LITMIR.BIZ

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voice, as she spoke, which she could not prevent, though she would have given worlds to prevent it. “I do not think that will be quite fair.”

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

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

      “And equally, of course! or, rather, much more of course, you will not be glad to see me? That’s what you mean?”

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

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

Chapter LXIV.

       The Rocks and Valleys

       Table of Contents

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

      “And he was violent to you, and broke your arm? I always knew it was so,” Mrs Greenow had said, speaking with reference to her nephew. But this Kate had denied. “No,” said she; “that was an accident. When he went away and left me, he knew nothing about it. And if he had broken both my arms I should not have cared much. I could have forgiven him that.” But that which Kate could not forgive him was the fault which she had herself committed. For his sake she had done her best to separate Alice and John Grey, and George had shown himself to be unworthy of the kindness of her treachery. “I would give all I have in the world to bring them together again,” Kate said. “They’ll come together fast enough if they like each other,” said Mrs Greenow. “Alice is young still, and they tell me she’s as good looking as ever. A girl with her money won’t have far to seek for a husband, even if this paragon from Cambridgeshire should not turn up again.”

      “You don’t know Alice, aunt.”

      “No, I don’t. But I know what young women are, and I know what young men are. All this nonsense about her cousin George,—what difference will it make? A man like Mr Grey won’t care about that,—especially not if she tells him all about it. My belief is that a girl can have anything forgiven her, if she’ll only tell it herself.”

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

      “And what did he say to that?”

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

      “But, aunt, you are a handsome woman, you know.”

      “Laws, my dear, as if I didn’t understand all about it; as if I didn’t know what makes a woman run after? It isn’t beauty,—and it isn’t money altogether. I’ve seen women who had plenty of both, and not a man would come nigh them. They didn’t dare. There are some of them, a man would as soon think of putting his arm round a poplar tree, they are so hard and so stiff. You know you’re a little that way yourself, Kate, and I’ve always told you it won’t do.”

      “I’m afraid I’m too old to mend, aunt.”

      “Not at all, if you’ll only set your wits to work and try. You’ve plenty of money now, and you’re good-looking enough, too, when you take the trouble to get yourself up. But, as I said before, it isn’t that that’s wanted. There’s a stand-off about some women,—what the men call a ‘nollimy tangere,’ that a man must be quite a furious Orlando to attempt to get the better of it. They look as though matrimony itself were improper, and as if they believed that little babies were found about in the hedges and ditches. They talk of women being forward! There are some of them a deal too backward, according to my way of thinking.”

      “Yours is a comfortable doctrine, aunt.”

      “That’s just what I want it to be. I want things to be comfortable. Why shouldn’t things be nice about one when one’s got the means? Nobody can say it’s a pleasant thing to live alone. I always thought that man in the song hit it off properly. You remember what he says? ‘The poker and tongs to each other belongs.’ So they do, and that should be the way with men and women.”

      “But the poker and tongs have but a bad life of it sometimes.”

      “Not so often as the people say, my dear. Men and women ain’t like lumps of sugar. They don’t melt because the water is sometimes warm. Now, if I do take Bellfield,—and I really think I shall; but if I do he’ll give me a deal of trouble. I know he will. He’ll always be wanting my money, and, of course, he’ll get more than he ought. I’m not a Solomon, nor yet a Queen of Sheba, no more than anybody else. And he’ll smoke too many cigars, and perhaps drink more brandy-and-water than he ought. And he’ll be making eyes, too, at some of the girls who’ll be fools enough to let him.”

      “Dear me, aunt, if I thought all that ill of him, I’m sure I wouldn’t marry him;—especially as you say you don’t love him.”

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

      “So is Mr Cheesacre for the matter of that.”

      “Poor Cheesy! I believe he was, though he did talk so much about money. I always like to believe the best I can of them. But then there was no poetry about Cheesy. I don’t care about saying it now, as you’ve quite made up your mind not to have him.”

      “Quite, aunt.”

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

      “And you think you’ll really take him, aunt, and pay

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