Can You Forgive Her?

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  Mr. Vavasor Speaks to His Daughter.

  Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate atVavasor Hall with her grandfather. The journey was not a pleasantone. Mr. Vavasor knew that it was his duty to do something,--totake some steps with the view of preventing the marriage which hisdaughter meditated; but he did not know what that something shouldbe, and he did know that, whatever it might be, the doing of itwould be thoroughly disagreeable. When they started from Vavasor hehad as yet hardly spoken to her a word upon the subject. "I cannotcongratulate you," he had simply said. "I hope the time may come,papa, when you will," Alice had answered; and that had been all.

  The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliationwith his grandson, if Alice's father would express himself satisfiedwith the proposed marriage. John Vavasor had certainly expressednothing of the kind. "I think so badly of him," he had said, speakingto the old man of George, "that I would rather know that almost anyother calamity was to befall her, than that she should be unitedto him." Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had taken upthe cudgels on behalf of his grandson and had tried to prove thatthe match after all would not be so bad in its results as his sonseemed to expect. "It would do very well for the property," he said."I would settle the estate on their eldest son, so that he couldnot touch it; and I don't see why he shouldn't reform as well asanother." John Vavasor had then declared that George was thoroughlybad, that he was an adventurer; that he believed him to be a ruinedman, and that he would never reform. The squire upon this had waxedangry, and in this way George obtained aid and assistance down atthe old house, which he certainly had no right to expect. When Alicewished her grandfather good-bye the old man gave her a message to hisgrandson. "You may tell him," said he, "that I will never see himagain 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 isproperly settled upon his child and yours. I shall always be glad tosee you, my dear; and for your sake, I will see him if he will humblehimself to me." There was no word spoken then about her father'sconsent; and Alice, when she left Vavasor, felt that the squire wasrather her friend than her enemy in regard to this thing which shecontemplated. That her father was and would be an uncompromisingenemy to her,--uncompromising though probably not energetical,--shewas well aware; and, therefore, the journey up to London was notcomfortable.

  Alice had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this mattershe owed her father no obedience. "There cannot be obedience on oneside," she said to herself, "without protection and support on theother." Now it was quite true that John Vavasor had done little inthe way of supporting or protecting his daughter. Early in life,before she had resided under the same roof with him in London, hehad, as it were, washed his hands of all solicitude regarding her;and having no other ties of family, had fallen into habits of lifewhich made it almost impossible for him to live with her as any otherfather would live with his child. Then, when there first sprangup between them that manner of sharing the same house without anyjoining together of their habits of life, he had excused himselfto himself by saying that Alice was unlike other girls, and thatshe required no protection. Her fortune was her own, and at her owndisposal. Her character was such that she showed no inclination tothrow the burden of such disposal on her father's shoulders. She wassteady, too, and given to no pursuits which made it necessary that heshould watch closely over her. She was a girl, he thought, who coulddo as well without surveillance as with it,--as well, or perhapsbetter. So it had come to pass that Alice had been the free mistressof her own actions, and had been left to make the most she could ofher own hours. It cannot be supposed that she had eaten her lonelydinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week,month after month, without telling herself that her father wasneglecting her. She could not perceive that he spent every evening insociety, but never an evening in her society, without feeling thatthe tie between her and him was not the strong bond which usuallybinds a father to his child. She was well aware that she had beenill-used in being thus left desolate in her home. She had uttered noword of complaint; but she had learned, without being aware that shewas doing so, to entertain a firm resolve that her father should notguide her in her path through life. In that affair of John Grey theyhad both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had believed thathis theory with reference to Alice had been quite correct. She hadbeen left to herself, and was going to dispose of herself in a waythan which nothing could be more eligible. But evil days were nowcoming, and Mr. Vavasor, as he travelled up to London, with hisdaughter seated opposite to him in the railway carriage, felt thatnow, at last, he must interfere. In part of the journey they had thecarriage to themselves, and Mr. Vavasor thought that he would beginwhat he had to say; but he put it off till others joined them, andthen there was no further opportunity for such conversation as thatwhich would be necessary between them. They reached home abouteight in the evening, having dined on the road. "She will be tiredto-night," he said to himself, as he went off to his club, "and Iwill speak to her to-morrow." Alice specially felt his going on thisevening. When two persons had together the tedium of such a journeyas that from Westmoreland up to London, there should be some feelingbetween them to bind them together while enjoying the comfort of theevening. Had he stayed and sat with her at her tea-table, Alice wouldat any rate have endeavoured to be soft with him in any discussionthat 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. "Iwant to speak to you after breakfast to-morrow," he said as he wentout. Alice answered that she should be there,--as a matter of course.She scorned to tell him that she was always there,--always alone athome. She had never uttered a word of complaint, and she would notbegin now.

  The discussion after breakfast the next day was commenced withformal and almost ceremonial preparation. The father and daughterbreakfasted together, with the knowledge that the discussion wascoming. It did not give to either of them a good appetite, and verylittle was said at table.

