


It never occurred to her that perhaps he might refuse to let her go.

It never occurred to her that he might refuse to let her go.


She felt quite sure that she would be free as soon as she had spoken the word which she intended to speak.


If she could speak it with decision she would be free, and to attain that decision she would school herself with her utmost strength.


At one moment she thought of telling all to her father and of begging him to break the matter to Mr. Grey; but she knew that her father would not understand her, and that he would be very hostile to her,--saying hard, uncomfortable words, which would probably be spared if the thing were done before he was informed.

She thought of telling all to her father and of begging him to break the matter to Mr. Grey; but she knew that her father would not understand.


Nor would she write to Kate, whose letters to her at this time were full of wit at the expense of Mrs. Greenow.

Nor would she write to Kate, although Kate would sympathize with her.


She would tell Kate as soon as the thing was done, but not before.

She would tell Kate once the thing was done, but not before.


That Kate would sympathize with her, she was quite certain.


So the two days passed by and the time came at which John Grey was to be there.

As the hour approached at which John Grey was to


As the minute hand on the drawing-room clock came round to the full hour, she felt that her heart was beating with a violence which she could not repress.

arrive, she felt her heart was beating with a violence which she could not repress.


The thing seemed to her to assume bigger dimensions than it had hitherto done.


She began to be aware that she was about to be guilty of a great iniquity, when it was too late for her to change her mind.

She began to be aware that she was about to be guilty of a great iniquity.


She could not bring herself to resolve that she would, on the moment, change her mind.


She believed that she could never pardon herself such weakness.


But yet she felt herself to be aware that her purpose was wicked.

Yet she felt that her purpose was wicked.


When the knock at the door was at last heard she trembled and feared that she would almost be unable to speak to him.

When the knock at the door was at last heard she trembled.


Might it be possible that there should yet be a reprieve for her?


No; it was his step on the stairs, and there he was in the room with her.


"My dearest," he said, coming towards her.


His smile was sweet and loving as it ever was, and his voice had its usual manly, genial, loving tone.

His smile was sweet and loving as always, and his voice had its usual manly, loving tone.


As he walked across the room Alice felt that he was a man of whom a wife might be very proud.


He was tall and very handsome, with brown hair, with bright blue eyes, and a mouth like a god.

He was tall and handsome, with bright blue eyes, and a mouth like a god.


It was the beauty of his mouth,--beauty which comprised firmness within itself, that made Alice afraid of him.

It was the firm beauty of his mouth that made Alice afraid of him.


He was still dressed in his morning clothes; but he was a man who always seemed to be well dressed.


"My dearest," he said, advancing across the room, and before she knew how to stop herself or him, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.

"My dearest," he said, advancing across the room, and before she knew how to stop him, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.


He did not immediately begin about the letter, but placed her upon the sofa, seating himself by her side, and looked into her face with loving eyes,--not as though to scrutinize what might be amiss there, but as though determined to enjoy to the full his privilege as a lover.

He did not immediately begin to talk about the letter, but placed her upon the sofa, sitting by her side, and looked at her lovingly.


There was no reproach at any rate in his countenance;--none as yet; nor did it seem that he thought that he had any cause for fear.

There was no reproach or scrutiny in his face - as yet; nor any fear.


They sat in this way for a moment or two in silence, and during those moments Alice was summoning up her courage to speak.


The palpitation at her heart was already gone, and she was determined that she would speak.


"Though I am very glad to see you," she said, at last, "I am sorry that my letter should have given you the trouble of this journey."

"Though I am very glad to see you," she said, "I am sorry that my letter should have given you the trouble of this journey."


"Nay, you ought to know that it is no trouble.


I have not enough to do down at Nethercoats to make the running up to you at any time an unpleasant excitement.


So your Swiss journey went off pleasantly?"


This she said in that tone of voice which clearly implies that the speaker is not thinking of the words spoken.


"Yes; she is with her aunt, at the seaside."


"So I understand;--and your cousin George?"


"I never know much of George's movements.


He may be in Town, but I have not seen him since I came back."

He may be in town, but I have not seen him since I came back.


that is the way with friends living in London.


Unless circumstances bring them together, they are in fact further apart than if they lived fifty miles asunder in the country.


And he managed to get through all the trouble without losing your luggage for you very often?"


"If you were to say that we did not lose his, that would be nearer the mark.


But, John, you have come up to London in this sudden way to speak to me about my letter to you.

John, you have come to me about my letter.


"I have thought much, since, of what I then wrote, very much,--very much, indeed; and I have learned to feel sure that we had better--"

"I have thought much, since, of what I wrote; and I feel sure that we had better-"


Shall I tell you what I learned from your letter?"


"Yes; tell me, if you think it better that you should do so."

"Yes; if you think it better that you should do so."


I learned, love, that something had been said or done during your journey,--or perhaps only something thought, that had made you melancholy, and filled your mind for a while with those unsubstantial and indefinable regrets for the past which we are all apt to feel at certain moments of our life.

"I learned, love, that something had been said or done during your journey - or perhaps only something thought, that had made you melancholy, and filled you with those indefinable regrets which we are all apt to feel at certain moments of our life.


There are few of us who do not encounter, now and again, some of that irrational spirit of sadness which, when over-indulged, drives men to madness and self-destruction.


I used to know well what it was before I knew you; but since I have had the hope of having you in my house, I have banished it utterly.

I used to know it well, before I knew you; but since I have had the hope of having you in my house, I have banished it utterly.


In that I think I have been stronger than you.


Do not speak under the influence of that spirit till you have thought whether you, too, cannot banish it."


"I have tried, and it will not be banished."


It is a damned spirit, and belongs neither to heaven nor to earth.

It is an unholy spirit, and belongs neither to heaven nor to earth.


Do not say to me the words that you were about to say till you have wrestled with it manfully.


I think I know what those words were to be.


If you love me, those words should not be spoken.


"If I do not love you, I love no one upon earth."


I believe it as I believe in my own love for you.


Tell me that I may return to Cambridgeshire, and again plead my cause for an early marriage from thence.

Tell me that I may again plead my cause for an early marriage!"


I will not take such speech from you to mean more than it says!"


She sat quiet, looking at him--looking full into his face.


She had in nowise changed her mind, but after such words from him, she did not know how to declare to him her resolution.

She had not changed her mind, but she did not know how to declare her resolution to him.


There was something in his manner that awed her,--and something also that softened her.

There was something in his manner that awed her, and also softened her.


"Tell me," said he, "that I may see you again to-morrow morning in our usual quiet, loving way, and that I may return home to-morrow evening.

"Tell me," said he, "that I may see you again tomorrow morning in our usual quiet, loving way.


Pronounce a yea to that speech from me, and I will ask for nothing further."


And the tone of her voice, as she spoke, was different to any tone that he had heard before from her mouth.

And the tone of her voice was different to any tone that he had heard before from her mouth.


"Is that melancholy fiend too strong for you?"


He smiled as he said this, and as he smiled, he took her hand.

He smiled as he said this, and took her hand.


She did not attempt to withdraw it, but sat by him in a strange calmness, looking straight before her into the middle of the room.

She did not attempt to withdraw it, but sat by him in a strange calm.


You know, as I do, that it is a bad fiend and a wicked one,--a fiend that is prompting you to the worst cruelty in the world.

You know, as I do, that it is a wicked fiend, that is prompting you to the worst cruelty in the world.


Try to think of all this as though some other person were concerned.

Try to think as though some other person were concerned.


If it were your friend, what advice would you give her?"


[Illustration: "If it were your friend, what advice would you give her?"]


"I would bid her tell the man who had loved her,--that is, if he were noble, good, and great,--that she found herself to be unfit to be his wife; and then I would bid her ask his pardon humbly on her knees."

"I would bid her tell the good and noble man who loved her that she found herself unfit to be his wife; and then I would bid her ask his pardon humbly on her knees."


As she said this, she sank before him on to the floor, and looked up into his face with an expression of sad contrition which almost drew him from his purposed firmness.

