LITMIR.BIZ

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that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, and perish.”

      He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him; and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr Grey as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her,—was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily,—hourly,—always,—in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr Grey she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this,—but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done.

      “I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; and finding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved,—the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That’s all. Here’s Kate, and now we’ll go for our walk.”

Chapter VI.

       The Bridge Over the Rhine

       Table of Contents

      “George,” said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, “will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?” Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice’s confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. “Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table—”

      “A man must shave,—even at Basle.”

      “But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,—all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?”

      “When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we’ll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it.”

      “Oh, yes; I shall like it.”

      “Come along then,” said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,—as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure.

      “Do you know,” said Kate, “I have a very great mind to run away.”

      “Where do you want to run to?”

      “Well;—that wouldn’t much signify. Perhaps I’d go to the little inn at Handek. It’s a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,—and I should have the waterfall. I’m afraid they’d want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it.”

      “But why run away just now?”

      “I won’t, because you wouldn’t like going home with George alone,—and I suppose he’d be bound to look after me, as he’s doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he’d be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren’t here.”

      “If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us.”

      “That’s ungrateful of you, for I’m sure we’ve never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I’m going—to Aunt Greenow.”

      “It’s your own choice.”

      “No, it’s not. I haven’t any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;—but practically I haven’t any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!”

      “I shouldn’t mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman.”

      “She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she’s of a bad sort. You’ve never heard her talk about her husband?”

      “No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn’t unnatural.”

      “He was thirty years older than herself.”

      “But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What’s a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she’s got all his money, you wouldn’t have her go about laughing within three months of his death.”

      “No; I wouldn’t have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she’s quite right to wear weeds; but she needn’t be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees.”

      “Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?”

      “Just because she’s got forty thousand pounds. If Mr Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don’t suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her.”

      “Then you’re as bad as she is.”

      “Quite as bad;—and that’s what makes me want to run away. But it isn’t my own fault altogether. It’s the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn’t it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn’t it natural that he should say, ‘Oh, go by all means. She’s got forty thousand pounds!’ One can’t pretend to be wiser or better than one’s relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?”

      “Nothing, I should say.”

      “Not a halfpenny. I’m nearly thirty and she’s only forty, and of course she’ll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money.”

      “I should think no one.”

      “Yet one sticks to one’s rich relatives. It’s the way of the world.” Then she paused a moment. “But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you’ll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself.”

      “Why is it?”

      “Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in

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