e house in Queen Anne Street, on that occasion, he
swore, that under no circumstances would he be indebted to her for
another shilling. But before he had reached Great Marlborough Street,
to which his steps took him, he had reminded himself that everything
depended on a further advance. He was in Parliament, but Parliament
would be dissolved within three months. Having sacrificed so much
for his position, should he let it all fall from him now,--now, when
success seemed to be within his reach? That wretched old man in
Westmoreland, who seemed gifted almost with immortality,--why could
he not die and surrender his paltry acres to one who could use them?
He turned away from Regent Street into Hanover Square before he
crossed to Great Marlborough Street, giving vent to his passion
rather than arranging his thoughts. As he walked the four sides of
the square he considered how good it would be if some accident should
befall the old man. How he would rejoice were he to hear to-morrow
that one of the trees of the "accursed place," had fallen on the
"obstinate old idiot," and put an end to him! I will not say that he
meditated the murder of his grandfather. There was a firm conviction
on his mind, as he thought of all this, that such a deed as that
would never come in his way. But he told himself, that if he chose
to make the attempt, he would certainly be able to carry it through
without detection. Then he remembered Rush and Palmer--the openly
bold murderer and the secret poisoner. Both of them, in Vavasor's
estimation, were great men. He had often said so in company. He had
declared that the courage of Rush had never been surpassed. "Think of
him," he would say with admiration, "walking into a man's house, with
pistols sufficient to shoot every one there, and doing it as though
he were killing rats! What was Nelson at Trafalgar to that? Nelson
had nothing to fear!" And of Palmer he declared that he was a man
of genius as well as courage. He had "looked the whole thing in the
face," Vavasor would say, "and told himself that all scruples and
squeamishness are bosh,--child's tales. And so they are. Who lives
as though they fear either heaven or hell? And if we do live without
such fear or respect, what is the use of telling lies to ourselves?
To throw it all to the dogs, as Palmer did, is more manly." "And
be hanged," some hearer of George's doctrine replied. "Yes, and be
hanged,--if such is your destiny. But you hear of the one