And Alice sank before him to the floor, and looked up into his face with sad contrition.


He had purposed to be firm,--to yield to her in nothing, resolving to treat all that she might say as the hallucination of a sickened imagination,--as the effect of absolute want of health, for which some change in her mode of life would be the best cure.

He had intended to yield to her in nothing, resolving to treat all that she might say as hallucination - as the effect of lack of health, for which some change in her mode of life would be the best cure.


She might bid him begone in what language she would.


He knew well that such was her intention.


But he would not allow a word coming from her in such a way to disturb arrangements made for the happiness of their joint lives.

But he would not allow a word she said to disturb arrangements made for their joint happiness.


As a loving husband would treat a wife, who, in some exceptionable moment of a melancholy malady, should declare herself unable to remain longer in her home, so would he treat her.

He would treat her as a loving husband would treat a wife who was in the grip of a melancholy malady.


As for accepting what she might say as his dismissal, he would as soon think of taking the fruit-trees from the southern wall because the sun sometimes shines from the north.


He could not treat either his interests or hers so lightly as that.


"But what if he granted no such pardon, Alice?


You are my wife, my own, my dearest, my chosen one.


You are all that I value in the world, my treasure and my comfort, my earthly happiness and my gleam of something better that is to come hereafter.

You are all that I value in the world, my treasure and my comfort.


Do you think that I shall let you go from me in that way?


If you are ill I will wait till your illness is gone by; and, if you will let me, I will be your nurse."

If you are ill I will wait till your illness is gone; and, if you will let me, I will be your nurse."


You do not shake with ague, nor does your head rack you with aching; but yet you may be ill.

You do not shake with fever; but yet you must be ill."


Must you not be ill when you seek to put an end to all that without any cause assigned."


"You will not hear my reasons,"--she was still kneeling before him and looking up into his face.

"You will not hear my reasons," she said, still kneeling before him and looking up into his face.


"I will hear them if you will tell me that they refer to any supposed faults of my own."

"I will hear them if you refer to supposed faults of my own."


It is for me to find out your faults, and when I have found out any that require complaint, I will come and make it.

It is for me to find out your faults, and when I have found any that require complaint, I will come and make it.


Dear Alice, I wish you knew how I long for you."


Then he put his hand upon her hair, as though he would caress her.

He put his hand upon her hair, as though he would caress her.


But this she would not suffer, so she rose slowly, and stood with her hand upon the table in the middle of the room.

But at this she rose, and stood in the middle of the room.


"If you will call me so, I shall think it only a part of your malady."


"Mr. Grey," she continued, "I can only hope that you will take me at my word."

"Mr. Grey," she said, "I hope that you will take me at my word."


"Oh, but I will not; certainly I will not, if that would be adverse to my own interests."

"Oh, but I will not, if that would be adverse to my own interests."


"I am thinking of your interests; I am, indeed;--at any rate as much as of my own.

"I am thinking of your interests as much as of my own.


I feel quite sure that I should not make you happy as your wife,--quite sure; and feeling that, I think that I am right, even after all that has passed, to ask your forgiveness, and to beg that our engagement may be over."

I feel quite sure that I should not make you happy as your wife; and feeling that, I think that I am right to ask your forgiveness, and to beg that our engagement may be over."


I cannot tell you with what contentment I would marry you to-morrow,--to-morrow, or next month, or the month after.


But if it cannot be so, then I will wait.


Nothing but your marriage with some one else would convince me."

Nothing but your marriage with someone else would convince me."


"I cannot convince you in that way," she said, smiling.


You have not spoken to your father of this as yet?"

You have not spoken to your father yet?"


"Do not do so, at any rate for the present.


You will own that it might be possible that you would have to unsay what you had said."

You will admit that it might be possible that you would have to unsay what you had said."


And, Alice, I ask you now for no reasons.


I will not ask your reasons, or even listen to them, because I do not believe that they will long have effect even on yourself.

, because I do not believe that they will long have an effect on you.


Do you still think of going to Cheltenham?"


"I think a change of air would be good for you."


"Yes; you treat me as though I were partly silly, and partly insane; but it is not so.


The change you speak of should be in my nature, and in yours."


There was something in the imperturbed security of his manner which almost made her angry with him.

There was something in the unperturbed security of his manner which almost made her angry with him.


It seemed as though he assumed so great a superiority that he felt himself able to treat any resolve of hers as the petulance of a child.


And though he spoke in strong language of his love, and of his longing that she should come to him, yet he was so well able to command his feelings, that he showed no sign of grief at the communication she had made to him.

And though he spoke of his love, yet he was so well able to command his feelings that he showed no sign of grief.


She did not doubt his love, but she believed him to be so much the master of his love,--as he was the master of everything else, that her separation from him would cause him no uncontrollable grief.

She did not doubt his love, but she believed him to be so much the master of his love - as he was the master of everything else - that their separation would cause him no uncontrollable grief.


In that she utterly failed to understand his character.


Had she known him better, she might have been sure that such a separation now would with him have carried its mark to the grave.

Had she known him better, she might have been sure that such a separation would carry its mark on him to the grave.


Should he submit to her decision, he would go home and settle himself to his books the next day; but on no following day would he be again capable of walking forth among his flowers with an easy heart.

He would go home and settle himself to his books; but he would never again be capable of walking forth among his flowers with an easy heart.


He was a strong, constant man, perhaps over-conscious of his own strength; but then his strength was great.

He was a strong, constant man, perhaps over-conscious of his own great strength.


He did not stay with her long after the last word that has been recorded.


"Perhaps," he said, as for a moment he held her hand at parting, "I had better not come to-morrow."

"Perhaps," he said, as he held her hand at parting, "I had better not come tomorrow."


"I advise you not to tell your father of this, and doubtless you will think of it before you do so.


But if you do tell him, let me know that you have done so."


"Because in such case I also must see him.

"Because in that case I also must see him.


Then he went, and she sat there on the sofa without moving, till she heard her father's feet as he came up the stairs.

Then he went, and she sat on the sofa without moving, till she heard her father's feet coming up the stairs.


"He has not made himself disagreeable, has he?"


He may defy man or woman to find fault with him."


Well, I have always thought that myself.


If there be any fault, it is not with him.


But I am yawning and tired, and I will go to bed."


Mr. Vavasor, as he went up to his bedroom, felt sure that there had been something wrong between his daughter and her lover.

Mr. Vavasor, as he went to his bedroom, felt sure that something was wrong between his daughter and her lover.


"I don't know how she'll ever put up with him," he said to himself, "he is so terribly conceited."


I shall never forget how he went on about Charles Kemble, and what a fool he made of himself."


Alice, before she went to bed, sat down and wrote a letter to her cousin Kate.


About eleven o'clock on that night,--the night of the day on which Kate Vavasor's arm had been broken,--there came a gentle knock at Kate's bedroom door.

About eleven o'clock that night, there came a gentle knock at Kate's bedroom door.

Chapter 57: Showing How the Wild Beast Got Himself Back from the Mountains


There was nothing surprising in this, as of all the household Kate only was in bed.


Her aunt was sitting at this time by her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned from Penrith and who had set her broken arm, was still in the house, talking over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before he proceeded back on his journey home.

Her aunt was sitting by her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned from Penrith and who had set her broken arm, was still in the house, talking over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room.


"She will do very well," said the doctor.


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


"One never can say how anything may occur," said he.

"One never can say how anything may happen.


"I know a young woman who broke the os femoris by just kicking her cat;--at least, she said she did."


I suppose you didn't take any trouble to inquire?"


My business was with the injury, not with the way she got it.


Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothing came of it.


Don't trouble her with questions till she has had some hours' sleep, at any rate."

Don't trouble her with questions till she has had some sleep."


Then the doctor went, and John Vavasor was left alone, standing with his back to the dining-room fire.

Then the doctor went, and John Vavasor was left alone in the dining-room.