  "Will you come up-stairs?" said Alice, when she perceived that herfather had finished his tea.

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

  "Alice," said he, "I must speak to you about this engagement ofyours."

  "Won't you sit down, papa? It does look so dreadful, your standing upover one in that way." He had placed himself on the rug with his backto the incipient fire, but now, at her request, he sat himself downopposite 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 youtreated Mr. Grey as you have done."

  "Oh, papa, that's done and past. Pray let that be among the bygones."

  "Does he know yet of your engagement with your cousin?"

  "He will know it by this time to-morrow."

  "Then I beg of you, as a great favour, to postpone your letter tohim." To this Alice made no answer. "I have not troubled you withmany such requests, Alice. Will you tell me that this one shall begranted?"

  "I think that I owe it to him as an imperative duty to let him knowthe truth."

  "But you may change your mind again." Alice found that this washard to bear and hard to answer; but there was a certain amount oftruth in the grievous reproach conveyed in her father's words, whichmade her bow her neck to it. "I have no right to say that it isimpossible," she replied, in words that were barely audible.

  "No;--exactly so," said her father. "And therefore it will be betterthat 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 lethim know the truth without delay. I have done him a great injury, andI must put an end
to that as soon as possible."

  "You have done him an injury certainly, my dear;--a very greatinjury," said Mr. Vavasor, going away from his object about theproposed letter; "and I believe he will feel it as such to the lastday of his life, if this goes on."

  "I hope not. I believe that it will not be so. I feel sure that itwill 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 hergrandfather had used to her; and indeed the word had been on herfather's lips, but he had refrained and spared her--"that youintended to break your engagement with Mr. Grey," he continued, "Isaid 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 youtell me that you are engaged to your cousin George, the matter isvery different. I do not think well of your cousin. Indeed I thinkanything but well of him. It is my duty to tell you that the worldspeaks very ill of him." He paused, but Alice remained silent. "Whenyou were about to travel with him," he continued, "I ought perhaps tohave 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 thanI had heard before."

  "As you did not tell me before, I think you might spare me now," saidAlice.

  "No, my dear; I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself withouttelling you that you are doing so. If it were not for your money hewould never think of marrying you."

  "Of that I am well aware," said Alice. "He has told me so himselfvery plainly."

  "And yet you will marry him?"

  "Certainly I will. It seems to me, papa, that there is a great dealof false feeling about this matter of money in marriage,--or rather,perhaps, a great deal of pretended feeling. Why should I be angrywith 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 tohim. He could not marry without it."

  "You had better then give him your money without yourself," said herfather, 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 givehim your money before you marry him?"

  "Certainly I do;--if he should want it;--or, I should rather say, asmuch 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 ofmadness 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 nothought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent tomy cousin what money he might need."

  "I should only say that so much of your fortune was thrown away, andif it were not much that would be an end of it. I would sooner seeyou surrender to him the half of all you have, without any engagementto marry him, than know that he had received a shilling from youunder such a promise."

  "You are prejudiced against him, sir."

  "Was it prejudice that made you reject him once before? Did youcondemn him then through prejudice? Had you not ascertained that hewas altogether unworthy of you?"

  "We were both younger, then," said Alice, speaking very softly, butvery seriously. "We were both much younger then, and looked at lifewith other eyes than those which we now use. For myself I expectedmuch 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 nowlearned to be indifferent."

  "Psha!" ejaculated the father.

  "I can only speak as I believe," continued Alice. "And I think I mayperhaps know more of his manner of life than you do, papa. But I amprepared to run risks now which I feared before. Even though he wereall that you think him to be, I would still endeavour to do my dutyto 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," answeredAlice. "A husband who proposes to himself a career in life with whichI can sympathize. I think that I may perhaps help my cousin in thecareer which he has chosen, and that alone is a great reason why Ishould 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 beforeyou commit yourself to his hands. If he demands money from you, andyou are minded to give it to him, let him have it in moderation.Anything will be better than marrying him. I know that I cannothinder you; you are as much your own mistress as I am my ownmaster,--or rather a great deal more, as my income depends on mygoing to that horrid place in Chancery Lane. But yet I suppose youmust think something of your father's wishes and your father'sopinion. It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altarwithout my being there near you."

  To this Alice made no answer; but she told herself that it had notbeen pleasant to her to have stood at so many places during the lastfour years,--and to have found herself so often alone,--without herfather being near to her. That had been his fault, and it was not nowin 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 fora year yet. It is because I told him that, that I told him also thathe 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 forChelsea, and it is the great expense of the election which makeshim 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 hewould take me at my word."

