Can You Forgive Her? (50 page)

‘Grandpapa,’ she said to him the morning after she had received her cousin’s second letter. – The old man was in the habit of breakfasting alone in a closet of his own, which was called his dressing–room, but in which he kept no appurtenances for dressing, but in lieu of them a large collection of old spuds and sticks and horse’s-bits. There was a broken spade here,
and a hoe or two; and a small table in the corner was covered with the debris of tradesmen’s bills from Penrith, and dirty scraps which he was wont to call his farm accounts. – “Grandpapa,’ said Alice, rushing
away at once into the middle of her subject, ‘you told me the other day that you thought I ought to be – married.’

‘Did I, my dear? Well, yes; so I did. And so you ought; – I mean to that
Mr Grey.’

‘That is impossible, sir.’

‘Then what’s the use of your coming and talking to me about it?’

This made Alice’s task not very easy; but, nevertheless, she persevered. ‘I am come, grandpapa, to tell you of another engagement.’

‘Another!’ said he. And by the tone of his voice he accused his granddaughter of having a larger number of favoured suitors than ought to fall to the lot of any
young lady. It was very hard upon her, but still she went on.

‘You know,’ said she, ‘that some years ago I was to have been married to my cousin George;’ – and then she paused.

‘Well,’said the old man.

‘And I remember you told me then that you were much pleased.’

‘So I was. George was doing well then; or, – which is more likely, – had made us believe that he was doing well. Have you made it
up with him again?’

‘Yes, sir’

‘And that‘s the meaning of your jilting Mr Grey, is it?’

Poor Alice! It is hard to explain how heavy a blow fell upon her from the open utterance of that word! Of all words in the language it was the one which she now most dreaded. She had called herself a jilt, with that inaudible voice which one uses in making self-accusations;– but hitherto no lips had pronounced
the odious word to her ears. Poor Alice! She was a jilt; and perhaps it may have been well that the old man should tell her so.

‘Grandpapa!’ she said; and there was that in the tone of her voice which somewhat softened the Squire’s heart.

‘Well, my dear, I don’t want to be ill-natured. So you are going at last to marry George, are you? I hope he’ll treat you well; that’s all. Does your father
approve of it?’

‘I have told you first, sir; – because I wish to obtain your consent to seeing George again here as your grandson’

‘Never,’ said die old man, snarling; – ‘never!’

‘If he has been wrong, he will beg your pardon.’

‘If he has been wrong! Didn’t he want to squander every shilling of the property, – property which has never belonged to him; – property which I could give to Tom,
Dick, or Harry tomorrow, if I liked? – If he has been wrong!’

‘I am not defending him, sir; – but I thought that, perhaps, on such an occasion as this –’

‘A Tom Fool’s occasion! You’ve got money of your own. He’ll spend all that now.’

‘He will be less likely to do so if you will recognize him as your heir. Pray believe, sir, that he is not the sort of man that he was.’

‘He must be a very clever
sort of man, I think, when he has talked you out of such a husband as John Grey. It’s astounding to me, – with that ugly mug of his! Well, my dear, if your father approves of it, and if George will ask my pardon, – but I don’t think he ever will –’

‘He will, sir. I am his messenger for as much as that.‘

‘Oh, you are, are you? Then you may also be my messenger to him, and tell him that, for your
sake, I will let him come back here. I know he’ll insult me the first day; but I’ll try and put up with it, – for your sake, my dear. Of course I must know what your father thinks about it’

It may be imagined that Kate’s success was even less than that which Alice achieved. ‘I knew it would be so,’ said John Vavasor, when his niece first told him; – and as he spoke he struck his hand upon the
table. ‘I knew all along how it would be.’

‘And why should it not be so, Uncle John?’

‘He is your brother, and I will not tell you why.’

‘You think that he is a spendthrift?’

‘I think that he is as unsafe a man as ever I knew to be intrusted with the happiness of any young woman. That is all’

‘You are hard upon him, uncle.’

‘Perhaps so. Tell Alice this from me, – that as I have never yet
been able to get her to think anything of my opinion, I do not at all expect that I shall be able to induce her to do so now. I will not
even make the attempt. As my son-in-law I will not receive George Vavasor. Tell Alice that.’

