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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 illnatured. 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 the 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 recognise 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 recognised the handwriting 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 armchair, “let us see what the girl of my heart says to me.” The girl of his heart said to him as follows:—

      My dear George,

      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 crossgrained 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

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