There had been so much trouble and confusion in the house since Kate had fainted, almost immediately upon her reaching home, that Mr. Vavasor had not yet had time to make up his mind as to the nature of the accident which had occurred.

There had been so much confusion in the house since Kate had fainted that he had not yet had time to make up his mind about the nature of the accident.


Mrs. Greenow had at once ascertained that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for.

Mrs. Greenow had found that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for


Luckily he had been found at home, and had reached the Hall a little before ten o'clock.

, reaching the Hall a little before ten o'clock.


In the meantime, as soon as Kate recovered her senses, she volunteered her account of what had occurred.

In the meantime, as soon as Kate had recovered her senses, she gave her account of what had occurred.


Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, she said, and had left her abruptly on the mountain.

She said that her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, and had left her abruptly on the mountain.


She had fallen, she went on to say, as she turned from him, and had at once found that she had hurt herself.

She had fallen as she turned from him, and had found that she had hurt herself.


But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and, indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed out of her sight.


This was her story; and there was nothing in it that was false by the letter, though there was much that was false in the spirit.

This was her story; and there was nothing in it that was literally false.


It was certainly true that George had not known that she was injured.


It was true that she had asked him for no help.


It was true, in one sense, that she had fallen, and it was true that she had not herself known how severe had been the injury done to her till he had gone beyond the reach of her voice.

It was true, in one sense, that she had fallen, and had not known how severe had been the injury till he had gone.


But she repressed all mention of his violence, and when she was pressed as to the nature of the quarrel, she declined to speak further on that matter.

But she repressed all mention of his violence, and declined to speak further about the quarrel.


Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her.


That was a matter of course, and she knew that they did not believe her.


George's absence, their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which her arm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more to tell if she chose to tell it.

George's absence, their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which her arm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more to tell.


But in her present condition they could not question her.


Mrs. Greenow did ask as to the probability of her nephew's return.

Mrs. Greenow did ask whether George was likely to return.


"I can only tell you," said Kate, "that he went away across the Fell in the direction of Bampton.

"I can only tell you," said Kate, "that he went away in the direction of Bampton.


He was very angry with us all; and as the house is not his own, he has probably resolved that he will not stay another night under the roof.

He was very angry with us all; and he has probably resolved not to stay another night under this roof.


He is not in his senses when he is angered."


John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor's departure, endeavoured to ascertain the truth by thinking of it.


"I am sure," he said to himself, "that the doctor suspects that there has been violence.


I know it from his tone, and I can see it in his eye.


and would there be any good in proving it?


Will it not be better for her to let it pass as though we believed her story?"


He made up his mind that it would be better.


Why should he take upon himself the terrible task of calling this insane relation to account for an act which he could not prove?


The will itself, without that trouble, would give him trouble enough.


Then he began to long that he was back at his club, and to think that the signing-room in Chancery Lane was not so bad.

Then he began to long that he was back at his club; and


And so he went up to his bed, calling at Kate's door to ask after the patient.


In the meantime there had come a messenger to Mrs. Greenow, who had stationed herself with her niece.

In the meantime a messenger came knocking at Kate's bedroom door.


One of the girls of the house brought up a scrap of paper to the door, saying that a boy had brought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was intended for Miss Vavasor, and it was she who knocked at the sickroom door.

One of the girls of the house handed a scrap of paper to Mrs. Greenow, saying that a boy had brought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was for Miss Vavasor.


The note was open and was not addressed; indeed, the words were written on a scrap of paper that was crumpled up rather than folded, and were as follows: "Send me my clothes by the bearer.

The note was open; it was written on a crumpled scrap of paper, and read as follows:
"Send me my clothes by the bearer.


Mrs. Greenow took it in to Kate, and then went away to see her nephew's things duly put into his portmanteau.

Mrs. Greenow took it to Kate, and then went away to see her nephew's things duly packed up.


This was sent away in the cart, and Mr. Vavasor, as he went up-stairs, was told what had been done.

They were sent away in the cart, and Mr. Vavasor, as he went upstairs, was told what had been done.


Neither on that night or on the following day did Mrs. Greenow ask any further questions; but on the morning after that, when the doctor had left them with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity would brook no further delay.


And, indeed, indignation as well as curiosity urged her on.


In disposition she was less easy, and, perhaps, less selfish, than her brother.


If it were the case that that man had ill-treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring him to punishment.

If George had ill-treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring him to punishment.


"Kate," she said, when the doctor was gone, "I expect that you will tell me the whole truth as to what occurred between you and your brother when you had this accident."

"Kate," she said, when the doctor was gone, "I expect that you will tell me the whole truth about this accident."


He has quarrelled with me, as I think, most unnecessarily, but you don't suppose that I am going to give an exact account of the quarrel?

You don't suppose that I am going to give an exact account of our quarrel?


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


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


"When he is angry he is always violent in his language."


"Dear aunt, don't be angry with me if I say that I won't be cross-examined.


, but I would rather answer no more questions about it."


I know that questioning can do no good."


Mrs. Greenow knew her niece well enough to be aware that nothing more would be told her, but she was quite sure now that Kate had not broken her arm by a simple fall.

Mrs. Greenow was quite sure now that Kate had not broken her arm by a simple fall.


She was certain that the injury had come from positive violence.


Had it not been so, Kate would not have contented herself with refusing to answer the last question that had been asked, but would also have repelled the charge made against her brother with indignation.

, or Kate would have denied it indignantly.


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

"Have it your own way," said Mrs. Greenow; "but let me tell you that your brother George had better keep out of my path."


"It is probable that he will," said Kate.


"Especially if you remain here to nurse me."


Kate's conduct in answering all the questions made to her was not difficult, but she found that there was much difficulty in planning her own future behaviour towards her own brother.

Kate found much difficulty in planning her own future behaviour towards her brother.


Must she abandon him altogether from henceforth; divide herself from him, as it were; have perfectly separate interests, and interests that were indeed hostile?

Must she divide herself from him entirely?


and must she see him ruined and overwhelmed by want of money, while she had been made a rich woman by her grandfather's will?

and must she see him ruined by lack of money, while she had been made rich by her grandfather's will?


It will be remembered that her life had hitherto been devoted to him; that all her schemes and plans had had his success as their object; that she had taught herself to consider it to be her duty to sacrifice everything to his welfare.

It will be remembered that her life had until now been devoted to him; all her schemes were for his success; she had taught herself to consider it her duty to sacrifice everything to his welfare.


It is very sad to abandon the only object of a life!


It is very hard to tear out from one's heart and fling away from it the only love that one has cherished!

It is very hard to tear out from one's heart and fling away the only love that one has cherished!


What was she to say to Alice about all this--to Alice whom she had cheated of a husband worthy of her, that she might allure her into the arms of one so utterly unworthy?

And what was she to say to Alice about all this - to Alice, whom she had cheated of a worthy husband, to allure her into the arms of one so utterly unworthy?


Luckily for Kate, her accident was of such a nature that any writing to Alice was now out of the question.

Luckily for Kate, her broken arm meant that writing to Alice was out of the question.


What woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwards return to him with love?

But what woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwards return to him with love?


A wife may have to bear it and to return.


And she may return with that sort of love which is a thing of custom.


The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which they eat and which she eats.

The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which they eat.


Habit and the ways of the world require that she should be careful in his interests, and that she should live with him in what amity is possible to them.

Habit and the ways of the world require that she should live with him in what amity is possible to them.


But as for love,--all that we mean by love when we speak of it and write of it,--a blow given by the defender to the defenceless crushes it all!

But as for love - a blow given to the defenceless crushes it.


A woman may forgive deceit, treachery, desertion,--even the preference given to a rival.


She may forgive them and forget them; but I do not think that a woman can forget a blow.


And as for forgiveness,--it is not the blow that she cannot forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.

It is not the blow itself that she cannot forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.


Kate, as she thought of it, told herself that everything in life was over for her.

Kate told herself that everything in life was over for her.