Alice was told her father’s message; but Kate in telling it felt no deep regret. She well knew that Alice would not be turned back from her present intention by her
father’s wishes. Nor would it have been very reasonable that she should. Her father had for many years relieved himself from the burden of a father’s cares, and now had hardly the right to claim a father’s privileges.

We will now go once again to George Vavasor’s room in Cecil Street, in which he received Alice’s letter. He was dressing when it was first brought to him; and when he recognized
the hand-writing he put it down on his toilet table unopened. He put it down, and went on brushing his hair, as though he were determined to prove to himself that he was indifferent as to the tidings which it might contain. He went on brushing his hair, and cleaning his teeth, and tying his cravat carefully over his turned–down collar, while the unopened letter lay close to his hand. Of course he
was thinking of it, – of course he was anxious, – of course his eye went to it from moment to moment. But he carried it with him into the sitting–room still unopened, and so it remained until after the girl had brought him his tea and his toast. ‘And now,’ said he, as he threw himself into his arm–chair, ’let us see what the girl of my heart says to me,’ The girl of his heart said to him as follows:–

M
Y
D
EAR
G
EORGE
,

I feel great difficulty in answering your letter. Could I have my own way, I should make no answer to it at present, but leave it for the next six months, so that then such answer might hereafter be made as circumstances should seem to require. This will be little flattering to you, but it is less flattering to myself. Whatever answer I may make, how can anything in this affair
be flattering either to you or to me? We have been like children who have quarrelled over our game of play, till now, at the close of our little day of pleasure, we are fain to meet each other in tears, and acknowledge that we have looked for delights where no delights were to be found.

Kate, who is here, talks to me of passionate love. There is no such passion left to me; – nor, as I think,
to you either. It would not now be possible that you and I should come together on such terms as that.
We could not stand up together as man and wife with any hope of a happy marriage, unless we had both agreed that such happiness might be had without passionate love.

You will see from all this that I do not refuse your offer. Without passion, I have for you a warm affection, which enables me
to take a livelier interest in your career than in any other of the matters which are around me. Of course, if I become your wife that interest will be still closer and dearer, and I do feel that I can take in it that concern which a wife should have in her husband’s affairs.

If it suits you, I will become your wife; – but it cannot be quite at once. I have suffered much from the past conflicts
of my life, and there has been very much with which I must reproach myself. I know that I have behaved badly. Sometimes I have to undergo the doubly bitter self-accusation of having behaved in a manner which the world will call unfeminine. You must understand that I have not passed through this unscathed, and I must beg you to allow me some time for a cure. A perfect cure I may never expect, but
I think that in twelve months from this time I may so far have recovered my usual spirit and ease of mind as to enable me to devote myself to your happiness. Dear George, if you will accept me under such circumstances, I will be your wife, and will endeavour to do my duty by you faithfully.

I have said that even now, as your cousin, I take a lively interest in your career, – of course I mean
your career as a politician, – and especially in your hopes of entering Parliament. I understand, accurately as I think, what you have said about my fortune, and I perfectly appreciate your truth and frankness. If I had nothing of my own you, in your circumstances, could not possibly take me as your wife. I know, moreover, that your need of assistance from my means is immediate rather than prospective.
My money may be absolutely necessary to you within this year, during which, as I tell you most truly, I cannot bring myself to become a married woman. But my money shall be less cross–grained than myself. You will take it as frankly as I mean it when I say, that whatever you want for your political purposes shall be forthcoming at your slightest wish. Dear George, let me have the honour and
glory of marrying a man who has gained a seat in the Parliament of Great Britain! Of all positions which a man may attain that, to me, is the grandest.

I shall wait for a further letter from you before I speak either to my father or to my grandfather. If you can tell me that you accede to my views, I will at once try to bring about a reconciliation between you
and the Squire. I think that that
will be almost easier than inducing my father to look with favour upon our marriage. But I need hardly say that should either one or the other oppose it, — or should both do so, — that would not turn me from my purpose.

I also wait for your answer to write a last line to Mr Grey.

Your affectionate cousin,

A
LICE
V
AVASOR
.

