CHAPTER LXIII.
Mr. John Grey in Queen Anne Street.
Alice was resolved that she would keep her promise to Kate, and payher visit to Westmoreland before she started with the Pallisers. Katehad written to her three lines with her left hand, begging her tocome, and those three lines had been more eloquent than anythingshe could have written had her right arm been uninjured. Alice hadlearned something of the truth as to the accident from her father;or, rather, had heard her father's surmises on the subject. She hadheard, too, how her cousin George had borne himself when the will wasread, and how he had afterwards disappeared, never showing himselfagain at the hall. After all that had passed she felt that she owedKate some sympathy. Sympathy may, no doubt, be conveyed by letter;but there are things on which it is almost impossible for any writerto express himself with adequate feeling; and there are things,too, which can be spoken, but which cannot be written. Therefore,though the journey must be a hurried one, Alice sent word down toWestmoreland that she was to be expected there in a day or two. Onher return she was to go at once to Park Lane, and sleep there forthe two nights which would intervene before the departure of thePallisers.
On the day before she started for Westmoreland her father came to herin the middle of the day, and told her that John Grey was going todine with him in Queen Anne Street on that evening.
"To-day, papa?" she asked.
"Yes, to-day. Why not? No man is less particular as to what he eatsthan Grey."
"I was not thinking of that, papa," she said.
To this Mr. Vavasor made no reply, but stood for some minutes lookingout of the window. Then he prepared to leave the room, gettinghimself first as far as the table, where he lifted a book, and thenon half-way to the door before Alice arrested him.
"Perhaps, papa, you and Mr. Grey had better dine alone."
"What do you mean by alone?"
"I meant without me,--as two men generally like to do."
"If I wanted that I should have asked him to dine at the club," saidMr. Vavasor, and then he again attempted to go.
"But, papa--"
"Well, my dear! If you mean to say that because of what haspassed you object to meet Mr. Grey, I can only tell you it'snonsense,--confounded nonsense. If he chooses to come there can beno reason why you shouldn't receive him."
"It will look as though--"
"Look what?"
"As though he were asked as my guest."
"That's nonsense. I saw him yesterday, and I asked him to come. I sawhim again to-day, and he said he would come. He's not such a fool asto suppose after that, that you asked him."
"No; not that I asked him."
"And if you run away you'll only make more of the thing than it'sworth. Of course I can't make you dine with me if you don't like."
Alice did not like it, but, after some consideration, she thoughtthat she might be open to the imputation of having made more of thething than it was worth if she ran away, as her father called it. Shewas going to leave the country for some six or eight months,--perhapsfor a longer time than that, and it might be as well that she shouldhave an opportunity of telling her plans to Mr. Grey. She could do it,she thought, in such a way as to make him understand that her lastquarrel with George Vavasor was not supposed to alter the footing onwhich she stood with him. She did not doubt that her father had toldeverything to Mr. Grey. She knew well enough what her father's wishesstill were. It was not odd that he should be asking John Grey tohis house, though such exercises of domestic hospitality were veryunusual with him. But,--so she declared to herself,--such littleattempts on his part would be altogether thrown away. It was a pitythat he had not yet learned to know her better. She would receiveMr. Grey as the mistress of her father's house now, for the lasttime; and then, on her return in the following year, he would be atNethercoats, and the whole thing would be over.
She dressed herself very plainly, simply changing one black frockfor another, and then sat herself in her drawing-room awaiting thetwo gentlemen. It was already past the hour of dinner before herfather came up-stairs. She knew that he was in the house, and inher heart she accused him of keeping out of the way, in order thatJohn Grey might be alone with her. Whether or no she were right inher suspicions John Grey did not take advantage of the opportunityoffered to him. Her father came up first, and had seated himselfsilently in his arm-chair before the visitor was announced.
As Mr. Grey entered the room Alice knew that she was flurried, butstill she managed to carry herself with some dignity. His bearing wasperfect. But then, as she declared to herself afterwards, no possibleposition in life would put him beside himself. He came up to herwith his usual quiet smile,--a smile that was genial even in itsquietness, and took her hand. He took it fairly and fully into his;but there was no squeezing, no special pressure, no love-making.And when he spoke to her he called her Alice, as though his doingso was of all things the most simply a matter of course. There wasno tell-tale hesitation in his voice. When did he ever hesitate atanything? "I hear you are going abroad," he said, "with your cousin,Lady Glencora Palliser."
She managed to carry herself with some dignity.]
"Yes," said Alice; "I am going with them for a long tour. We shallnot return, I fancy, till the end of next winter."
"Plans of that sort are as easily broken as they are made," said herfather. "You won't be your own mistress; and I advise you not tocount too surely upon getting further than Baden."
"If Mr. Palliser changes his mind of course I shall come home," saidAlice, with a little attempt at a smile.
"I should think him a man not prone to changes," said Grey. "But allLondon is talking about his change of mind at this moment. They sayat the clubs that he might have been in the Cabinet if he would, butthat he has taken up this idea of going abroad at the moment when hewas wanted."
