Alice came down to breakfast on that Christmas morning at Vavasor Hall without making any sign as to the letter she had received. The party there consisted of her grandfather, her father, her cousin Kate, and herself. They all made their Christmas salutations as is usual, and Alice received and made hers as did the others, without showing that anything had occurred to disturb her tranquillity. Kate remarked that she had heard that morning from Aunt Greenow, and promised to show Alice the letter after breakfast. But Alice said no word of her own letter.
"Why didn't your aunt come here to eat her Christmas dinner?" said the Squire.
"Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her," said Kate, standing close to her grandfather,--for the old man was somewhat deaf.
"And why didn't you ask her;--that is, if she stands upon asking to come to her old home?"
"Nay, sir, but I couldn't do that without your bidding. We Vavasors are not always fond of meeting each other."
"Hold your tongue, Kate. I know what you mean, and you should be the last to speak of it. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I am much obliged to you for coming down all this way to see your old grandfather at Christmas. I am indeed. I only wish you had brought better news about your sweetheart."
"She'll think better of it before long, sir," said her father.
"Papa, you shouldn't say that. You would not wish me to marry against my own judgement."
"I don't know much about ladies' judgements," said the old man. "It does seem to me that when a lady makes a promise she ought to keep it."
"According to that," said Kate, "if I were engaged to a man, and found that he was a murderer, I still ought to marry him."
"But Mr. Grey is not a murderer," said the Squire.
"Pray,--pray, don't talk about it," said Alice. "If you do I really cannot sit and hear it."
"I have given over saying anything on the subject," said John Vavasor, speaking as though he had already expended upon it a vast amount of paternal eloquence. He had, however, never said more than has been recorded in these pages. Alice during this conversation, sat with her cousin's letter in her pocket, and as yet had not even begun to think what should be the nature of her reply.
The Squire of Vavasor Hall was a stout old man, with a red face and grey eyes, which looked fiercely at you, and with long grey hair, and a rough grey beard, which gave him something of the appearance of an old lion. He was passionate, unreasoning, and specially impatient of all opposition; but he was affectionate, prone to forgive when asked to do so, unselfish, and hospitable. He was, moreover, guided strictly by rules, which he believed to be rules of right. His grandson George had offended him very deeply,--had offended him and never asked his pardon. He was determined that such pardon should never be given, unless it were asked for with almost bended knees; but, nevertheless, this grandson should be his heir. That was his present intention. The right of primogeniture could not, in accordance with his theory, be abrogated by the fact that it was, in George Vavasor's case, protected by no law. The Squire could leave Vavasor Hall to whom he pleased, but he could not have hoped to rest quietly in his grave should it be found that he had left it to any one but the eldest son of his own eldest son. Though violent, and even stern, he was more prone to love than to anger; and though none of those around him dared to speak to him of his grandson, yet he longed in his heart for some opportunity of being reconciled to him.
The whole party went to church on this Christmas morning. The small parish church of Vavasor, an unpretending wooden structure, with a single bell which might be heard tinkling for a mile or two over the fells, stood all alone about half a mile from the Squire's gate. Vavasor was a parish situated on the intermediate ground between the mountains of the lake country and the plains. Its land was unproductive, ill-drained, and poor, and yet it possessed little or none of the beauty which tourists go to see. It was all amidst the fells, and very dreary. There were long skirtings of dark pines around a portion of the Squire's property, and at the back of the house there was a thick wood of firs running up to the top of what was there called the Beacon Hill. Through this there was a wild steep walk which came out upon the moorland, and from thence there was a track across the mountain to Hawes Water and Naddale, and on over many miles to the further beauties of Bowness and Windermere. They who knew the country, and whose legs were of use to them, could find some of the grandest scenery in England within reach of a walk from Vavasor Hall; but to others the place was very desolate. For myself, I can find I know not what of charm in wandering over open, unadorned moorland. It must be more in the softness of the grass to the feet, and the freshness of the air to the lungs, than in anything that meets the eye. You might walk for miles and miles to the north-east, or east, or south-east of Vavasor without meeting any object to arrest the view. The great road from Lancaster to Carlisle crossed the outskirts of the small parish about a mile from the church, and beyond that the fell seemed to be interminable. Towards the north it rose, and towards the south it fell, and it rose and fell very gradually. Here and there some slight appearance of a valley might be traced which had been formed by the action of the waters; but such breakings of ground were inconsiderable, and did not suffice to interrupt the stern sameness of the everlasting moorland.
The daily life at Vavasor was melancholy enough for such a one as the Squire's son, who regarded London as the only place on the earth's surface in which a man could live with comfort. The moors offered no charms to him. Nor did he much appreciate the homely comforts of the Hall; for the house, though warm, was old-fashioned and small, and the Squire's cook was nearly as old as the Squire himself. John Vavasor's visits to Vavasor were always visits of duty rather than of pleasure. But it was not so with Alice. She could be very happy there with Kate; for, like herself, Kate was a good walker and loved the mountains. Their regard for each other had grown and become strong because they had gone together o'er river and moor, and because they had together disregarded those impediments of mud and wet which frighten so many girls away from the beauties of nature.
On this Christmas Day they all went to church, the Squire being accompanied by Alice in a vehicle which in Ireland is called an inside jaunting-car, and which is perhaps the most uncomfortable kind of vehicle yet invented; while John Vavasor walked with his niece. But the girls had arranged that immediately after church they would start for a walk up the Beacon Hill, across the fells, towards Hawes Water. They always dined at the Hall at the vexatious hour of five; but as their church service, with the sacrament included, would be completed soon after twelve, and as lunch was a meal which the Squire did not himself attend, they could have full four hours for their excursion. This had all been planned before Alice received her letter; but there was nothing in that to make her change her mind about the walk.
"Alice, my dear," said the old man to her when they were together in the jaunting-car, "you ought to get married." The Squire was hard of hearing, and under any circumstances an inside jaunting-car is a bad place for conversation, as your teeth are nearly shaken out of your head by every movement which the horse makes. Alice therefore said nothing, but smiled faintly, in reply to her grandfather. On returning from church he insisted that Alice should again accompany him, telling her specially that he desired to speak to her. "My dear child," he said, "I have been thinking a great deal about you, and you ought to get married."
"Well, sir, perhaps I shall some day."
"Not if you quarrel with all your suitors," said the old man. "You quarrelled with your cousin George, and now you have quarrelled with Mr. Grey. You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in that way."
"Why should I be married more than Kate?"
"Oh, Kate! I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wish you'd think of what I say. If you don't get married before long, perhaps you'll never get married at all. Gentlemen won't stand that kind of thing for ever."
The two girls took a slice of cake each in her hand, and started on their walk. "We shan't be able to get to the lake," said Kate.
"No," said Alice; "but we can go as far as the big stone on Swindale Fell, where we can sit down and see it."
"Do you remember the last time we sat there?" said Kate. "It is nearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all was to be over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was, and how I screamed in my sorrow? I sometimes wonder at myself and my own folly. How is it that I can never get up any interest about my own belongings? And then we got soaking wet through coming home."
"I remember that very well."
"And how dark it was! That was in September, but we had dined early. If we go as far as Swindale we shall have it very dark coming home to-day;--but I don't mind that through the Beacon Wood, because I know my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark?"
"Oh, no," said Alice.