  "Then, Alice, I will tell you what is my belief. He will drain you ofevery shilling of your money, and when that is gone, there will be nomore heard of the marriage. We must take a small house in some cheappart of the town and live on my income as best we may. I shall goand insure my life, so that you may not absolutely starve when Idie." Having said this, Mr. Vavasor went away, not immediately to theinsurance office, as his words seemed to imply, but to his club wherehe sat alone, reading the newspaper, very gloomily, till the timecame for his afternoon rubber of whist, and the club dinner bill forthe day was brought under his eye.

  Alice had no such consolations in her solitude. She had fought herbattle with her father tolerably well, but she was now called uponto fight a battle with herself, which was one much more difficultto win. Was her cousin, her betrothed as she now must regard him,the worthless, heartless, mercenary rascal which her father paintedhim? There had certainly been a time, and that not very long distant,in which Alice herself had been almost constrained so to regard him.Since that any change for the better in her opinion of him had beengrounded on evidence given either by himself or by his sister Kate.He had done nothing to inspire her with any confidence, unless hisreckless daring in coming forward to contest a seat in Parliamentcould be regarded as a doing of something. And he had owned himselfto be a man almost penniless; he had spoken of himself as beingutterly reckless,--as being one whose standing in the world was andmust continue to be a perch on the edge of a precipice, from whichany accident might knock him headlong. Alice believed in her heartthat this last profession or trade to which he had applied himself,was becoming as nothing to him,--that he received from it no certainincome;--no income that a man could make to appear respectable tofathers or guardians when seeking a girl in marriage. Her fatherdeclared that all men spoke badly of him. Ali
ce knew her father to bean idle man, a man given to pleasure, to be one who thought by fartoo much of the good things of the world; but she had never found himto be either false or malicious. His unwonted energy in this matterwas in itself evidence that he believed himself to be right in whathe said.

  To tell the truth, Alice was frightened at what she had done, andalmost repented of it already. Her acceptance of her cousin'soffer had not come of love;--nor had it, in truth, come chiefly ofambition. She had not so much asked herself why she should do thisthing, as why she should not do it,--seeing that it was requiredof her by her friend. What after all did it matter? That was herargument with herself. It cannot be supposed that she looked backon the past events of her life with any self-satisfaction. There wasno self-satisfaction, but in truth there was more self-reproach thanshe deserved. As a girl she had loved her cousin George passionately,and that love had failed her. She did not tell herself that she hadbeen wrong when she gave him up, but she thought herself to have beenmost unfortunate in the one necessity. After such an experience asthat, would it not have been better for her to have remained withoutfurther thought of marriage?

  Then came that terrible episode in her life for which she never couldforgive herself. She had accepted Mr. Grey because she liked him andhonoured him. "And I did love him," she said to herself, now on thismorning. Poor, wretched, heart-wrung woman! As she sat there thinkingof it all in her solitude she was to be pitied at any rate, if not tobe forgiven. Now, as she thought of Nethercoats, with its quiet life,its gardens, its books, and the peaceful affectionate ascendancy ofhim who would have been her lord and master, her feelings were verydifferent from those which had induced her to resolve that she wouldnot stoop to put her neck beneath that yoke. Would it not have beenwell for her to have a master who by his wisdom and strength couldsave her from such wretched doubtings as these? But she had refusedto bend, and then she had found herself desolate and alone in theworld.

  "If I can do him good why should I not marry him?" In that feelinghad been the chief argument which had induced her to return suchan answer as she had sent to her cousin. "For myself, what does itmatter? As to this life of mine and all that belongs to it, whyshould I regard it otherwise than to make it of some service tosome one who is dear to me?" He had been ever dear to her from herearliest years. She believed in his intellect, even if she could notbelieve in his conduct. Kate, her friend, longed for this thing. Asfor that dream of love, it meant nothing; and as for those argumentsof prudence,--that cold calculation about her money, which all peopleseemed to expect from her,--she would throw it to the winds. What ifshe were ruined! There was always the other chance. She might savehim from ruin, and help him to honour and fortune.

  But then, when the word was once past her lips, there returned to herthat true woman's feeling which made her plead for a long day,--whichmade her feel that that long day would be all too short,--which madeher already dread the coming of the end of the year. She had saidthat she would become George Vavasor's wife, but she wished that thesaying so might be the end of it. When he came to her to embraceher how should she receive him? The memory of John Grey's last kissstill lingered on her lips. She had told herself that she scorned thedelights of love; if it were so, was she not bound to keep herselffar from them; if it were so,--would not her cousin's kiss polluteher?

  "It may be as my father says," she thought. "It may be that he wantsmy money only; if so, let him have it. Surely when the year is overI shall know." Then a plan formed itself in her head, which she didnot make willingly, with any voluntary action of her mind,--but whichcame upon her as plans do come,--and recommended itself to her indespite of herself. He should have her money as he might call forit,--all of it excepting some small portion of her income, whichmight suffice to keep her from burdening her father. Then, if he werecontented, he should go free, without reproach, and there should bean end of all question of marriage for her.

  As she thought of this, and matured it in her mind, the door opened,and the servant announced her cousin George.