"It's his wife's doing, I take it," said Mr. Vavasor.
"That's the worst of being in Parliament," said Grey. "A man can't doanything without giving a reason for it. There must be men for publiclife, of course; but, upon my word, I think we ought to be very muchobliged to them."
Alice, as she took her old lover's arm, and walked down with him todinner, thought of all her former quarrels with him on this verysubject. On this very point she had left him. He had never argued thematter with her. He had never asked her to argue with him. He had notcondescended so far as that. Had he done so, she thought that shewould have brought herself to think as he thought. She would havestriven, at any rate, to do so. But she could not become unambitious,tranquil, fond of retirement, and philosophic, without an argumenton the matter,--without being allowed even the poor grace of owningherself to be convinced. If a man takes a dog with him from thecountry up to town, the dog must live a town life without knowing thereason why;--must live a town life or die a town death. But a womanshould not be treated like a dog. "Had he deigned to discuss it withme!" Alice had so often said. "But, no; he will read his books, and Iam to go there to fetch him his slippers, and make his tea for him."All this came upon her again as she walked down-stairs by his side;and with it there came a consciousness that she had been driven bythis usage into the terrible engagement which she had made with hercousin. That, no doubt, was now over. There was no longer to her anyquestion of her marrying George Vavasor. But the fact that she hadbeen mad enough to think and talk of such a marriage, had of itselfbeen enough to ruin her. "Things of that sort are so often over withyou!" After such a speech as that to her from her father, Alicetold herself that there could be no more "things of that sort" forher. But all her misery had been brought about by this scornfulsuperiority to the ordinary pursuits of the world,--this looking downupon humanity. "It seems to me," she said, very quietly, while herhand was yet upon his arm, "that your pity is hardly needed. I shouldthink that no persons can be happier than those whom you call ourpublic men."
"Ah!" said he, "that is our old quarrel." He said it as thoughthe quarrel had simply been an argument between them, or a dozenarguments,--as argum
ents do come up between friends; not as thoughit had served to separate for life two persons who had loved eachother dearly. "It's the old story of the town mouse and the countrymouse,--as old as the hills. Mice may be civil for a while, andcompliment each other; but when they come to speak their mindsfreely, each likes his own life best." She said nothing more at themoment, and the three sat down to their small dinner-table. It wasastonishing to Alice that he should be able to talk in this way, tohint at such things, to allude to their former hopes and presentcondition, without a quiver in his voice, or, as far as she couldperceive, without any feeling in his heart.
"Alice," said her father, "I can't compliment your cook upon hersoup."
"You don't encourage her, papa, by eating it often enough. And thenyou only told me at two o'clock to-day."
"If a cook can't make soup between two and seven, she can't make itin a week."
"I hope Mr. Grey will excuse it," said Alice.
"Isn't it good?" said he. "I won't say that it is, because I shouldbe pretending to have an opinion but I should not have found outanything against it of myself."
"Where do you dine usually, now you are in London?" Mr. Vavasor asked.
"At the old club, at the corner of Suffolk Street. It's the oldestclub in London, I believe. I never belonged to any other, andtherefore can't compare them; but I can't imagine anything muchnicer."
"They give you better soup than ours?" said Alice.
"You've an excellent cook," said Mr. Vavasor, with great gravity; "oneof the best second-class cooks in London. We were very nearly gettinghim, but you nicked him just in time. I know him well."
"It's a great deal more than I do, or hope to do. There's anotherbranch of public life for which I'm quite unfitted. I'd as soon becalled on to choose a Prime Minister for the country, as I would acook for a club."
"Of course you would," said Mr. Vavasor. "There may be as many as adozen cooks about London to be looked up, but there are never morethan two possible Prime Ministers about. And as one of them must begoing out when the other is coming in, I don't see that there can beany difficulty. Moreover, now-a-days, people do their politics forthemselves, but they expect to have their dinners cooked for them."
The little dinner went on quietly and very easily. Mr. Vavasor foundfault with nearly everything. But as, on this occasion, the meatand the drink, with the manner of the eating and drinking, did notconstitute the difficulty, Alice was indifferent to her father'scensures. The thing needed was that she and Mr. Grey should be ableto sit together at the same table without apparent consciousness oftheir former ties. Alice felt that she was succeeding indifferentlywell while she was putting in little mock defences for the cook. Andas for John Grey, he succeeded so well that his success almost madeAlice angry with him. It required no effort with him at all to besuccessful in this matter. "If he can forget all that has passed,so much the better," said Alice to herself when she got up into thedrawing-room. Then she sat herself down on the sofa, and cried. Oh!what had she not lost! Had any woman ever been so mad, so reckless,so heartless as she had been! And she had done it, knowing that sheloved him! She cried bitterly, and then went away to wash her eyes,that she might be ready to give him his coffee when he should comeup-stairs.
"She does not look well," said Grey as soon as she had left the room.