"Yes; I do remember that day. Well; it's all for the best, I suppose. And now I must read you my aunt's letter." Then, while they were still in the wood, Kate took out the letter from her aunt and read it, while they still walked slowly up the hill. It seemed that hitherto neither of her two suitors had brought the widow to terms. Indeed, she continued to write of Mr. Cheesacre as though that gentleman were inconsolable for the loss of Kate, and gave her niece much serious advice as to the expedience of returning to Norfolk, in order that she might secure so eligible a husband. "You must understand all the time, Alice," said Kate, pausing as she read the letter, "that the dear man has never given me the slightest ground for the faintest hope, and that I know to a certainty that he makes an offer to her twice a week,--that is, on every market day. You can't enjoy half the joke if you won't bear that in mind." Alice promised that she would bear it all in mind, and then Kate went on with her reading. Poor Bellfield was working very hard at his drill, Mrs. Greenow went on to say; so hard that sometimes she really thought the fatigue would be too much for his strength. He would come in sometimes of an evening and just take a cup of tea;--generally on Mondays and Thursdays. "These are not market days at Norwich," said Kate; "and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided." "He comes in," said Mrs. Greenow, "and takes a little tea; and sometimes I think that he will faint at my feet." "That he kneels there on every occasion," said Kate, "and repeats his offer also twice a week, I have not the least doubt in the world."
"And will she accept him at last?"
"Really I don't know what to think of it. Sometimes I fancy that she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake to put herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money, because he wants it sadly and she is very generous. She gives him money, I feel sure, but takes his receipt on stamped paper for every shilling. That's her character all over."
The letter then went on to say that the writer had made up her mind to remain at Norwich certainly through the winter and spring, and that she was anxiously desirous that her dear Kate should go back to her. "Come and have one other look at Oileymead," said the letter, "and then, if you make up your mind that you don't like it or him, I won't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a very honest fellow." "Did you ever know such a woman?" said Kate; "with all her faults I believe she would go through fire and water to serve me. I think she'd lend me money without any stamped paper." Then Aunt Greenow's letter was put up, and the two girls had come out upon the open fell.
It was a delicious afternoon for a winter's walk. The air was clear and cold, but not actually frosty. The ground beneath their feet was dry, and the sky, though not bright, had that appearance of enduring weather which gives no foreboding of rain. There is a special winter's light, which is very clear though devoid of all brilliancy,--through which every object strikes upon the eye with well-marked lines, and under which almost all forms of nature seem graceful to the sight if not actually beautiful. But there is a certain melancholy which ever accompanies it. It is the light of the afternoon, and gives token of the speedy coming of the early twilight. It tells of the shortness of the day, and contains even in its clearness a promise of the gloom of night. It is absolute light, but it seems to contain the darkness which is to follow it. I do not know that it is ever to be seen and felt so plainly as on the wide moorland, where the eye stretches away over miles, and sees at the world's end the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselves upon the horizon. Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, and both the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the big stone on Swindale Fell, from which they intended to look down upon the loveliness of Hawes Water. As they went up through the wood there had been some laughter between them over Aunt Greenow's letter; and they had discussed almost with mirth the merits of Oileymead and Mr. Cheesacre; but as they got further on to the fell, and as the half-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, their words became less light, and after a while they almost ceased to speak.
Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had placed it there when she came down to breakfast, and had carried it with her since. She had come to no resolution as yet as to her answer to it, nor had she resolved whether or no she would show it to Kate. Kate had ever been regarded by her as her steadfast friend. In all these affairs she had spoken openly to Kate. We know that Kate had in part betrayed her, but Alice suspected no such treason. She had often quarrelled with Kate; but she had quarrelled with her not on account of any sin against the faith of their friendship. She believed in her cousin perfectly, though she found herself often called upon to disagree with her almost violently. Why should she not show this letter to Kate, and discuss it in all its bearings before she replied to it? This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the fell.
The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclined to give way, and to join her lot to that of her cousin George. Alas, yes! The reader will be right in his surmise. And yet it was not her love for the man that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. Had it been so, I think that it would be easier to forgive her. She was beginning to think that love,--the love of which she had once thought so much,--did not matter. Of what use was it, and to what had it led? What had love done for her friend Glencora? What had love done for her? Had she not loved John Grey, and had she not felt that with all her love life with him would have been distasteful to her? It would have been impossible for her to marry a man whom personally she disliked; but she liked her cousin George,--well enough, as she said to herself almost indifferently.
Upon the whole it was a grievous task to her in these days,--this having to do something with her life. Was it not all vain and futile? As for that girl's dream of the joys of love which she had once dreamed,--that had gone from her slumbers, never to return. How might she best make herself useful,--useful in some sort that might gratify her ambition;--that was now the question which seemed to her to be of most importance.
Her cousin's letter to her had been very crafty. He had studied the whole of her character accurately as he wrote it. When he had sat down to write it he had been indifferent to the result; but he had written it with that care to attain success which a man uses when he is anxious not to fail in an attempt. Whether or no he cared to marry his cousin was a point so little interesting to him that chance might decide it for him; but when chance had decided that he did wish it, it was necessary for his honour that he should have that for which he condescended to ask.
His letter to her had been clever and very crafty. "At any rate he does me justice," she said to herself, when she read those words about her money, and the use which he proposed to make of it. "He is welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether he has it as my friend or as my husband." Then she thought of Kate's promise of her little mite, and declared to herself that she would not be less noble than her cousin Kate. And would it not be well that she should be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather? George was the representative of the family,--of a family so old that no one now knew which had first taken the ancient titular name of some old Saxon landowner,--the parish, or the man. There had been in old days some worthy Vavaseurs, as Chaucer calls them, whose rank and bearing had been adopted on the moorland side. Of these things Alice thought much, and felt that it should be her duty so to act, that future Vavasors might at any rate not be less in the world than they who had passed away. In a few years at furthest, George Vavasor must be Vavasor of Vavasor. Would it not be right that she should help him to make that position honourable?
They walked on, exchanging now and again a word or two, till the distant Cumberland mountains began to form themselves in groups of beauty before their eyes. "There's Helvellyn at last," said Kate. "I'm always happy when I see that." "And isn't that Kidsty Pike?" asked Alice. "No; you don't see Kidsty yet. But you will when you get up to the bank there. That's Scaw Fell on the left;--the round distant top. I can distinguish it, though I doubt whether you can." Then they went on again, and were soon at the bank from whence the sharp top of the mountain which Alice had named was visible. "And now we are on Swindale, and in five minutes we shall get to the stone."
In less than five minutes they were there; and then, but not till then, the beauty of the little lake, lying down below them in the quiet bosom of the hills, disclosed itself. A lake should, I think, be small, and should be seen from above, to be seen in all its glory. The distance should be such that the shadows of the mountains on its surface may just be traced, and that some faint idea of the ripple on the waters may be present to the eye. And the form of the lakes should be irregular, curving round from its base among the lower hills, deeper and still deeper into some close nook up among the mountains from which its head waters spring. It is thus that a lake should be seen, and it was thus that Hawes Water was seen by them from the flat stone on the side of Swindale Fell. The basin of the lake has formed itself into the shape of the figure of 3, and the top section of the figure lies embosomed among the very wildest of the Westmoreland mountains. Altogether it is not above three miles long, and every point of it was to be seen from the spot on which the girls sat themselves down. The water beneath was still as death, and as dark,--and looked almost as cold. But the slow clouds were passing over it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed themselves with gradual changes. And though no movement was visible, there was ever and again in places a slight sheen upon the lake, which indicated the ripple made by the breeze.
