LITMIR.BIZ

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as well as all his money. ‘Of course, he’ll run wild directly he’s married,’ she said to me, yesterday; ‘and, of course, there’ll always be a fight about it; but the more I do to tame him now, the less wild he’ll be by-and-by. And though I dare say, I shall scold him sometimes, I shall never quarrel with him.’ I have no doubt all that is true; but what a fool she is to trouble herself with such a man. She says she does it for an occupation. I took courage to tell her once that a caged tiger would give her as much to do, and be less dangerous. She was angry at this, and answered me very sharply. I had tried my hand on a tiger, she said, and had felt his claws. She chose to sacrifice herself,—if a sacrifice it were to be,—when some good result might be possible. I had nothing further to say; and from that time to this we have been on the pleasantest terms possible as to the Captain. They have settled with your father to take Vavasor Hall for three years, and I suppose I shall stay with them till your return. What I may do then will depend entirely upon your doings. I feel myself to be a desolate, solitary being, without any tie to any person, or to any place. I never thought that I should feel the death of my grandfather to be such a loss to me as it has been. Except you, I have nothing left to me; and, as regards you, I have the unpleasant feeling that I have for years been endeavouring to do you the worst possible injury, and that you must regard me as an enemy from whom you have escaped indeed, but not without terrible wounds.”

      Alice was always angered by any assumption that her conduct to Mr Grey had been affected by the advice or influence of her cousin Kate. But this very feeling seemed to preserve Kate from the worse anger, which might have been aroused against her, had Alice acknowledged the injury which her cousin had in truth done to her. It was undoubtedly true that had Alice neither seen nor heard from Kate during the progress of John Grey’s courtship, John Grey would not have lost his wife. But against this truth Alice was always protesting within her own breast. She had been weak, foolish, irresolute,—and had finally acted with false judgement. So much she now admitted to herself. But she would not admit that any other woman had persuaded her to such weakness. “She mistakes me,” Alice thought, as she put up her letter. “She is not the enemy who has wounded me.”

      Mr Palliser, who had brought her the letter, was seated in the same balcony, and while Alice had been reading, had almost buried himself in newspapers which conveyed intelligence as to the general elections then in progress. He was now seated with a sheet of The Times in his hand, opened to its full extent,—for he had been too impatient to cut the paper,—and as he held it up in his hands before his eyes, was completely hidden beneath it. Five or six other open papers were around him, and he had not spoken a word since he had commenced his present occupation. Lady Glencora was standing on the other side of him, and she also had received letters. “Sophy tells me that you are returned for Silverbridge,” she said at last.

      “Who? I! yes; I’m returned,” said Mr Palliser, speaking with something like disdain in his voice as to the possibility of anybody having stood with a chance of success against him in his own family borough. For a full appreciation of the advantages of a private seat in the House of Commons let us always go to those great Whig families who were mainly instrumental in carrying the Reform Bill. The house of Omnium had been very great on that occasion. It had given up much, and had retained for family use simply the single seat at Silverbridge. But that that seat should be seriously disputed hardly suggested itself as possible to the mind of any Palliser. The Pallisers and the other great Whig families have been right in this. They have kept in their hands, as rewards for their own services to the country, no more than the country is manifestly willing to give them. “Yes; I have been returned,” said Mr Palliser. “I’m sorry to see, Miss Vavasor, that your cousin has not been so fortunate.”

      “So I find,” said Alice. “It will be a great misfortune to him.”

      “Ah! I suppose so. Those Metropolitan elections cost so much trouble and so much money, and under the most favourable circumstances, are so doubtful. A man is never sure there till he has fought for his seat three or four times.”

      “This has been the third time with him,” said Alice, “and he is a poor man.”

      “Dear, dear,” said Mr Palliser, who himself knew nothing of such misfortunes. “I have always thought that those seats should be left to rich commercial men who can afford to spend money upon them. Instead of that, they are generally contested by men of moderate means. Another of my friends in the House has been thrown out.”

      “Who is that unfortunate?” asked Lady Glencora.

      “Mr Bott,” said the unthinking husband.

      “Mr Bott out!” exclaimed Lady Glencora. “Mr Bott thrown out! I am so glad. Alice, are you not glad? The red-haired man, that used to stand about, you know, at Matching;—he has lost his seat in Parliament. I suppose he’ll go and stand about somewhere in Lancashire, now.”

      A very indiscreet woman was poor Lady Glencora. Mr Palliser’s face became black beneath The Times newspaper. “I did not know,” said he, “that my friend Mr Bott and Miss Vavasor were enemies.”

      “Enemies! I don’t suppose they were enemies,” said Glencora. “But he was a man whom no one could help observing,—and disliking.”

      “He was a man I specially disliked,” said Alice, with great courage. “He may be very well in Parliament; but I never met a man who could make himself so disagreeable in society. I really did feel myself constrained to be his enemy.”

      “Bravo, Alice!” said Lady Glencora.

      “I hope he did nothing at Matching, to—to—to—,” began Mr Palliser, apologetically.

      “Nothing especially to offend me, Mr Palliser,—except that he had a way that I especially dislike of trying to make little secret confidences.”

      “And then he was so ugly,” said Lady Glencora.

      “I felt certain that he endeavoured to do mischief,” said Alice.

      “Of course he did,” said Lady Glencora; “and he had a habit of rubbing his head against the papers in the rooms, and leaving a mark behind him that was quite unpardonable.”

      Mr Palliser was effectually talked down, and felt himself constrained to abandon his political ally. Perhaps he did this the easier as the loss which Mr Bott had just suffered would materially interfere with his political utility. “I suppose he will remain now among his own people,” said Mr Palliser.

      “Let us hope he will,” said Lady Glencora,—”and that his own people will appreciate the advantage of his presence.” Then there was nothing more said about Mr Bott.

      It was evening, and while they were still sitting among their letters and newspapers, there came a shout along the water, and the noise of many voices from the bridge. Suddenly, there shot down before them in the swift running stream the heads of many swimmers in the river, and with the swimmers came boats carrying their clothes. They went by almost like a glance of light upon the waters, so rapid was the course of the current. There was the shout of voices,—the quick passage of the boats,—the uprising, some half a dozen times, of the men’s hands above the surface; and then they were gone down the river, out of sight,—like morsels of wood thrown into a cataract, which are borne away instantly.

      “Oh, how I wish I could do that!” said Lady Glencora.

      “It seems to be very dangerous,” said Mr Palliser. “I don’t know how they can stop themselves.”

      “Why should they want to stop themselves?” said Lady Glencora. “Think how cool the water must be, and how beautiful to be carried along so quickly, and to go on, and on, and on! I suppose we couldn’t try it?”

      As no encouragement was given to this proposition, Lady Glencora did not repeat it; but stood leaning on the rail of the balcony, and looking enviously down upon the water. Alice was, of course, thinking of that other evening, when perhaps the same swimmers had come down under the bridge and before the balcony, and where George Vavasor was sitting in her presence. It was, I think, on that evening, that she made up her mind to separate herself from Mr

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