Can You Forgive Her? (52 page)

The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson, if Alice’s
father would express himself satisfied with the proposed marriage. John Vavasor had certainly expressed nothing of the kind. ‘I think so badly of him,’ he had said, speaking to the old man of George, ‘that I would rather know that almost any other calamity was to befall her, than that she should be united to him.’ Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had taken up the cudgels on behalf of
his grandson; and had tried to prove that the match after all would not be so bad in its results as his son seemed to expect. ‘It would do very well for the property,’ he said. ‘I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he could not touch it; and I don’t see why he shouldn’t reform as well as another.’ John Vavasor had then declared that George was thoroughly bad, that he was an adventurer;
that he
believed him to be a ruined man, and that he would never reform. The squire upon this had waxed angry, and in this way George obtained aid and assistance down at the old house, which he certainly had no right to expect. When Alice wished her grandfather good-bye the old man gave her a message to his grandson. ‘You may tell him,’ said he, ‘that I will never see him again unless he begs
my pardon for his personal bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you, I will take care that the property is properly settled upon his child and yours. I shall always be glad to see you, my dear; and for your sake, I will see him if he will humble himself to me.’ There was no word spoken then about her father’s consent; and Alice, when she left Vavasor, felt that the squire was rather her friend
than her enemy in regard to this thing which she contemplated. That her father was and would be an uncompromising enemy to her, – uncompromising though probably not energetical, #8211; she was well aware; and, therefore, the journey up to London was not comfortable.

Alice had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience. ‘There cannot be obedience
on one side,’ she said to herself, ‘without protection and support on the other?’ Now it was quite true that John Vavasor had done little in the way of supporting or protecting his daughter. Early in life, before she had resided under the same roof with him in London, he had, as it were, washed his hands of all solicitude regarding her; and having no other ties of family, had fallen into habits of
life which made it almost impossible for him to live with her as any other father would live with his child. Then, when there first sprang up between them that manner of sharing the same house without any joining together of their habits of life, he had excused himself to himself by saying that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection. Her fortune was her own, and at her
own disposal. Her character was such that she showed no inclination to throw the burden of such disposal on her father’s shoulders. She was steady, too, and given to no pursuits which made it necessary that he should watch closely over her. She was a girl, he thought, who could do as well without surveillance as with it, – as well, or perhaps better. So it had come to
pass that Alice had been
the free mistress of her own actions, and had been left to make the most she could of her own hours. It cannot be supposed that she had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month, without telling herself that her father was neglecting her. She could not perceive that he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, without
feeling that the tie between her and him was not the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child. She was well aware that she had been ill-used in being thus left desolate in her home. She had uttered no word of complaint but she had learned, without being aware that she was doing so, to entertain a firm resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life. In that
affair of John Grey they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr Vavasor had believed that his theory with reference to Alice had been quite correct. She had been left to herself, and was going to dispose of herself in a way than which nothing could be more eligible. But evil days were now coming, and Mr Vavasor, as he travelled up to London, with his daughter seated opposite to him in the railway
carriage, felt that now, at last, he must interfere. In part of the journey they had the carriage to themselves, and Mr Vavasor thought that he would begin what he had to say; but he put It off till others joined them, and then there was no further opportunity for such conversation as that which would be necessary between them. They reached home about eight in the evening, having dined on the road.
‘She will be tired tonight,’ he said to himself, as he went off to his club, ‘and I will speak to her tomorrow.’ Alice specially felt his going on this evening. When two persons had together the tedium of such a journey as that from Westmoreland up to London, there should be some feeling between them to bind them together while enjoying the comfort of the evening. Had he stayed and sat with her
at her tea-table, Alice would at any rate have endeavoured to be soft with him in any discussion that might have been raised; but he went away from her at once, leaving her to think alone over the perils of the life before her. ‘I want to speak to you after breakfast tomorrow,’ he said as he went out Alice answered that she should be there, –
as a matter of course. She scorned to tell him that
she was always there, – always alone at home. She had never uttered a word of complaint, and she would not begin now.

The discussion after breakfast the next day was commenced with formal and almost ceremonial preparation. The father and daughter breakfasted together, with the knowledge that the discussion was coming. It did not give to either of them a good appetite and very little was said
at table.

‘Will you come upstairs?’ said Alice, when she perceived that her father had finished his tea.

‘Perhaps that will be best,’ said he. Then he followed her into the drawing-room in which the fire had just been lit.

‘Alice,’ said he, ‘I must speak to you about this engagement of yours.’

‘Won’t you sit down, papa? It does look so dreadful, your standing up over one in that way.’ He had
placed himself on the rug with his back to the incipient fire, but now, at her request, he sat himself down opposite to her.

‘I was greatly grieved when I heard of this at Vavasor.’

‘I am sorry that you should be grieved, papa.’

‘I was grieved. I must confess that I never could understand why you treated Mr Grey as you have done.’

‘Oh, papa, that’s done and past Fray let that be among the
bygones.’

‘Does he know yet of your engagement with your cousin?’

‘He will know it by this time tomorrow.’

‘Then I beg of you, as a great favour, to postpone your letter to him.’ To this Alice made no answer. ‘I have not troubled you with many such requests, Alice. Will you tell me that this one shall be granted?’

‘I think that I owe it to him as an imperative duty to let him know the truth.’

‘But you may change your mind again.’ Alice found that this was hard to bear and hard to answer; but there was a certain amount of truth in the grievous reproach conveyed in her father’s words, which made her bow her neck to it. ‘I have no right to say that it is impossible.’ she replied, in words that were barely audible.