"I'm so glad I've come here," said Alice, seating herself. "I cannot bear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes at least."
"We'll get over to Windermere one day," said Kate.
"I don't think we shall. I don't think it possible that I should stay long. Kate, I've got a letter to show you." And there was that in the tone of her voice which instantly put Kate upon her mettle.
Kate seated herself also, and put up her hand for the letter. "Is it from Mr. Grey?" she asked.
"No," said Alice; "it is not from Mr. Grey." And she gave her companion the paper. Kate before she had touched it had seen that it was from her brother George; and as she opened it looked anxiously into Alice's face. "Has he offended you?" Kate asked.
[Illustration: Swindale Fell.]
"Read it," said Alice, "and then we'll talk of it afterwards,--as we go home." Then she got up from the stone and walked a step or two towards the brow of the fell, and stood there looking down upon the lake, while Kate read the letter. "Well!" she said, when she returned to her place.
"Well," said Kate. "Alice, Alice, it will, indeed, be well if you listen to him. Oh, Alice, may I hope? Alice, my own Alice, my darling, my friend! Say that it shall be so." And Kate knelt at her friend's feet upon the heather, and looked up into her face with eyes full of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false as she had been, and yet could be so true?
Alice made no immediate answer, but still continued to gaze down over her friend upon the lake. "Alice," continued Kate, "I did not think I should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have the heart to bring me here and show me this letter in this way, and bid me read it so calmly, and then tell me that it is all for nothing. No; you could not do that? Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this place. I hated it before." And then she put her face down upon the boulder-stone and kissed it. Still Alice said nothing, but she began to feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It was almost impossible for her now to say that her answer to George must be a refusal.
Then Kate again went on speaking. "But is it not a beautiful letter? Say, Alice,--is it not a letter of which if you were his brother you would feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage, who will yet do manly things. Here out on the mountain, with nobody near us, with Nature all round us, I ask you on your solemn word as a woman, do you love him?"
"Love him!" said Alice.
"Yes;--love him: as a woman should love her husband. Is not your heart his? Alice, there need be no lies now. If it be so, it should be your glory to say so, here, to me, as you hold that letter in your hand."
"I can have no such glory, Kate. I have ever loved my cousin; but not so passionately as you seem to think."
"Then there can be no passion in you."
"Perhaps not, Kate. I would sometimes hope that it is so. But come; we shall be late; and you will be cold sitting there."
"I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would be as I would have it. But, Alice, at any rate you shall tell me before I move what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; but make me happy by saying so with your own lips."
"I cannot tell you before you move, Kate."
"And why not?"
"Because I have not as yet resolved."
"Ah, that is impossible. That is quite impossible. On such a subject and under such circumstances a woman must resolve at the first moment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read the letter;--though, perhaps, it may not suit you to say so."
"You are quite mistaken. Come along and let us walk, and I will tell you all." Then Kate arose, and they turned their back to the lake, and began to make their way homewards. "I have not made up my mind as to what answer I will give him; but I have shown you his letter in order that I might have some one with whom I might speak openly. I knew well how it would be, and that you would strive to hurry me into an immediate promise."
"No;--no; I want nothing of the kind."
"But yet I could not deny myself the comfort of your friendship."
"No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do not wish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Has it not been the longing of all my life? Have I not passed my time plotting and planning and thinking of it till I have had time to think of nothing else? Do you know what I suffered when, through George's fault, the engagement was broken off? Was it not martyrdom to me,--that horrid time in which your Crichton from Cambridgeshire was in the ascendant? Did I not suffer the tortures of purgatory while that went on;--and yet, on the whole, did I not bear them with patience? And, now, can you be surprised that I am wild with joy when I begin to see that everything will be as I wish;--for it will be as I wish, Alice. It may be that you have not resolved to accept him. But you would have resolved to refuse him instantly had that been your destined answer to his letter." There was but little more said between them on the subject as they were passing over the fell, but when they were going down the path through the Beacon Wood, Kate again spoke: "You will not answer him without speaking to me first?" said Kate.
"I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you," said Alice.
"And you will let me see it?"
"Nay," said Alice; "I will not promise that. But if it is unfavourable I will show it you."
"Then I shall never see it," said Kate, laughing. "But that is quite enough for me. I by no means wish to criticise the love-sweet words in which you tell him that his offences are all forgiven. I know how sweet they will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him!"
Then they were at home; and the old man met them at the front door, glowering at them angrily from out his old leonine eyes, because the roast beef was already roasted. He had his great uncouth silver watch in his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and he pointed at it fiercely, showing them the minute hand at ten minutes past the hour.
"But, grandpapa, you are always too fast," said Kate.
"And you are always too slow, miss," said the hungry old squire.
"Indeed, it is not five yet. Is it, Alice?"
"And how long are you going to be dressing?"
"Not ten minutes;--are we, Alice? And, grandpapa, pray don't wait."
"Don't wait! That's what they always say," he muttered, peevishly. "As if one would be any better waiting for them after the meat is on the table." But neither Kate nor Alice heard this, as they were already in their rooms.
Nothing more was said that evening between Alice and Kate about the letter; but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night inside her bedroom door, spoke to her just one word--"Pray for him to-night," she said, "as you pray for those you love best." Alice made no answer, but we may believe that she did as she was desired to do.

Alice came down to breakfast on Christmas morning at Vavasor Hall to greet her grandfather, her father, and her cousin Kate. Kate remarked that she had received a letter from Aunt Greenow, and promised to show it to Alice after breakfast. But Alice said no word of her own letter.
"Why didn't your aunt come here for Christmas dinner?" said the Squire.
"Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her," said Kate, standing close to the old man, who was somewhat deaf.
"And why didn't you ask her?"
"I couldn't do that without your bidding, sir. We Vavasors are not always fond of meeting each other."
"Hold your tongue, Kate. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I am much obliged to you for coming all this way to see your old grandfather at Christmas. I only wish you had brought better news about your sweetheart."
"She'll think better of it before long, sir," said her father.
"Papa, you shouldn't say that. You would not wish me to marry against my own judgement."
"I don't know much about ladies' judgements," said the old man. "It does seem to me that when a lady makes a promise she ought to keep it."
"According to that," said Kate, "if I were engaged to a man, and found that he was a murderer, I still ought to marry him."
"But Mr. Grey is not a murderer," said the Squire.
"Please don't talk about it," said Alice.
"I will say nothing more on the subject," said John Vavasor. Alice meanwhile sat with her cousin's letter in her pocket, and had not even begun to think how she should reply.
The Squire of Vavasor Hall was a stout old man, with a red face and fierce grey eyes; his long grey hair and beard gave him the appearance of an old lion. He was excitable, unreasoning, and impatient of all opposition; but he was also affectionate, ready to forgive, unselfish, and hospitable. He was guided strictly by what he believed to be rules of right.
His grandson George had offended him very deeply, and had never asked his pardon. He was determined that such pardon should never be given, unless it were asked for with bended knees; but, nevertheless, this grandson should be his heir. The Squire could not have rested quietly in his grave if he had left his estate to anyone but the eldest son of his eldest son. Though violent, he was more prone to love than anger; and he longed in his heart for some opportunity of being reconciled to George.