George Vavasor when he had read the letter threw it carelessly from him
on to the breakfast table, and began to munch his toast. He threw it carelessly from him, as though taking a certain pride in his carelessness. ‘Very well,’ said he; ‘so be it. It is probably the best thing that I could do, whatever the effect may be on her.’ Then he took up his newspaper. But before the day was over he had made many plans, — plans made almost unconsciously, — as to the benefit
which might accrue to him from the offer which she had made of her money. And before night he had written that reply to her of which we have heard the contents; and had written also to his sister Kate a letter, of which Kate had kept the contents to herself.

*          *          *

W
HEN
the first of the new year came round Lady Glencora was not keeping her appointment at Lady Monk’s house. She went to Gatherum Castle, and let us hope that she enjoyed the magnificent Christmas hospitality of the Duke; but when the time came for moving on to Monkshade, she was indisposed, and Mr Palliser went thither alone. Lady Glencora returned to Matching and remained
at home, while her husband was away, in company with the two Miss Pallisers.

When the tidings reached Monkshade that Lady Glencora was not to be expected, Burgo Fitzgerald was already there, armed
with such pecuniary assistance as George Vavasor had been able to wrench out of the hands of Mr Magruin. ’Burgo,’ said his aunt, catching him one morning near his bedroom door as he was about to go
downstairs in hunting trim, ’Burgo, your old flame, Lady Glencora, is not coming here.’

‘Lady Glencora not coming!’ said Burgo, betraying by his look and the tone of his voice too clearly that this change in the purpose of a married lady was to him of more importance than it should have been. Such betrayal, however, to Lady Monk was not perhaps matter of much moment.

‘No; she is not coming.
It can’t be matter of any moment to you now.’

‘But, by heavens, it is,’ said he, putting his hand up to his forehead, and leaning back against the wall of the passage as though in despair. ‘It is matter of moment to me. I am the most unfortunate devil that ever lived.’

‘Fie, Burgo, fie! You must not speak in that way of a married woman. I begin to think it is better that she should not come.’
At this moment another man booted and spurred came down the passage, upon whom Lady Monk smiled sweetly, speaking some pretty little word as he passed. Burgo spoke never a word, but still stood leaning against the wall, with his hand to his forehead, showing that he had heard something which had moved him greatly. ‘Come back into your room, Burgo,’ said his aunt; and they both went in at the door
that was nearest to them, for Lady Monk had been on the look-out for him, and had caught him as soon as he appeared in the passage. ‘If this does annoy you, you should keep it to yourself! What will people say?‘

‘How can I help what they say?’

‘But you would not wish to injure her, I suppose? I thought it best to tell you, for fear you should show any special sign of surprise if you heard of
it first in public. It is very weak in you to allow yourself to feel that sort of regard for a married woman. If you cannot constrain yourself I shall be afraid to let you meet her in Brook Street.’

Burgo looked for a moment into his aunt’s face without answering her, and then turned away towards the door. ‘ You can do as
you please about that.’ said he; ‘but you know as well as I do what I have
made up my mind to do.’

‘Nonsense, Burgo; I know nothing of the kind. But do you go downstairs to breakfast, and don’t look like that when you go among the people there.’

Lady Monk was a woman now about fifty years of age, who had been a great beauty, and who was still handsome in her advanced age. Her figure was very good. She was tall and of fine proportion, though by no means verging to that
state of body which our excellent American friend and critic Mr Hawthorne has described as beefy
¹
and has declared to be the general condition of English ladies of Lady Monk’s age. Lady Monk was not beefy. She was a comely, handsome, upright, dame, — one of whom, as regards her outward appearance, England might be proud, — and of whom Sir Cosmo Monk was very proud. She had come of the family of
the Worcestershire Fitzgeralds, of whom it used to be said that there never was one who was not beautiful and worthless. Looking at Lady Monk you would hardly think that she could be a worthless woman; but there were one or two who professed to know her, and who declared that she was a true scion of the family to which she belonged; — that even her husband’s ample fortune had suffered from her extravagance,
that she had quarrelled with her only son, and had succeeded in marrying her daughter to the greatest fool in the peerage. She had striven very hard to bring about a marriage between her nephew and the great heiress, and was a woman not likely to pardon those who had foiled her.