She had long feared her brother's nature,--had feared that he was hard and heartless; but still there had been some hope with her fear.

She had long feared her brother's nature as hard and heartless; but still she had hoped that


Success, if he could be made to achieve it, would soften him, and then all might be right.

success would soften him, and then all might be right.


But now all was wrong, and she knew that it was so.


When he had compelled her to write to Alice for money, her faith in him had almost succumbed.


That had been very mean, and the meanness had shocked her.


But now he had asked her to perjure herself that he might have his own way, and had threatened to murder her, and had raised his hand against her because she had refused to obey him.

But now he had asked her to perjure herself, and had threatened to murder her, and had hit her because she had refused to obey.


And he had accused her of treachery to himself,--had accused her of premeditated deceit in obtaining this property for herself!

And he had accused her of treachery - of deceit in obtaining the property for herself!


"But he does not believe it," said Kate to herself.

"But he does not believe it," thought Kate.


"He said that because he thought it would vex me; but I know he does not think it."

"He said that to vex me; but I know he does not think it."


Kate had watched her brother longing for money all his life,--had thoroughly understood the intensity of his wish for it,--the agony of his desire.

She had watched her brother longing for money all his life.


But so far removed was she from any such longing on her own account, that she could not believe that her brother would in his heart accuse her of it.


How often had she offered to give him, on the instant, every shilling that she had in the world!

How often had she offered to give him every shilling that she had in the world!


At this moment she resolved, in her mind, that she never wished to see him more; but even now, had it been practicable, she would have made over to him, without any drawback, all her interest in the Vavasor estate.

At this moment she never wished to see him again; but even now, if she could, she would have made over to him all her interest in the Vavasor estate.


But any such making over was impossible.


John Vavasor remained in Westmoreland for a week, and during that time many discussions were, of course, held about the property.

John Vavasor remained in Westmorland for a week, and during that time many discussions were held about the property.


Mr. Round came down from London, and met Mr. Gogram at Penrith.

Mr. Round came from London, met Mr. Gogram and


As to the validity of the will Mr. Round said that there was no shadow of a doubt.

said there was no doubt about the validity of the will.


So an agent was appointed for receiving the rents, and it was agreed that the old Hall should be let in six months from that date.

It was agreed that the old Hall should be let in six months.


In the meantime Kate was to remain there till her arm should become strong, and she could make her plans for the future.

In the meantime Kate was to remain there till her arm should mend, and she could make her plans for the future.


Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hall for the present, and offered, indeed, indefinite services for the future, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield.

Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hall, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield.


Of Mr. Cheesacre she was not forgetful, for she still continued to speak of that gentleman to Kate, as though he were Kate's suitor.

Of Mr. Cheesacre she was not forgetful, for she continued to speak of him as though he were Kate's suitor.


But she did not now press upon her niece the acceptance of Mr. Cheesacre's hand as an absolute duty.

But she did not press the acceptance of Mr. Cheesacre's hand upon her niece.


Kate was mistress of a considerable fortune, and though such a marriage might be comfortable, it was no longer necessary.

Kate was mistress of a considerable fortune now, and such a marriage was no longer necessary.


Mrs. Greenow called him poor Cheesacre, pointing out how easily he might be managed, and how indubitable were his possessions; but she no longer spoke of Kate's chances in the marriage market as desperate, even though she should decline the Cheesacre alliance.

Mrs. Greenow pointed out how easily he might be managed; but she no longer spoke of Kate's chances in the marriage market as desperate.


"A young woman, with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty nearly what she pleases," said aunt Greenow.

"A young woman with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty nearly what she pleases," said aunt Greenow.


"It's better than having ten years' grace given you."


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


Kate's desire was that Alice should come down to her for a while in Westmoreland, before the six months were over, and this desire she mentioned to her uncle.

Kate hoped that Alice would come to her for a while in Westmorland, and her uncle


He promised to carry the message up to Alice, but could not be got to say more than that upon the subject.

promised to carry this message to Alice.


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


"What on earth shall we do if that wild beast shows himself suddenly among us women?"

"What on earth shall we do if that wild beast suddenly appears?"


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

He could only say that he hoped the wild beast would keep his distance.


And the wild beast did keep his distance, at any rate as long as Mrs. Greenow remained at the Hall.


We will now go back to the wild beast, and tell how he walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton, a little village at the foot of Haweswater.

We will now go back to him, and tell how he walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton, a village at the foot of Haweswater.


It will be remembered that after he had struck his sister, he turned away from her, and walked with quick steps down the mountain-side, never turning back to look at her.

It will be remembered that after he had struck his sister, he turned away and walked quickly down the mountain-side.


He had found himself to be without any power of persuasion over her, as regarded her evidence to be given, if the will were questioned.

He had found himself to be without any power of persuasion over her.


The more he threatened her the steadier she had been in asserting her belief in her grandfather's capacity.

The more he threatened her, the steadier she had been.


She had looked into his eye and defied him, and he had felt himself to be worsted.


In truth, there was nothing for him to do.


He had told her that he would murder her; and in the state of mind to which his fury had driven him, murder had suggested itself to him as a resource to which he might apply himself.


But what could he gain by murdering her,--or, at any rate, by murdering her then, out on the mountain-side?

but what could he gain by murdering her out on the mountain-side?


There would be no gratification even to his revenge.


If, indeed, he had murdered that old man, who was now, unfortunately, gone beyond the reach of murder;--if he could have poisoned the old man's cup before that last will had been made--there might have been something in such a deed!

If, indeed, he had murdered that old man - if he could have poisoned the old man's cup before that last will had been made - that might have been something!


But he had merely thought of it, letting "I dare not wait upon I would"--as he now told himself, with much self-reproach.


Nothing was to be got by killing his sister.

But nothing was to be got by killing his sister.


So he restrained himself in his passion, and walked away from her, solitary, down the mountain.

So he walked away from her down the mountain.


The rain soon came on, and found him exposed on the hill-side.


He thought little about it, but buttoned his coat, as I have said before, and strode on.


It was a storm of rain, so that he was forced to hold his head to one side, as it hit him from the north.


But with his hand to his hat, and his head bent against the wind, he went on till he had reached the valley at the foot, and found that the track by which he had been led thither had become a road.

till he reached the valley, and found that the track had become a road.


He had never known the mountains round the Hall as Kate had known them, and was not aware whither he was going.

He had never known these mountains as Kate knew them, and was not aware of where he was going.


On one thing only had he made up his mind since he had left his sister, and that was that he would not return to the house.

He had simply made up his mind that he would not return to the house.


He knew that he could do nothing there to serve his purpose; his threats would be vain impotence; he had no longer any friend in the house.


He could hardly tell himself what line of conduct he would pursue, but he thought that he would hurry back to London, and grasp at whatever money he could get from Alice.

He thought that he would hurry back to London, and grasp at whatever money he could get from Alice.


He was still, at this moment, a Member of Parliament; and as the rain drenched him through and through, he endeavoured to get consolation from the remembrance of that fact in his favour.

He was still, at this moment, a Member of Parliament; and as the rain drenched him through, he tried to get consolation from remembering that fact.


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

As he got near the village he overtook a shepherd boy coming down from the hills, and learned here he was.


"Baampton," said the boy, with an accent that was almost Scotch, when he was asked the name of the place.


When Vavasor further asked whether a gig were kept there, the boy simply stared at him, not knowing a gig by that name.

When Vavasor asked whether a gig were kept there, the boy simply stared at him.


At last, however, he was made to understand the nature of his companion's want, and expressed his belief that "John Applethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a mickle cart."

At last, however, he was made to understand, and said that "John Applethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a mickle cart."


But the Craigs was a farm-house, which now came in view about a mile off, up across the valley; and Vavasor, hoping that he might still find a speedier conveyance than John Applethwaite's mickle cart, went on to the public-house in the village.

Vavasor, hoping that he might find a speedier conveyance than John Applethwaite's mickle cart, went on to the public-house in the village.