The whole party went to church on Christmas morning. The small parish church of Vavasor, an unpretending wooden building, stood all alone half a mile from the Squire's gate. Vavasor was a parish between the mountains of the lake district and the plains. Its land was unproductive, ill-drained, and poor, with little of the beauty which tourists go to see. It was very dreary. There were dark pines around part of it, and at the back of the house there was a thick wood of firs running up to the top of a hill. Through this there was a wild steep walk which came out upon the moorland, and from there a track led across the mountain to Hawes Water, and on over many miles to the beauties of Windermere. But it was a long walk; and you might walk for miles and miles in other directions without seeing anything but the stern, everlasting moorland.
The daily life at Vavasor was melancholy for John Vavasor, who regarded London as the only place where a man could live with comfort. The moors offered no charms to him; nor did the homely comforts of the old-fashioned Hall. But Alice could be very happy there with Kate; for both were good walkers and loved the mountains. Their regard for each other had grown as they had walked together over river and moor, disregarding the mud and wet which frighten so many girls away from the beauties of nature.
On this Christmas Day Alice accompanied the Squire to church in a vehicle which in Ireland is called a jaunting-car, and which is perhaps the most uncomfortable vehicle yet invented. John Vavasor walked with Kate. But the girls had arranged that immediately after church they would start for a walk across the fells towards Hawes Water. They would have four hours for their excursion before dinner at five. This had all been planned before Alice received her letter.
"Alice, my dear," said the old man to her in the jaunting-car after church, "you ought to get married." The Squire was hard of hearing, and a jaunting-car is a bad place for conversation, as your teeth are nearly shaken out of your head by every movement of the horse.
"Well, sir, perhaps I shall some day."
"Not if you quarrel with all your suitors," said the old man. "You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in that way."
"Why should I be married more than Kate?"
"I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wish you'd think about it. If you don't get married before long, perhaps you never will at all."
On returning home the two girls each took a slice of cake, and started on their walk.
"We shan't get to the lake," said Kate.
"No," said Alice; "but we can go as far as the big stone on Swindale Fell, where we can sit down and see it."
"Do you remember the last time we sat there?" said Kate. "It was nearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all was over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was, and how I screamed in my sorrow? And then we got soaking wet coming home."
"I remember that very well."
"And how dark it was! If we go as far as Swindale we shall have it very dark coming home today; but I don't mind, because I know my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark?"
"Oh, no," said Alice.
"Well; it's all for the best, I suppose. And now I must read you my aunt's letter." Kate took out the letter and read it while they walked slowly up the hill. It seemed that neither of her two suitors had succeeded with the widow. Indeed, she wrote of Mr. Cheesacre as though he were inconsolable for the loss of Kate, and advised her to return to Norfolk so that she might secure him.
"You must understand, Alice," said Kate, pausing, "that the dear man has never given me the slightest ground for hope, and that I know that he makes an offer to her twice a week - on every market day." Then she went on reading. Poor Bellfield was working very hard at his drill, Mrs. Greenow wrote; sometimes she really thought the fatigue would be too much for his strength. He would sometimes come and just take a cup of tea - generally on Mondays and Thursdays. "These are not market days," said Kate; "and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided. I have not the slightest doubt that he also offers for her twice a week."
"And will she accept him at last?"
"Really, I don't know. Sometimes I fancy that she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake to put herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money, because she is very generous."
The letter went on to say that her aunt had decided to remain at Norwich through the winter and spring, and that she hoped dear Kate would go back to her. "Come and have another look at Oileymead," said the letter, "and then, if you don't like it or him, I won't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a very honest fellow."
"Did you ever know such a woman?" said Kate. Then Aunt Greenow's letter was put away, and the two girls had come to the open fell.
It was a delicious afternoon for a winter's walk. The air was clear and cold, but not frosty. The ground was dry, and the sky gave no sign of rain. There is a special winter's light which is very clear, but melancholy; it tells of the shortness of the day and the coming of the early twilight. It is never seen so plainly as on the wide moorland, where the eye stretches away over miles to the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselves upon the horizon.
Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, and both the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the big stone on Swindale Fell. At first they had discussed almost with mirth the merits of Oileymead and Mr. Cheesacre; but as they got further on to the fell, the half-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, and they ceased to speak.
Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had come to no decision yet as to her answer; nor had she decided whether to show it to Kate. She regarded Kate as her steadfast friend, and suspected no treason by her. She had often quarrelled with Kate; but not because she did not trust her. Why should she not show this letter to Kate, and discuss it before she replied to it? This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the fell.
The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclined to give way, and to accept her cousin George. Alas, yes! The reader will be right.
And yet it was not her love for him that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. That would have been easier to forgive. She was beginning to think that the love of which she had once thought so much did not matter. Of what use was it, and to what had it led? What had love done for her friend Glencora? What had love done for her? Had she not loved John Grey, and had she not felt that life with him would have been distasteful to her? She could not marry a man whom she disliked, but she liked her cousin George well enough, as she said to herself almost indifferently.
It was a grievous task to her these days - this having to do something with her life. Was it not all futile? As for her earlier dream of the joys of love - that had gone, never to return. How she could make herself useful in some way that might gratify her ambition; that was now the question which seemed most important.
Her cousin's letter to her had been very crafty. He had considered her character, and had written it with care. Whether he cared to marry his cousin was a point of so little interest to him that he left it to chance; but once chance had decided that he did wish it, it was necessary for his honour that he should get what he wanted.
"At any rate he does me justice," Alice said to herself, when she read his words about her money. "He is welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether as my friend or as my husband." And would it not be well that she should be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather? George was the heir of a family so old that it went back to the Saxons. Alice thought much about this, and felt that it should be her duty to help George attain honour in his position.
They walked on, exchanging a word or two, till the distant Cumberland mountains began to appear.
"There's Helvellyn at last," said Kate. "I'm always happy when I see that. That's Scaw Fell on the left; the round distant top."
Soon they were at the top of the bank; and then the beauty of the little lake of Haweswater lying down below them disclosed itself. A lake should, I think, be seen from above, to be seen in all its glory. The water beneath them was still as death, and as dark. But the slow clouds were passing over it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed, as now a then a slight sheen was laid upon it by the breeze.
"I'm so glad I've come here," said Alice, seating herself. "I cannot bear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes at least."
"We'll get over to Windermere one day," said Kate.
"I don't think so. I don't think I can stay long. Kate, I've got a letter to show you." And the tone of her voice instantly put Kate upon her mettle.
"Is it from Mr. Grey?" she asked.
"No," said Alice. She gave her companion the paper, and Kate saw it was from her brother. As she opened it looked anxiously at Alice.
"Has he offended you?" she asked.
"Read it," said Alice, "and then we'll talk of it as we go home." Then she got up and stood looking down upon the lake while Kate read.
"Well," said Kate at last. "Alice, oh, Alice, may I hope? My own Alice, my darling! Say that it shall be so." And Kate knelt at her friend's feet upon the heather, and looked up at her with eyes full of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false as she had been, and yet could be so true?
Alice made no answer, but continued to gaze down upon the lake.
"Alice," continued Kate, "I did not think I should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have the heart to bring me here and show me this letter, and then tell me that it is all for nothing. Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this place."