‘No; – exactly so,’ said her father. ‘And therefore it will be better
that you should postpone any such communication.’

‘For how long do you mean?’

‘Till you and I shall have agreed together that he should be told.’

‘No, papa; I will not consent to that. I consider myself bound to let him know the truth without delay. I have done him a great injury, and I must put an end to that as soon as possible.’

‘You have done him an injury certainly, my dear; – a very
great injury,’ said Mr Vavasor, going away from his object about the proposed letter; ‘and I believe he will feel it as such to the last day of his life, if this goes on.’

‘I hope not. I believe that it will not be so. I feel sure that it will not be so.’

‘But of course what I am thinking of now is your welfare, – not his. When you simply told me that you intended to –.’ Alice winced, for she
feared to hear from her father that odious word which her grandfather had used to her; and indeed the word had been on her father’s lips, but he had refrained and spared her – ‘that you intended to break your engagement with Mr Grey,’ he continued, ‘I said little or nothing to you. I would not ask you to marry any man, even though you had yourself promised to marry him. But when you tell me that
you are engaged to your cousin George, the matter is very different. I do not think well of your cousin. Indeed I think anything but well of him. It is my duty to tell you that the world speaks very ill of him.’ He paused, but Alice remained silent. ‘When you were about to travel with him,’ he continued, ‘I ought perhaps to have told you the same. But I did not wish to pain you or his sister; and,
moreover, I have heard worse of him since then, – much worse than I had heard before.’

‘As you did not tell me before, I think you might spare me now,’ said Alice.

‘No, my dear; I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself without telling you that you are doing so. If it were not for your money he would never think of marrying you.’

‘Of that I am well aware,’ said Alice. ‘He has told me so himself
very plainly.’

‘And yet you will marry him?’

‘Certainly I will. It seems to me, papa, that there is a great deal of false feeling about this matter of money in marriage, – or rather, perhaps, a great deal of pretended feeling. Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get that for which every man is struggling? At this point of George’s career the use of money is essential to him. He could
not marry without it.’

‘You had better then give him your money without yourself,’ said her father, speaking in irony.

‘That is just what I mean to do, papa,’ said Alice.

‘What!’ said Mr Vavasor, jumping up from his seat ‘You mean to give him your money before you marry him?’

‘Certainly I do; – if he should want it; – or, I should rather say, as much as he may want of it’

‘Heavens and earth!’
exclaimed Mr Vavasor. ‘Alice, you must be mad.’

‘To part with my money to my friend?’ said she. ‘It is a kind of madness of which I need not at any rate be ashamed.’

‘Tell me this, Alice; has he got any of it as yet?’

‘Not a shilling. Papa, pray do not look at me like that If I had no thought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent to my cousin what money he might need.’

‘I should only say that so much of your fortune was thrown away, and if it were not much that would be an end of it I would sooner see you surrender to him the half of all you have, without any engagement to marry him, than know that he had received a shilling from you under such a promise.’

‘You are prejudiced against him, sir.’

‘Was it prejudice that made you reject him once before? Did you
condemn him then through prejudice? Had you not ascertained that he was altogether unworthy of you?’

‘We were both younger, then,’ said Alice, speaking very softly, but very seriously. ‘We were both much younger then, and looked at life with other eyes than those which we now use. For myself I expected much then, which I now seem hardly to regard at all; and as for him, he was then attached to
pleasures to which I believe he has now learned to be indifferent.’

‘Psha!’ ejaculated the father.

‘I can only speak as I believe,’ continued Alice. ‘And I think I may perhaps know more of his manner of life than you do, papa. But I am prepared to run risks now which I feared before. Even though he were all that you think him to be, I would still endeavour to do my duty to him, and to bring
him to other things.’

‘What is it you expect to get by marrying him?’ asked Mr Vavasor.

‘A husband whose mode of thinking is congenial to my own,’ answered Alice. ‘A husband who proposes to himself a career in life with which I can sympathize. I think that I may perhaps help my cousin in the career which he has chosen, and that alone is a great reason why I should attempt to do so.’

‘With your
money?’ said Mr Vavasor with a sneer.

‘Partly with my money,’ said Alice, disdaining to answer the sneer. ‘Though it were only with my money, even that would be something.’

‘Well, Alice, as your father, I can only implore you to pause before you commit yourself to his hands. If he demands money from you, and you are minded to give it to him, let him have it in moderation. Anything will be better
than marrying him. I know that I cannot hinder you; you are as much your own mistress as I am my own master, – or rather a great deal more, as my income depends on my going to that horrid place in Chancery Lane. But yet I suppose you must think something of your father’s wishes and your father’s opinion. It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altar without my being there near you.’

To this Alice made no answer; but she told herself that it had not been pleasant to her to have stood at so many places during the last four years, – and to have found herself so often alone, – without her father being near to her. That had been his fault, and it was not now in her power to remedy the ill-effects of it.

‘Has any day been fixed between you and him?’ he asked.

‘No, papa.’

‘Nothing
has been said about that?’

‘Yes; something has been said. I have told him that it cannot be for a year yet. It is because I told him that, that I told him also
that he should have my money when he wanted it’

‘Not all of it?’ said Mr Vavasor.

‘I don’t suppose he will need it all. He intends to stand again for Chelsea, and it is the great expense of the election which makes him want money. You
are not to suppose that he has asked me for it When I made him understand that I did not wish to marry quite yet, I offered him the use of that which would be ultimately his own.’

‘And he has accepted it?’

‘He answered me just as I had intended, – that when the need came he would take me at my word.’