But, in truth, neither there, nor yet from John Applethwaite, to whom at last an application was sent, could he get any vehicle; and between six and seven he started off again, through the rain, to make his weary way on foot to Shap.

But neither there, nor from John Applethwaite, to whom at last an application was sent, could he get any vehicle; and between six and seven he started off again, through the rain, to make his weary way on foot to Shap.


The distance was about five miles, and the little byways, lying between walls, were sticky, and almost glutinous with light-coloured, chalky mud.

The distance was about five miles, and the paths were sticky and almost glutinous with pale, chalky mud.


Before he started he took a glass of hot rum-and-water, but the effect of that soon passed away from him, and then he became colder and weaker than he had been before.

Before he started he took a glass of hot rum-and-water, but the effect of that soon passed away, and he became colder and weaker than he had been before.


A man may be very weary in such a walk as that, and yet be by no means wretched.


Tired, hungry, cold, wet, and nearly penniless, I have sat me down and slept among those mountain tracks,--have slept because nature refused to allow longer wakefulness.


But my heart has been as light as my purse, and there has been something in the air of the hills that made me buoyant and happy in the midst of my weariness.


But George Vavasor was wretched as well as weary, and every step that he took, plodding through the mud, was a new misfortune to him.


What are five miles of a walk to a young man, even though the rain be falling and the ways be dirty?


what, though they may come after some other ten that he has already traversed on his feet?


His sister Kate would have thought nothing of the distance.


But George stopped on his way from time to time, leaning on the loose walls, and cursing the misfortune that had brought him to such a pass.

But George Vavasor was wretched as well as weary, and he stopped from time to time, leaning on the loose walls, and cursing his misfortune.


He cursed his grandfather, his uncle, his sister, his cousin, and himself.


He cursed the place in which his forefathers had lived, and he cursed the whole county.


He cursed the rain, and the wind, and his town-made boots, which would not keep out the wet slush.


He cursed the light as it faded, and the darkness as it came.


Over and over again he cursed the will that had robbed him, and the attorney that had made it.


He cursed the mother that had borne him and the father that had left him poor.


He thought of Scruby, and cursed him, thinking how that money would be again required of him by that stern agent.


He cursed the House of Commons, which had cost him so much, and the greedy electors who would not send him there without his paying for it.


He cursed John Grey, as he thought of those two thousand pounds, with double curses.


He cursed this world, and all worlds beyond; and thus, cursing everything, he made his way at last up to the inn at Shap.

Thus, cursing everything, he made his way at last up to the inn at Shap.


He had wasted over an hour at Bampton in his endeavour to get John Applethwaite's cart to carry him on, and he had been two hours on his walk from Bampton to Shap,--two hours amidst his cursing.


He ordered supper and brandy-and-water, and, as we know, sent off a Mercury for his clothes.

He ordered supper and brandy-and-water, and, as we know, sent off a messenger for his clothes.


But the Mercuries of Westmoreland do not move on quick wings, and it was past midnight before he got his possessions.

But it was past midnight before he got his possessions.


During all this time he had, by no means, ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiled ham and while he swallowed his brandy-and-water.

During all this time he had not ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiled ham and brandy-and-water.


He swore aloud, so that the red-armed servant at the inn could not but hear him, that those thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes;--that they would not send him his property.

He swore aloud, so that the servant could not help hearing, that those thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes.


He could not restrain himself, though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause, as regarded the property in Westmoreland, if ever he could make a cause.

He could not restrain himself, though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause.


He knew that he had been mad to strike his sister, and cursed himself for his madness.


He told himself that the battle for him was over, and he thought of poison for himself.


He thought of poison, and a pistol,--of the pistols he had ever loaded at home, each with six shots, good for a life apiece.


He thought of an express train, rushing along at its full career, and of the instant annihilation which it would produce.

He thought of an express train, and of the instant annihilation which it would produce.


But if that was to be the end of him, he would not go alone.


why should he go alone, leaving those pistols ready loaded in his desk?


Among them they had brought him to ruin and to death.


Was he a man to pardon his enemies when it was within his power to take them with him, down, down, down--?

Was he a man to pardon his enemies when he could take them with him, down, down, down?


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

With bloodshot eyes, half drunk, and driven by the Fury, he took himself off to bed, cursing the poor servant as he went.


On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in vain.

On the night of Lady Monk's party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone, his aunt inquired for him in vain.


The old butler and factotum of the house, who was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife's triumphs, was interrogated by his mistress, and said that he thought Mr. Burgo had left the house.

The old butler said that he thought Mr. Burgo had left the house.


Lady Monk herself knocked at her nephew's door, when she went up-stairs, ascending an additional flight of stairs with her weary old limbs in order that she might do so; she even opened the door and saw the careless debris of his toilet about the room.

Lady Monk went to her nephew's door, and saw the careless debris of his dressing about the room.


"Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it," she said to herself, as she went down to her own room.

"Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it," she said to herself.


But Burgo, as we know, had not "arranged it."


It may be remembered that when Mr. Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room at Lady Monk's, bringing with him the scarf which Lady Glencora had left up-stairs, Burgo was no longer with her.

It may be remembered that when Mr. Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room, bringing her scarf, Burgo was no longer with her.


He had become well aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night.

He had become aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night.


The poor fool, acting upon his aunt's implied advice rather than his own hopes, had secured a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street, some five minutes' walk from his aunt's house.

The poor fool, acting on his aunt's implied advice, had hired a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street, five minutes' walk away.


And he had purchased feminine wrappings, cloaks, &c.--things that he thought might be necessary for his companion.

And he had bought feminine cloaks and things that he thought might be necessary for his companion.


He had, too, ordered rooms at the new hotel near the Dover Station,--the London Bridge Station,--from whence was to start on the following morning a train to catch the tidal boat for Boulogne.

He had booked rooms at the hotel near the Dover Station, from where a train was to start on the following morning to catch the boat for Boulogne.


There was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-five guineas out of his aunt's money, not having been able to induce the tradesman to grant it to him on credit; and there were other things,--slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, and what else might, as he thought, under such circumstances be most necessary.

There was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-five guineas of his aunt's money, and there were other things - slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, and what else he thought might be most necessary.


He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage from some back hiding-place in the hall, and then slipped out, unmindful of his shining boots, and dress coat and jewelled studs.

He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage, and then slipped out,


He took a Gibus hat,--his own, or that of some other unfortunate,--and slowly made his way down to the place in Bruton Street.

and slowly made his way down to Bruton Street.


There was the carriage and pair of horses, all in readiness; and the driver, when he had placed himself by the door of the vehicle, was not long in emerging from the neighbouring public-house.

There was the carriage ready; and the driver emerged from the nearby public-house.


"I shan't want you to-night," said Burgo, hoarsely;--"go away."

"I shan't want you tonight," said Burgo, hoarsely.


"And what about the things, your honour?"


Take them back with you, and ask somebody to keep them till I send for them.


I shall want them and another carriage in a day or two."


Then he gave the man half a sovereign, and went away, not looking at the little treasures which he had spent so much of his money in selecting for his love.

Then he gave the man half a sovereign, and went away.


When he was gone, the waterman and the driver turned them over with careful hands and gloating eyes.


"It's a 'eiress, I'll go bail," said the waterman.


I suppose her parints was too many for her," said the driver.


But neither of them imagined the enormity which the hirer of the chaise had in truth contemplated.


Burgo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor Square, and from thence down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews which there are in those parts, into Park Lane.

From there Burgo went back into Grosvenor Square, and down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews into Park Lane.


He had now passed the position of Mr. Palliser's house, having come out on Park Lane at a spot nearer to Piccadilly; but he retraced his steps, walking along by the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite to the house.

He walked along the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite the Palliser house.


Then he stood there, leaning back upon the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora's windows.

Then he stood there, leaning on the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora's windows.


Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow that is made by the one loved object,--that may be made by her, or, by some violent conjecture of the mind, may be supposed to have been so made?