Alice said nothing, but she began to feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It was almost impossible for her now to say that she must refuse George.
Kate went on. "Is it not a beautiful letter? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart, who will do manly things. Do you love him?"
"Love him!" said Alice.
"Yes. Is not your heart his?."
"I have always loved my cousin. Kate; but not so passionately as you seem to think."
"Then there can be no passion in you."
"Perhaps not, Kate. I sometimes hope that it is so. But come; we shall be late; and you will get cold sitting there."
"I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would a yes. But, Alice, tell me what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; but make me happy by saying so."
"I cannot tell you, Kate. I have not yet decided."
"Ah, that is impossible. On such a subject a woman must decide at the first moment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read the letter."
"You are quite mistaken. Let us walk, and I will tell you all." They turned their backs to the lake, and began to make their way homewards. "I have shown you his letter so that I might have someone with whom I could speak openly. I knew how it would be, and that you would try to hurry me into an immediate promise."
"No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do not wish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Has it not been the longing of my life? Have I not passed my time planning and thinking of it? Do you know what I suffered when the engagement was broken off? And, now, can you be surprised that I am wild with joy? - for it will be as I wish, Alice. You would have decided to refuse him instantly had that been your destiny."
There was little more said until they were going down the path through the Beacon Wood. Then Kate again spoke:
"You will not answer him without speaking to me first?"
"I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you," said Alice.
"And you will let me see it?"
"No," said Alice. "But if it is unfavourable I will show it you."
"Then I shall never see it," said Kate, laughing. "That is enough for me. I know how sweet your words of forgiveness will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him!"
Then they were at home; and the old man met them at the front door, glowering angrily, because the roast beef was ready. He had his great uncouth silver watch in his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and he pointed at it fiercely.
"But, grandpapa, you are always too fast," said Kate.
"And you are always too slow, miss," said the hungry old squire.
"It is not five yet." And the two girls hurried to their rooms to change.
Nothing more was said that evening about the letter; but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night, said, "Pray for him tonight, as you pray for those you love best."
Alice made no answer, but we may believe she did as Kate desired.


Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London from Westmoreland he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand. Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared. Mr. Grimes, of the "Handsome Man," had shown signs of returning allegiance. But Mr. Grimes could not afford to be loyal without money. He had his little family to protect. Mr. Scruby, too, had his little family, and was not ashamed to use it on this occasion. "I'm a family man, Mr. Vavasor, and therefore I never run any risks. I never go a yard further than I can see my way back." This he had said in answer to a proposition that he should take George's note of hand for the expenses of the next election, payable in three months' time. "It is so very hard to realize," said George, "immediately upon a death, when all the property left is real property." "Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard with accuracy all the particulars of the old Squire's will. Vavasor understood the lawyer, cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey,--and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days after the interview in which his own note of hand had been refused, he again called in Great Marlborough Street. Upon this occasion he tendered to Mr. Scruby for his approval the four slips of paper which have been mentioned. Mr. Scruby regarded them with attention, looking first at one side horizontally, and then at the other side perpendicularly. But before we learn the judgement pronounced by Mr. Scruby as to these four slips of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far.
One morning, at about eleven o'clock the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" in the hall waiting to be seen by her. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that the gentleman is not a gentleman.
"A gentleman wanting to see me! What sort of a gentleman?"
"Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort; but he's decent to look at."
Alice Vavasor had no desire to deny herself to any person but one. She was well aware that the gentleman in the hall could not be her cousin George, and therefore she did not refuse to see him.
"Let him come up," she said. "But I think, Jane, you ought to ask him his name." Jane did ask him his name, and came back immediately, announcing Mr. Levy.
This occurred immediately after the return of Mr. John Vavasor from Westmoreland. He had reached home late on the preceding evening, and at the moment of Mr. Levy's call was in his dressing-room.
Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was certainly not a gentleman of the sort to which she had been most accustomed. He was a little dark man, with sharp eyes, set very near to each other in his head, with a beaked nose, thick at the bridge, and a black moustache, but no other beard. Alice did not at all like the look of Mr. Levy, but she stood up to receive him, made him a little bow, and asked him to sit down.
"Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant.
"Well, miss, I don't think he is,--not to say dressed."
Alice had thought it might be as well that Mr. Levy should know that there was a gentleman in the house with her.
"I've called about a little bit of business, miss," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he took a case out of his breast-pocket, and produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "Yes, Mr. George Vavasor," said Mr. Levy. "I dare say you never saw me before, miss?"
"No, sir; I think not," said Alice.
"I am your cousin's clerk."
"Oh, you're Mr. Vavasor's clerk. I'll read his letter, if you please, sir."
"If you please, miss."
George Vavasor's letter to his cousin was as follows:--
DEAR ALICE,
After what passed between us when I last saw you I thought that on my return from Westmoreland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know when or how to do that which business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this now, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever incumbent on you that you should be true to your pledge to me.
Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us,--and this I do not doubt will come,--I think it wiser not to call, myself, at Queen Anne Street. I therefore send my confidential clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you the way in which this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying ready, at any rate, not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. They know you so well at Drummonds' that you will not object to call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right.
I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be very disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine.
Affectionately yours,
GEORGE VAVASOR.
The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness,--if she had been remiss,--rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. The decision with which he asked for her money, without any pretence at an excuse on his part, did for the time induce her to believe that she had no alternative but to give it to him, and that she had been wrong in delaying it. She had told him that he should have it, and she ought to have been as good as her word. She should not have forced upon him the necessity of demanding it.
But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then intrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she might have asked him. The thought that she would do so of course occurred to her. But then it occurred to her also that were she to speak to her father as to this advancing of money to her cousin,--to this giving of money, for she now well understood that it would be a gift;--were she to consult her father in any way about it, he would hinder her, not only from signing the bills for Mr. Levy, but, as far as he could do so, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money, and she knew that she could give it to him in spite of her father. But her father might probably be able to delay the gift, and thus rob it of its chief value. If she were to sign the bills, the money must be made to be forthcoming. So much she understood.
Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills from the same case, and had placed them on the table before him. "Mr. Vavasor has explained, I believe, miss, what it is you have to do?" he said.
"Yes, sir; my cousin has explained."
"And there is nothing else to trouble you with, I believe. If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer." Mr. Levy was very anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house.
But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. She had heard much of sharpers, and thought that she ought to be cautious. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time.
"It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy.
"Could you not leave them with me, sir?" said Alice.
"Well; not very well, miss. No doubt Mr. Vavasor has explained it all; but the fact is, he must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down on the nail about this here election, and if it ain't down to-day, them on whom he has to depend will be all abroad."
"But, sir, the money will not be payable to-day. If I understand it, they are not cheques."
"No, miss, no; they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money;--just the same."
She paused, and while she paused, he reached a pen for her from the writing-table, and then she signed the four bills as he held them before her. She was quick enough at doing this when she had once commenced the work. Her object, then, was that the man should be gone from the house before her father could meet him.
These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor tendered to Mr. Scruby's notice on the occasion which we have now in hand. In doing so, he made use of them after the manner of a grand capitalist, who knows that he may assume certain airs as he allows the odours of the sweetness of his wealth to drop from him.
"You insisted on ready money, with your d---- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say."