"Well;--no: how can she look well after what she has gone through?I sometimes think, that of all the people I ever knew, she has beenthe most foolish. But, of course, it is not for me to say anythingagainst my own child; and, of all people, not to you."
"Nothing that you could say against her would make any difference tome. I sometimes fancy that I know her better than you do."
"And you think that she'll still come round again?"
"I cannot say that I think so. No one can venture to say whether ornot such wounds as hers may be cured. There are hearts and bodiesso organized, that in them severe wounds are incurable, whereas inothers no injury seems to be fatal. But I can say that if she be notcured it shall not be from want of perseverance on my part."
"Upon my word, Grey, I don't know how to thank you enough. I don't,indeed."
"It doesn't seem to me to be a case for thanking."
"Of course it isn't. I know that well enough. And in the ordinaryway of the world no father would think of thanking a man for wantingto marry his daughter. But things have come to such a pass with us,that, by George! I don't feel like any other father. I don't mindsaying anything to you, you know. That claret isn't very good, butyou might as well take another glass."
"Thank you, I will. I should have said that that was rather goodwine, now."
"It's not just the thing. What's the use of my having good wine here,when nobody comes to drink it? But, as I was saying about Alice, ofcourse I've felt all this thing very much. I feel as though I wereresponsible, and yet what could I do? She's her own mistress throughit all. When she told me she was going to marry that horriblemiscreant, my nephew, what could I do?"
"That's over now, and we need not talk about it."
"It's very kind of you to say so,--very. I believe she's a good girl.I do, indeed, in spite of it all."
"I've no doubt of her being what you call a good girl,--none in theleast. What she has done to me does not impair her goodness. I don'tthink you have ever understood how much all this has been a matter ofconscience with her."
"Conscience!" said the angry father. "I hate such conscience. Ilike the conscience that makes a girl keep her word, and not bringdisgrace upon those she belongs to."
"I shall not think that I am disgraced," said Grey, quietly, "ifshe will come and be my wife. She has meant to do right, and hasendeavoured to take care of the happiness of other people rather thanher own."
"She has taken very little care of mine," said Mr. Vavasor.
"I shall not be at all afraid to trust mine to her,--if she will letme do so. But she has been wounded sorely, and it must take time."
"And, in the meantime, what are we to do when she tells us thatMr. George Vavasor wants another remittance? Two thousand pounds aquarter comes heavy, you know!"
"Let us hope that he has had enough."
"Enough! Did such a man ever have enough?"
"Let us hope, then, that she thinks he has had enough. Come;--may Igo up-stairs?"
"Oh, yes. I'll follow you. She'll think that I mean something if Ileave you together."
From all this it will be seen that Alice's father and her lover stillstood together on confidential terms. Not easily had Mr. Vavasorbrought himself to speak of his daughter to John Grey, in suchlanguage as he had now used; but he had been forced by adversecircumstances to pass the Rubicon of parental delicacy; he had beendriven to tell his wished-for son-in-law that he did wish to have himas a son-in-law; he had been compelled to lay aside those little airsof reserve with which a father generally speaks of his daughter,--andnow all was open between them.
"And you really start to-morrow?" said Grey, as he stood closeover Alice's work-table. Mr. Vavasor had followed him into thedrawing-room, but had seated himself in an easy-chair on the otherside of the fire. There was no tone of whispering in Grey's voice,but yet he spoke in a manner which showed that he did not intend tobe audible on the other side of the room.
"I start for Westmoreland to-morrow. We do not leave London for thecontinent till the latter end of next week."
"But you will not be here again?"
"No; I shall not come back to Queen Anne Street."
"And you will be away for many months?"
"Mr. Palliser talked of next Easter as the term of his return. Hementioned Easter to Lady Glencora. I have not seen him myself sinceI agreed to go with him."
"What should you say if you met me somewhere in your travels?" He hadnow gently seated himself on the sofa beside her;--not so close toher as to give her just cause to move away, but yet so near as tomake his conversation with her quite private.
"I don't think that will be very likely," she replied, not knowingwh
at to say.
"I think it is very likely. For myself, I hate surprises. I could notbring myself to fall in upon your track unawares. I shall go abroad,but it will not be till the late autumn, when the summer heats aregone,--and I shall endeavour to find you."
"To find me, Mr. Grey!" There was a quivering in her voice, as shespoke, which she could not prevent, though she would have givenworlds to prevent it. "I do not think that will be quite fair."
"It will not be unfair, I think, if I give you notice of my approach.I will not fall upon you and your friends unawares."
"I was not thinking of them. They would be glad to know you, ofcourse."
"And equally, of course! or, rather, much more of course, you willnot be glad to see me? That's what you mean?"
"I mean that we had better not meet more than we can help."
"I think differently, Alice,--quite differently. The more we meet thebetter,--that is what I think. But I will not stop to trouble younow. Good night!" Then he got up and went away, and her father wentwith him. Mr. Vavasor, as he rose from his chair, declared that hewould just walk through a couple of streets; but Alice knew that hewas gone to his club.