Such love as that is, I think, always innocent.


Burgo Fitzgerald did not love like that.


I almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all.


There was in his breast a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse.

He felt a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse.


He wanted the thing of which this Palliser had robbed him.


He wanted revenge,--though his desire for that was not a burning desire.


And among other things, he wanted the woman's beauty of the woman whom he coveted.


He wanted to kiss her again as he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft, and lovely, and loving for him.

He wanted to kiss her again as he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft and loving.


But as for seeing her shadow, unless its movement indicated some purpose in his favour,--I do not think that he cared much about that.


Because in his unreasoning folly he did not know what step to take, or what step not to take.

But in his unreasoning folly he did not know what step to take.


There are men whose energies hardly ever carry them beyond looking for the thing they want.


She might see him from the window, and come to him.

He stood there with an undefined feeling that she might see him from the window, and come to him


I do not say that he thought that it would be so.


I fancy that he never thought at all about that or about anything.


If you lie under a tree, and open your mouth, a plum may fall into it.

if you lie under a tree long enough, a plum may drop into your mouth.


It was probably an undefined idea of some such chance as this which brought him against the railings in the front of Mr. Palliser's house; that, and a feeling made up partly of despair and partly of lingering romance that he was better there, out in the night air, under the gas-lamps, than he could be elsewhere.


There he stood and looked, and cursed his ill-luck.

He stood and looked, and cursed his ill-luck


But his curses had none of the bitterness of those which George Vavasor was always uttering.

, though with none of the bitterness of George Vavasor's oaths.


Through it all there remained about Burgo one honest feeling,--one conviction that was true,--a feeling that it all served him right, and that he had better, perhaps, go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble.

Burgo had one honest feeling - a feeling that it served him right, and that he had perhaps better go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble.


If he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate any one; and whenever he made any self-inquiry into his own circumstances, he always told himself that it was all his own fault.

If he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate anyone.


When he cursed his fate, he only did so because cursing is so easy.


George Vavasor would have ground his victims up to powder if he knew how; but Burgo Fitzgerald desired to hurt no one.


There he stood till he was cold, and then, as the plum did not drop into his mouth, he moved on.


He went up into Oxford Street, and walked along it the whole distance to the corner of Bond Street, passing by Grosvenor Square, to which he intended to return.

He went up into Oxford Street, and walked along to the corner of Bond Street.


At the corner of Bond Street, a girl took hold of him, and looked up into his face.

There a girl took hold of him, and looked up into his face.


--"Then you saw the most miserable devil alive," said Burgo.


"You can't be miserable," said the girl.


"And plenty to eat and drink," exclaimed the girl; "and you are so handsome!


"You gave me supper one night when I was starving.


--"I'll give you a shilling, and that's better," said Burgo.


"But give me a kiss too," said the girl.


He gave her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and after that he left her and passed on.

He gave her first the kiss, and then the shilling, and then he left her and passed on.


"I'm d----d if I wouldn't change with her!"


"I wonder whether anything really ails him?"


Shouldn't I like to be good to such a one as him!"


Burgo went on, and made his way into the house in Grosvenor Square, by some means probably unknown to his aunt, and certainly unknown to his uncle.

He made his way into the house in Grosvenor Square, by some means unknown to his aunt.


He emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted a roll of notes which he had kept in one of them.

He emptied his pockets as he got into bed, and counted a roll of notes in one of them.


There were still a hundred and thirty pounds left.


Lady Glencora had promised that she would see him again.


She had said as much as that quite distinctly.


But what use would there be in that if all his money should then be gone?

But what use would that be if all his money should then be gone?


He knew that the keeping of money in his pocket was to him quite an impossibility.

He knew that keeping money was impossible for him.


What should he say to his aunt if he saw her in the course of the coming day?


Might it not be as well for him to avoid his aunt altogether?

Might it not be as well to avoid her altogether?


He breakfasted up-stairs in his bedroom,--in the bed, indeed, eating a small pat de foie gras from the supper-table, as he read a French novel.

He breakfasted in his bedroom, reading a French novel.


There he was still reading his French novel in bed when his aunt's maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see him before she went out.

He was still there when his aunt's maid came to him, saying that his aunt wished to see him.


"Tell me, Lucy," said he, "how is the old girl?"


From which it may be seen that Lucy shared the general feminine feeling in favour of poor Burgo.


Thus summoned Burgo applied himself to his toilet; but as he did so, he recruited his energies from time to time by a few pages of the French novel, and also by small doses from a bottle of curaoa which he had in his bedroom.

Burgo applied himself to his toilet, from time to time reading a few pages of the French novel, and also taking small doses from a bottle of curaao liqueur.


There was no pauper poorer than he in London that day.


But, nevertheless, he breakfasted on pat de foie gras and curaoa, and regarded those dainties very much as other men regard bread and cheese and beer.


But though he was dressing at the summons of his aunt, he had by no means made up his mind that he would go to her.

He had by no means made up his mind to go to his aunt.


She would only scold him for his misconduct.


She might, perhaps, turn him out of the house if he did not obey her,--or attempt to do so; but she would be much more likely to do this when he had made her angry by contradicting her.

She might, perhaps, turn him out of the house if he did not obey her, or if he contradicted her.


In neither case would he leave the house, even though its further use were positively forbidden him, because his remaining there was convenient; but as he could gain nothing by seeing "the old girl," as he had called her, he resolved to escape to his club without attending to her summons.

So he resolved to escape to his club without attending to her summons.


But his aunt, who was a better general than he, out-manoeuvred him.


He crept down the back stairs; but as he could not quite condescend to escape through the area, he was forced to emerge upon the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him, coming out of the breakfast-parlour.

He crept down the back stairs; but he was forced to emerge into the hall, and here his aunt pounced upon him.


"Did not Lucy tell you that I wanted to see you?"


Lady Monk asked, with severity in her voice.


Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to have his hair washed and brushed.

Burgo replied, with perfect ease, that he was going out just to have his hair washed.


He would have been back in twenty minutes.


There was no energy about the poor fellow, unless, perhaps, when he was hunting; but he possessed a readiness which enabled him to lie at a moment's notice with the most perfect ease.


Lady Monk did not believe him; but she could not confute him, and therefore she let the lie pass.

Lady Monk did not believe him; but she let it pass.


As there was no way of escape left to him, he followed his aunt into the breakfast-parlour.

As there was no way of escape, he followed his aunt into the breakfast-parlour.


"Burgo," she said, when she had seated herself, and had made him sit in a chair opposite to her, "I don't think you will ever do any good."

"Burgo," she said, "I don't think you will ever do any good."


"What do you mean, then, to do with yourself?"


Sir Cosmo was speaking to me about you only yesterday morning."


"I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes it better;--that is, when the season is a little more through."

"I shall be quite willing to go down to Monkshade, if Sir Cosmo likes it better."


You know that you are turning what I say into joke."


You are the most ungrateful, heartless creature I ever met.


You must make up your mind to leave this house at once."


"Where does Sir Cosmo mean that I should go, then?"


"I don't suppose he does;--the least in the world," said Burgo, opening his eyes, and stretching his nostrils, and looking into his aunt's face as though he had great ground for indignation.


But the turning of Burgo out of the house was not Lady Monk's immediate purpose.

But Lady Monk did not intend to turn Burgo out of the house.


She knew that he would hang on there till the season was over.


After that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he should have succeeded in a certain enterprise.

After that he must not be allowed to return again, unless he succeeded in his enterprise.


She had now caught him in order that she might learn whether there was any possible remaining chance of success as to that enterprise.

She wished to learn whether there was any possible remaining chance of success.


So she received his indignation in silence, and began upon another subject.


"What a fool you made of yourself last night, Burgo!" she said.


"I believe that you will never be serious about anything.


"Why did you go on waltzing in that way when every pair of eyes in the room was watching you?"


"I couldn't help going on, if she liked it."


"Look here, aunt, I'm not going to sit here and be abused.