"Fourteen days is neither here nor there," said Mr. Scruby. "We can let our payments stand over as long as that, without doing any harm. I'll send one of my men down to Grimes, and tell him I can't see him, till,--let me see," and he looked at one of the bills, "till the 15th."
But this was not exactly what George Vavasor wanted. He was desirous that the bills should be immediately turned into money, so that the necessity of forcing payments from Alice, should due provision for the bills not be made, might fall into other hands than his.
"We can wait till the 15th," said Scruby, as he handed the bits of paper back to his customer.
"You will want a thousand, you say?" said George.
"A thousand to begin with. Certainly not less."
"Then you had better keep two of them."
"Well--no! I don't see the use of that. You had better collect them through your own banker, and let me have a cheque on the 15th or 16th."
"How cursed suspicious you are, Scruby."
"No, I ain't. I'm not a bit suspicious. I don't deal in such articles; that's all!"
"What doubt can there be about such bills as those? Everybody knows that my cousin has a considerable fortune, altogether at her own disposal."
"The truth is, Mr. Vavasor, that bills with ladies' names on them,--ladies who are no way connected with business,--ain't just the paper that people like."
"Nothing on earth can be surer."
"You take them into the City for discount, and see if the bankers don't tell you the same. They may be done, of course, upon your name. I say nothing about that."
"I can explain to you the nature of the family arrangement, but I can't do that to a stranger. However, I don't mind."
"Of course not. The time is so short that it does not signify. Have them collected through your own bankers, and then, if it don't suit you to call, send me a cheque for a thousand pounds when the time is up." Then Mr. Scruby turned to some papers on his right hand, as though the interview had been long enough. Vavasor looked at him angrily, opening his wound at him and cursing him inwardly. Mr. Scruby went on with his paper, by no means regarding either the wound or the unspoken curses. Thereupon Vavasor got up and went away without any word of farewell.
As he walked along Great Marlborough Street, and through those unalluring streets which surround the Soho district, and so on to the Strand and his own lodgings, he still continued to think of some wide scheme of revenge,--of some scheme in which Mr. Scruby might be included. There had appeared something latterly in Mr. Scruby's manner to him, something of mingled impatience and familiarity, which made him feel that he had fallen in the attorney's estimation. It was not that the lawyer thought him to be less honourable, or less clever, than he had before thought him; but that the man was like a rat, and knew a falling house by the instinct that was in him. So George Vavasor cursed Mr. Scruby, and calculated some method of murdering him without detection.
The reader is not to suppose that the Member for the Chelsea Districts had, in truth, resolved to gratify his revenge by murder,--by murdering any of those persons whom he hated so vigorously. He did not, himself, think it probable that he would become a murderer. But he received some secret satisfaction in allowing his mind to dwell upon the subject, and in making those calculations. He reflected that it would not do to take off Scruby and John Grey at the same time, as it would be known that he was connected with both of them; unless, indeed, he was to take off a third person at the same time,--a third person, as to the expediency of ending whose career he made his calculations quite as often as he did in regard to any of those persons whom he cursed so often. It need hardly be explained to the reader that this third person was the sitting Member for the Chelsea Districts.
As he was himself in want of instant ready money Mr. Scruby's proposition that he should leave the four bills at his own bankers', to be collected when they came to maturity, did not suit him. He doubted much, also, whether at the end of the fourteen days the money would be forthcoming. Alice would be driven to tell her father, in order that the money might be procured, and John Vavasor would probably succeed in putting impediments in the way of the payment. He must take the bills into the City, and do the best there that he could with them. He was too late for this to-day, and therefore he went to his lodgings, and then down to the House. In the House he sat all the night with his hat over his eyes, making those little calculations of which I have spoken.
"You have heard the news; haven't you?" said Mr. Bott to him, whispering in his ear.
"News; no. I haven't heard any news."
"Finespun has resigned, and Palliser is at this moment with the Duke of St. Bungay in the Lords' library."
"They may both be at the bottom of the Lords' fishpond, for what I care," said Vavasor.
"That's nonsense, you know," said Bott. "Still, you know Palliser is Chancellor of the Exchequer at this moment. What a lucky fellow you are to have such a chance come to you directly you get in. As soon as he takes his seat down there, of course we shall go up behind him."
"We shall have another election in a month's time," said George. "I'm safe enough," said Bott. "It never hurts a man at elections to be closely connected with the Government."
George Vavasor was in the City by times the next morning, but he found that the City did not look with favourable eyes on his four bills. The City took them up, first horizontally, and then, with a twist of its hand, perpendicularly, and looked at them with distrustful eyes. The City repeated the name, Alice Vavasor, as though it were not esteemed a good name on Change. The City suggested that as the time was so short, the holder of the bills would be wise to hold them till he could collect the amount. It was very clear that the City suspected something wrong in the transaction. The City, by one of its mouths, asserted plainly that ladies' bills never meant business. George Vavasor cursed the City, and made his calculation about murdering it. Might not a river of strychnine be turned on round the Exchange about luncheon time? Three of the bills he left at last with his own bankers for collection, and retained the fourth in his breast-pocket, intending on the morrow to descend with it into those lower depths of the money market which he had not as yet visited. Again, on the next day, he went to work and succeeded to some extent. Among those lower depths he found a capitalist who was willing to advance him two hundred pounds, keeping that fourth bill in his possession as security. The capitalist was to have forty pounds for the transaction, and George cursed him as he took his cheque. George Vavasor knew quite enough of the commercial world to enable him to understand that a man must be in a very bad condition when he consents to pay forty pounds for the use of two hundred for fourteen days. He cursed the City. He cursed the House of Commons. He cursed his cousin Alice and his sister Kate. He cursed the memory of his grandfather. And he cursed himself.
Mr. Levy had hardly left the house in Queen Anne Street, before Alice had told her father what she had done. "The money must be forthcoming," said Alice. To this her father made no immediate reply, but turning himself in his chair away from her with a sudden start, sat looking at the fire and shaking his head. "The money must be made to be forthcoming," said Alice. "Papa, will you see that it is done?" This was very hard upon poor John Vavasor, and so he felt it to be. "Papa, if you will not promise, I must go to Mr. Round about it myself, and must find out a broker to sell out for me. You would not wish that my name should be dishonoured."
"You will be ruined," said he, "and for such a rascal as that!"
"Never mind whether he is a rascal or not, papa. You must acknowledge that he has been treated harshly by his grandfather."
"I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever did. Had he left the estate to George, there wouldn't have been an acre of it left in the family in six months' time."
"But the life interest, papa!"
"He would have raised all he could upon that, and it would have done him no good."
"At any rate, papa, he must have this two thousand pounds. You must promise me that."
"And then he will want more."
"No; I do not think he will ask for more. At any rate, I do not think that I am bound to give him all that I have."
"I should think not. I should like to know how you can be bound to give him anything?"
"Because I promised it. I have signed the bills now, and it must be done." Still Mr. Vavasor made no promise. "Papa, if you will not say that you will do it, I must go down to Mr. Round at once."
"I don't know that I can do it. I don't know that Mr. Round can do it. Your money is chiefly on mortgage." Then there was a pause for a moment in the conversation. "Upon my word, I never heard of such a thing in my life," said Mr. Vavasor; "I never did. Four thousand pounds given away to such a man as that, in three months! Four thousand pounds! And you say you do not intend to marry him."
"Certainly not; all that is over."