I couldn't take her in my arms, and fly away with her out of a crowd."

I couldn't take her in my arms, and fly away with her."


"For the matter of that, I suppose that you do."


you haven't spirit to do that, or anything else.


You are like a child that is just able to amuse itself for the moment, and never can think of anything further.


You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too,--and her; but, of course, you care nothing about that."

You simply disgraced yourself last night, and me too."


"I had a plan all ready;--only he came back."

"I had a plan all ready; only he came back."


"Of course he came back, when they sent him word how you and she were going on.


And now he will have forgiven her, and after that, of course, the thing will be all over."

And now he will have forgiven her, and the thing will be all over."


"I tell you what, aunt; she would go if she knew how.


When I was forced to leave her last night, she promised to see me again.


And as for being idle, and not doing anything;--why, I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed."

And as for being idle, and not doing anything; why, I was out in Park Lane last night, after you were in bed."


I believe, after all, it would be easier down in the country,--especially now that he has taken it into his head to look after her."


Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low voice, "What did she say to you when you were parting?

Lady Monk sat silent for a few moments, and then she said in a low voice, "What exactly did she say to you when you were parting?"


She, at any rate, was not deficient in energy.


She was anxious enough to see her purpose accomplished.


She would have conducted the matter with discretion, if the running away with Mr. Palliser's wife could, in very fact, have been done by herself.


"What could she say more, when she was forced to go away?"


"Had she said that she would go with you?"


"I had asked her,--half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse.

"I had asked her half a dozen times, and she did not once refuse.


I know she means it, if she knew how to get away.


A woman, you know, wouldn't absolutely say that she would go, till she was gone."


"If she really meant it, she would tell you."


"I don't think she could have told me plainer."


She had a plan in her head,--a plan that might, as she thought, give to her nephew one more chance.

She had a plan in her head, that might, she thought, give her nephew one more chance.


But she hesitated before she could bring herself to explain it in detail.


At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr. Palliser's wife, but in lending it had said no word upon the subject.

At first she had lent a little aid to this desired abduction of Mr. Palliser's wife.


During the last season she had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house in London, and had taken care that Burgo should meet her there.

She had succeeded in getting Lady Glencora to her house in London, and had taken care that Burgo should meet her there.


Then a hint or two had been spoken, and Lady Glencora had been asked to Monkshade.

Then Lady Glencora had been asked to Monkshade.


Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to Monkshade, and Lady Monk had then been baffled.

Lady Glencora, as we know, did not go to Monkshade, and Lady Monk had been baffled.


But she did not therefore give up the game.


Having now thought of it so much, she began to speak of it more boldly, and had procured money for her nephew that he might thereby be enabled to carry off the woman.


But though this had been well understood between them, though words had been spoken which were sufficiently explicit, the plan had not been openly discussed.


Lady Monk had known nothing of the mode in which Lady Glencora was to have been carried off after her party, nor whither she was to have been taken.


But now,--now she must arrange it herself, and have a scheme of her own, or else the thing must fail absolutely.

Now she must arrange it herself, and have a scheme of her own, or else the thing must fail.


Even she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to her nephew on such a subject.

Yet she was almost reluctant to speak out plainly to her nephew.


What if he should be false to her, and tell of her?


But when a woman has made such schemes, nothing distresses her so sadly as their failure.


She would risk all rather than that Mr. Palliser should keep his wife.


"I will try and help you," she said at last, speaking hoarsely, almost in a whisper, "if you have courage to make an attempt yourself."


said he "What is it you think I am afraid of?

said he. "What do you think I am afraid of?


I'd fight him,--or all the Pallisers, one after another, if it would do any good."

I'd fight him, if it would do any good."


There's no fighting wanted, as you know well enough.

"There's no fighting wanted, as you know well enough!


If you can get her to call here some day,--say on Thursday, at three o'clock,--I will be here to receive her; and instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab for her somewhere near.

If you can get her to call here, say on Thursday, at three o'clock, I will be here to receive her; and instead of going back into her carriage, you can have a cab for her somewhere near.


She can come, as it were, to make a morning call."


"Yes; a cab won't kill her, and it is less easily followed than a carriage."


"There is a train to Southampton at four, and the boat sails for Jersey at half-past six; you will be in Jersey the next morning, and there is a boat goes on to St. Malo, almost at once."


You can go direct from one boat to the other,--that is, if she has strength and courage."


After that, who will say that Lady Monk was not a devoted aunt?

Who will say that Lady Monk was not a devoted aunt?


"That would do excellently well," said the enraptured Burgo.


"She will have difficulty in getting away from me, out of the house.


Of course I shall say nothing about it, and shall know nothing about it.


She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere to pick some one up, and to return;--out somewhere to Tyburnia, or down to Pimlico.

"She had better tell her coachman to drive somewhere else to pick someone up.


Then she can leave me, and go out on foot, to where you have the cab.


She can tell the hall-porter that she will walk to her carriage.


"You must call on her, and make your way in, and see her, and arrange all this.


It must be a Thursday, because of the boats."


Then she made inquiry about his money, and took from him the notes which he had, promising to return them, with something added, on the Thursday morning; but he asked, with a little whine, for a five-pound note, and got it.

Then she asked about his money, and took the banknotes from him, promising to return them with something added, on the Thursday morning; but he asked, with a little whine, for a five-pound note, and got it.


Burgo then told her about the travelling-bags and the stockings, and they were quite pleasant and confidential.


"Bid her come in a stout travelling-dress," said Lady Monk.

"Bid her come in a travelling-dress," said Lady Monk.


"She can wear some lace or something over it, so that the servants won't observe it.


After this, Burgo left his aunt, and went away to his club, in a state of most happy excitement.

After this, Burgo left her, and went away to his club, in a state of most happy excitement.


Early in that conversation which Mr. Vavasor had with his daughter, and which was recorded a few pages back, he implored her to pause a while before she informed Mr. Grey of her engagement with her cousin.

Mr. Vavasor had implored Alice to wait before she informed Mr. Grey of her engagement with her cousin.

Chapter 36: John Grey Goes a Second Time to London


Nothing, however, on that point had been settled between them.


Mr. Vavasor had wished her to say that she would not write till he should have assented to her doing so.


She had declined to bind herself in this way, and then they had gone off to other things;--to George Vavasor's character and the disposition of her money.


Alice, however, had felt herself bound not to write to Mr. Grey quite at once.

she did not feel bound to write to Mr. Grey at once.


Indeed, when her cousin left her she had no appetite for writing such a letter as hers was to be.

Indeed, when her cousin left her she had no appetite for writing such a letter.


A day or two passed by her in this way, and nothing more was said by her or her father.


It was now the middle of January, and the reader may remember that Mr. Grey had promised that he would come to her in London in that month, as soon as he should know that she had returned from Westmoreland.

It was now the middle of January, and the reader may remember that Mr. Grey had promised that he would visit her in London that month.


She must at any rate do something to prevent that visit.

She must do something to prevent that visit.


Mr. Grey would not come without giving her notice.


She knew enough of the habits of the man to be sure of that.


But she desired that her letter to him should be in time to prevent his to her; so when those few days were gone, she sat down to write without speaking to her father again upon the subject.


It was a terrible job;--perhaps the most difficult of all the difficult tasks which her adverse fate had imposed upon her.

It was a terrible job; perhaps the most difficult of all the difficult tasks which she had faced.


She found when she did attempt it, that she could have done it better if she had done it at the moment when she was writing the other letter to her cousin George.

She felt that it would have been easier if Kate had been nearby, as she was when Alice wrote the other letter to her cousin George.


Then Kate had been near her, and she had been comforted by Kate's affectionate happiness.

Then she had been comforted by Kate's affectionate happiness, and


She had been strengthened at that moment by a feeling that she was doing the best in her power, if not for herself, at any rate for others.

strengthened by a feeling that she was doing the best, if not for herself, then for others.


All that comfort and all that strength had left her now.

All that comfort and strength had left her now.