"And does he know that it is over?"
"I suppose he does."
"You suppose so! Things of that sort are so often over with you!" This was very cruel. Perhaps she had deserved the reproach, but still it was very cruel. The blow struck her with such force that she staggered under it. Tears came into her eyes, and she could hardly speak lest she should betray herself by sobbing.
"I know that I have behaved badly," she said at last; "but I am punished, and you might spare me now!"
"I didn't want to punish you," he said, getting up from his chair and walking about the room. "I don't want to punish you. But, I don't want to see you ruined!"
"I must go to Mr. Round then, myself."
Mr. Vavasor went on walking about the room, jingling the money in his trousers-pockets, and pushing the chairs about as he chanced to meet them. At last, he made a compromise with her. He would take a day to think whether he would assist her in getting the money, and communicate his decision to her on the following morning.

Some ten or twelve days after George Vavasor's return to London he appeared at Mr. Scruby's offices with four small slips of paper in his hand.
Mr. Scruby, as usual, was pressing for money. The third election was coming on, and money was already being spent very freely among the men of the River Bank. So, at least, Mr. Scruby declared.
"It is very hard to realize money," said George, "immediately after a death, when all the property left is real property."
"Very hard indeed," said Mr. Scruby, who had heard all about the old Squire's will. Vavasor cursed him inwardly, and suggested to himself that some day he might murder Mr. Scruby as well as John Grey - and perhaps also a few more of his enemies. Two days later, he again called, and gave Mr. Scruby the four slips of paper which have been mentioned.
Before we learn Mr Scruby's judgment of those scraps of paper, we must go back to their earlier history. As they were still in their infancy, we shall not have to go back far.
One morning the parlour-maid came up to Alice, as she sat alone in the drawing-room in Queen Anne Street, and told her there was a "gentleman" waiting in the hall. We all know the tone in which servants announce a gentleman when they know that he is not a gentleman.
"What sort of a gentleman?"
"Well, miss, I don't think he's just of our sort."
Alice Vavasor was aware that the gentleman could not be her cousin George, and therefore she said, "Let him come up."
Jane let him in, announcing Mr. Levy. At this time John Vavasor was in his dressing-room.
Alice got up to receive her visitor, and at once understood the tone of her maid's voice. Mr. Levy was a little dark man, with sharp close-set eyes, a beaked nose, and a black moustache. Alice did not like the look of him, but she asked him to sit down.
"Is papa dressed yet?" Alice asked the servant, purely to let Mr. Levy know that there was a gentleman in the house with her.
"I don't think so, miss."
"I've called about a little bit of business," said Mr. Levy, when they were alone. "Nothing as you need disturb yourself about. You'll find it all square, I think." Then he produced a note, which he handed to her. Alice took the note, and saw immediately that it was addressed to her by her cousin George. "I am Mr. Vavasor's clerk, miss."
George Vavasor's letter was as follows:
Dear Alice,
After what passed between us when I last saw you, I thought that on my return from Westmorland I should learn that you had paid in at my bankers' the money that I require. But I find that this is not so; and of course I excuse you, because women so seldom know how to do what business demands of them. You have, no doubt, heard of the injustice which my grandfather has done me, and will probably feel as indignant as I do. I only mention this, because the nature of his will makes it more than ever necessary that you should be true to your pledge to me.
Till there shall be some ground for a better understanding between us, I think it wiser not to call on you myself. I therefore send my clerk with four bills, each of five hundred pounds, drawn at fourteen days' date, across which I will get you to write your name. Mr. Levy will show you how this should be done. Your name must come under the word "accepted," and just above the name of Messrs. Drummonds, where the money must be lying not later than Monday fortnight. Indeed, the money must be there some time on the Saturday. Drummonds bank will not object if you call on the Saturday afternoon, and ask if it is all right.
I have certainly been inconvenienced by not finding the money as I expected on my return to town. If these bills are not properly provided for, the result will be disastrous to me. I feel, however, sure that this will be done, both for your own sake and for mine.
Affectionately yours,
George Vavasor.
The unparalleled impudence of this letter had the effect which the writer had intended. It made Alice think immediately of her own remissness, rather than of the enormity of his claim upon her. She believed that she had no alternative but to give him the money. She had told him that he should have it. She should not have forced him into the necessity of demanding it.
But the idea of signing four bills was terrible to her, and she felt sure that she ought not to put her name to orders for so large an amount and then entrust them to such a man as Mr. Levy. Her father was in the house, and she thought of asking him.
But it occurred to her that if she were to speak to her father about this advancing of money, he would prevent her, if he could, from keeping the promise made to her cousin. She was resolved that George should have the money; but her father might be able to delay the gift. If she signed the bills, the money must be forthcoming.
Mr. Levy had taken out the four bills and had placed them on the table.
"If you will just write your name across them, here, I need not detain you by staying any longer," he said. Mr. Levy was anxious to make his visit as short as possible, since he had heard that Mr. John Vavasor was in the house.
But Alice hesitated. Two thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money. What if this man, of whom she had never before heard, should steal the bills after she had signed them? She looked again at her cousin's letter, chiefly with the object of gaining time.
"It's all right, miss," said Mr. Levy.
"Could you not leave them with me?" said Alice.
"Well; not very well, miss. The fact is, Mr. Vavasor must have them this afternoon. He has got a heavy sum to put down about this here election."
"But, sir, the money will not be payable today. If I understand it, they are not cheques."
"No, miss, they are not cheques. But your name, miss, at fourteen days, is the same as ready money."
While she paused, he handed her a pen, and then she signed the four bills quickly. These were the four bits of paper which George Vavasor offered to Mr. Scruby, in the manner of a grand capitalist.
"You insisted on ready money, with your d-- suspicions," said he; "and there it is. You're not afraid of fourteen days, I dare say."
"Fourteen days is neither here nor there," said Mr. Scruby. "I'll send one of my men down to Grimes, and tell him I can't see him, till" and he looked at one of the bills, "till the 15th."
But this was not what George Vavasor wanted. He wished that the bills should be immediately turned into money, but not by him.
"You will want a thousand, you say?" he said.
"A thousand to begin with."
"Then you had better keep two of them."
"Well, no! I don't see the use of that. You had better collect them through your own banker, and let me have a cheque on the 15th or 16th."
"How cursed suspicious you are, Scruby."
"No, I ain't. I don't deal in such articles; that's all. The truth is, Mr. Vavasor, that bills with ladies' names on them ain't just what people like. You take them into the City, and see if the bankers don't tell you the same. They may be done, of course, upon your name."
"I can explain to you the nature of the family arrangement, but I can't do that to a stranger. However, I don't mind."
"Of course not. The time is so short that it does not signify. Have them collected through your own bankers, and then send me a cheque for a thousand pounds when the time is up."
Then Mr. Scruby turned to some papers as though the interview had been long enough. Vavasor looked at him angrily, cursing him inwardly, but Mr. Scruby ignored him. So Vavasor got up and went away.
As he walked along the unalluring streets which surround Soho, to the Strand and his own lodgings, he continued to think of some wide scheme of revenge - in which Mr. Scruby might be included. Some impatience and familiarity in Mr. Scruby's manner made him feel that he had fallen in the attorney's esteem. The man was like a rat, and knew a falling house by instinct. So George Vavasor cursed Mr. Scruby, and calculated some method of murdering him without detection.