The atmosphere of the fells had buoyed her up, and now the thick air of London depressed her.


She sat for hours with the pen in her hand, and could not write the letter.

She sat for hours with the pen in her hand, and could not write.


She let a day go by and a night, and still it was not written.


She hardly knew herself in her unnatural weakness.


As the mental photographs of the two men forced themselves upon her, she could not force herself to forget those words--"Look here, upon this picture--and on this."

As the mental photographs of the two men forced themselves upon her, she could not help comparing them.


How was it that she now knew how great was the difference between the two men, how immense the pre-eminence of him whom she had rejected;--and that she had not before been able to see this on any of those many previous occasions on which she had compared the two together?

How was it that she now knew how great was the difference between the two men, how immense the pre-eminence of him whom she had rejected? Why had she not been able to see this before?


As she thought of her cousin George's face when he left her room a few days since, and remembered Mr. Grey's countenance when last he held her hand at Cheltenham, the quiet dignity of his beauty which would submit to show no consciousness of injury, she could not but tell herself that when Paradise had been opened to her, she had declared herself to be fit only for Pandemonium.


In that was her chief misery; that now,--now when it was too late,--she could look at it aright.

In that was her chief misery; that now - when it was too late - she could look at it aright.


But the letter must be written, and on the second day she declared to herself that she would not rise from her chair till it was done.


The letter was written on that day and was posted.

But the letter was at last written and posted.


I will now ask the reader to go down with me to Nethercoats that we may be present with John Grey when he received it.


He was sitting at breakfast in his study there, and opposite to him, lounging in an arm-chair, with a _Quarterly_ in his hand, was the most intimate of his friends, Frank Seward, a fellow of the college to which they had both belonged.

, at breakfast in his study. Lounging in an arm-chair opposite was his closest friend, Frank Seward, a fellow of the Cambridge college to which they had both belonged.


Mr. Seward was a clergyman, and the tutor of his college, and a man who worked very hard at Cambridge.

Mr. Seward was a clergyman, and the tutor of his college.


In the days of his leisure he spent much of his time at Nethercoats, and he was the only man to whom Grey had told anything of his love for Alice and of his disappointment.

He spent much of his leisure time at Nethercoats, and he was the only man to whom Grey had told anything of his love for Alice and of his disappointment.


Even to Seward he had not told the whole story.


He had at first informed his friend that he was engaged to be married, and as he had told this as no secret,--having even said that he hated secrets on such matters,--the engagement had been mentioned in the common room of their college, and men at Cambridge knew that Mr. Grey was going to take to himself a wife.


Then Mr. Seward had been told that trouble had come, and that it was not improbable that there would be no such marriage.


Even when saying this Mr. Grey told none of the particulars, though he owned to his friend that a heavy blow had struck him.


His intimacy with Seward was of that thorough kind which is engendered only out of such young and lasting friendship as had existed between them; but even to such a friend as this Mr. Grey could not open his whole heart.


It was only to a friend who should also be his wife that he could do that,--as he himself thoroughly understood.


He had felt that such a friend was wanting to him, and he had made the attempt.


"Don't speak of this as yet," he had said to Mr. Seward.

"Don't speak of this yet," he had said to Mr. Seward.


"Of course when the matter is settled, those few people who know me must know it.

"Of course when the matter is settled, people must know it.


But perhaps there may be a doubt as yet, and as long as there is a doubt, it is better that it should not be discussed."

But as long as there is any doubt, it is better not discussed."


He had said no more than this,--had imputed no blame to Alice,--had told none of the circumstances; but Seward had known that the girl had jilted his friend, and had made up his mind that she must be heartless and false.

He had said no more than this; but Seward had known that the girl had jilted his friend, and had made up his mind that she must be heartless and false.


He had known also that his friend would never look for any other such companion for his home.

He also knew that his friend would never look for any other wife.


Letters were brought to each of them on this morning, and Seward's attention was of course occupied by those which he received.

Letters were brought to both of them this morning, and Seward's attention was occupied by his own.


Grey, as soon as the envelopes had touched his hand, became aware that one of them was from Alice, and this he at once opened.

Grey opened his letter from Alice at once,


He did it very calmly, but without any of that bravado of indifference with which George Vavasor had received Alice's letter from Westmoreland.

very calmly, but without any of that pretended indifference with which George Vavasor had received Alice's letter.


"It is right that I should tell you at once," said Alice, rushing into the middle of her subject without even the formality of the customary address--"It is right that I should tell you at once that--."

"It is right that I should tell you at once," said Alice - oh, the difficulty of writing this!


Oh, the difficulty which she had encountered when her words had carried her as far as this!--"that my cousin, George Vavasor, has repeated to me his offer of marriage, and that I have accepted it.

- "that my cousin, George Vavasor, has repeated to me his offer of marriage, and that I have accepted it.


I tell you, chiefly in order that I may save you from the trouble which you purposed to take when I last saw you at Cheltenham.

I tell you chiefly in order to save you from the trouble of visiting.


I will not tell you any of the circumstances of this engagement, because I have no right to presume that you will care to hear them.

I will not tell you the circumstances of this engagement, because I do not think that you will care to hear them.


I hardly dare to ask you to believe of me that in all that I have done, I have endeavoured to act with truth and honesty.

I hardly dare to ask you to believe that I have endeavoured to act with truth and honesty.


That I have been very ignorant, foolish,--what you will that is bad, I know well; otherwise there could not have been so much in the last few years of my life on which I am utterly ashamed to look back.

That I have been very ignorant, foolish and bad, I know well; there is much in the last few years of my life of which I am utterly ashamed.


For the injury that I have done you, I can only express deep contrition.


I do not dare to ask you to forgive me.--ALICE VAVASOR."

I do not dare to ask you to forgive me.
"Alice Vavasor."


She had tormented herself in writing this,--had so nearly driven herself distracted with attempts which she had destroyed, that she would not even read once to herself these last words.

She had tormented herself in writing this.


"He'll know it, and that is all that is necessary," she said to herself as she sent the letter away from her.

"He'll know, and that is all that is necessary," she said to herself.


Mr. Grey read it twice over, leaving the other letters unnoticed on the table by his tea-cup.


He read it twice over, and the work of reading it was one to him of intense agony.

The work of reading it was one of intense agony.


That Alice should have been brought to think of her engagement with him in a spirit of doubt and with a mind so troubled, that she had been inclined to attempt an escape from it, had been very grievous to him; but it had been in his mind a fantasy, a morbid fear of himself, which might be cured by time.

That Alice should have thought of her engagement with doubt had been very grievous to him; but he had considered it a fantasy which might be cured by time.


He, at any rate, would give all his energies towards achieving such a cure.

He would give all his energies towards achieving such a cure.


There had been one thing, however, which he most feared;--which he had chiefly feared, though he had forbidden himself to think that it could be probable, and this thing had now happened.

There had been one thing, however, which he feared; and this thing had now happened.


He had ever disliked and feared George Vavasor;--not from any effect which the man had upon himself, for as we know his acquaintance with Vavasor was of the slightest;--but he had feared and disliked his influence upon Alice.

He had always disliked and feared George Vavasor and his influence upon Alice, although he barely knew him.


He had also feared the influence of her cousin Kate.


To have cautioned Alice against her cousins would have been to him impossible.

But to have cautioned Alice against her cousins would have been impossible.


It was not his nature to express suspicion to one he loved.


Is the tone of that letter remembered in which he had answered Alice when she informed him that her cousin George was to go with Kate and her to Switzerland?


He had written, with a pleasant joke, words which Alice had been able to read with some little feeling of triumph to her two friends.


He had not so written because he liked what he knew of the man.


But it had not been possible for him to show that he distrusted the prudence of her, whom, as his future wife, he was prepared to trust in all things.


I have said that he read Alice's letter with an agony of sorrow; as he sat with it in his hand he suffered as, probably, he had never suffered before.

As he sat with the letter in his hand he suffered as, probably, he had never suffered before.