The reader is not to suppose that the Member for the Chelsea Districts had, in truth, any intention to become a murderer. But he received a secret satisfaction in allowing his mind to dwell upon the subject. He reflected that it would not do to knock off Scruby and John Grey at the same time, as it would be known that he was connected with both of them; unless, indeed, he was to kill himself too.
As he needed instant money, Mr. Scruby's proposition that he should leave the four bills at his own bankers', to be collected when they came to maturity, did not suit him. He doubted much whether at the end of the fourteen days the money would be forthcoming. Alice would have to tell her father, and John Vavasor would probably prevent the payment. He must take the bills into the City, and do the best there that he could with them. He was too late for this today, so he went down to the House. There he sat all night with his hat over his eyes, plotting his murders.
"You have heard the news; haven't you?" said Mr. Bott, whispering in his ear.
"I haven't heard any news."
"Finespun has resigned, and Palliser is at this moment with the Duke of St. Bungay in the Lords' library."
"They may both be at the bottom of the Lords' fishpond, for all I care," said Vavasor.
"That's nonsense, you know," said Bott. "What a lucky fellow you are to have such a chance come to you directly you get in. As soon as he takes his seat down there, of course we shall go up behind him."
"We shall have another election in a month's time," said George.
"I'm safe enough," said Bott. "It never hurts a man at elections to be closely connected with the Government."
George Vavasor was in the City early the next morning, but he found that the City did not look with favourable eyes on his four bills. The City took them up distrustfully, and repeated the name Alice Vavasor, and suggested that as the time was so short, the holder of the bills would be wise to hold them till he could collect the amount. It was very clear that the City suspected something wrong in the transaction.
George Vavasor cursed the City, and made his calculation about murdering it. Might not a river of strychnine be turned on the Exchange at luncheon time? At last he left three of the bills with his own bankers for collection, and kept the fourth in his pocket. The next day he descended with it into the lower depths of the money market, and found a capitalist who was willing to advance him two hundred pounds, keeping that fourth bill as security. The capitalist was to have forty pounds for the transaction, and George cursed him as he took his cheque. He knew that a man must be in a very bad condition when he consents to pay forty pounds for the use of two hundred for fourteen days. He cursed the City. He cursed the House of Commons. He cursed his cousin Alice and his sister Kate. He cursed the memory of his grandfather. And he cursed himself.
Mr. Levy had hardly left the house in Queen Anne Street, before Alice had told her father what she had done.
"The money must be forthcoming," said Alice. "Papa, will you see that it is done?" To this her father made no reply, but sat looking at the fire and shaking his head, feeling it to be very hard upon him. "Papa, if you will not promise, I must go to Mr. Round myself, and find a broker to sell out for me."
"You will be ruined," said he, "and for such a rascal as that!"
"Never mind whether he is a rascal or not, papa. You must admit that he has been treated harshly by his grandfather."
"I think that will was the wisest thing my father ever did. If he had left the estate to George, there wouldn't have been an acre of it left in the family in six months' time."
"At any rate, papa, he must have this two thousand pounds."
"And then he will want more."
"No; I do not think he will ask for more. At any rate, I do not think that I am bound to give him all that I have."
"I should think not. Why are you bound to give him anything?"
"Because I promised it. I have signed the bills now, and it must be done."
"I don't know that Mr. Round can do it. Your money is chiefly on mortgage." He paused for a moment. "I never heard of such a thing. Four thousand pounds given away to such a man as that, in three months! And you say you do not intend to marry him."
"Certainly not; all that is over."
"And does he know that it is over?"
"I suppose he does."
"You suppose so! Things of that sort are so often over with you!" This was very cruel. The blow struck her with such force that she staggered under it. Tears came into her eyes, and she could hardly speak lest she should betray herself by sobbing.
"I know that I have behaved badly," she said at last; "but I am punished, and you might spare me now!"
"I didn't want to punish you," he said, getting up and walking about the room. "But I don't want to see you ruined!"
At last he made a compromise with her. He would take a day to think whether he would help her get the money, and would tell her his decision on the following morning.

Chapter 60: Alice Vavasor's Name Gets into the Money Market


Alice sat alone for an hour without moving when John Grey had left her, and the last words which he had uttered were sounding in her ears all the time, "My heart is still yours, as it has been since I knew you." There had been something in his words which had soothed her spirits, and had, for the moment, almost comforted her. At any rate, he did not despise her. He could not have spoken such words as these to her had he not still held her high in his esteem. Nay;--had he not even declared that he would yet take her as his own if she would come to him? "I cannot tell you with how much joy I would take you back to my bosom!" Ah! that might never be. But yet the assurance had been sweet to her;--dangerously sweet, as she soon told herself. She knew that she had lost her Eden, but it was something to her that the master of the garden had not himself driven her forth. She sat there, thinking of her fate, as though it belonged to some other one,--not to herself; as though it were a tale that she had read. Herself she had shipwrecked altogether; but though she might sink, she had not been thrust from the ship by hands which she loved.
But would it not have been better that he should have scorned her and reviled her? Had he been able to do so, he at least would have escaped the grief of disappointed love. Had he learned to despise her, he would have ceased to regret her. She had no right to feel consolation in the fact that his sufferings were equal to her own. But when she thought of this, she told herself that it could not be that it was so. He was a man, she said, not passionate by nature. Alas! it was the mistake she had ever made when summing up the items of his character! He might be persistent, she thought, in still striving to do that upon which he had once resolved. He had said so, and that which he said was always true to the letter. But, nevertheless, when this thing which he still chose to pursue should have been put absolutely beyond his reach, he would not allow his calm bosom to be harassed by a vain regret. He was a man too whole at every point,--so Alice told herself,--to allow his happiness to be marred by such an accident.
But must the accident occur? Was there no chance that he might be saved, even from such trouble as might follow upon such a loss? Could it not be possible that he might be gratified,--since it would gratify him,--and that she might be saved! Over and over again she considered this,--but always as though it were another woman whom she would fain save, and not herself.
But she knew that her own fate was fixed. She had been mad when she had done the thing, but the thing was not on that account the less done. She had been mad when she had trusted herself abroad with two persons, both of whom, as she had well known, were intent on wrenching her happiness from out of her grasp. She had been mad when she had told herself, whilst walking over the Westmoreland fells, that after all she might as well marry her cousin, since that other marriage was then beyond her reach! Her two cousins had succeeded in blighting all the hopes of her life;--but what could she now think of herself in that she had been so weak as to submit to such usage from their hands? Alas!--she told herself, admitting in her misery all her weakness,--alas, she had no mother. She had gloried in her independence, and this had come of it! She had scorned the prudence of Lady Macleod, and her scorn had brought her to this pass!
Was she to give herself bodily,--body and soul, as she said aloud in her solitary agony,--to a man whom she did not love? Must she submit to his caresses,--lie on his bosom,--turn herself warmly to his kisses? "No," she said, "no,"--speaking audibly, as she walked about the room; "no;--it was not in my bargain; I never meant it." But if so what had she meant;--what had been her dream? Of what marriage had she thought, when she was writing that letter back to George Vavasor? How am I to analyse her mind, and make her thoughts and feelings intelligible to those who may care to trouble themselves with the study? Any sacrifice she would make for her cousin which one friend could make for another. She would fight his battles with her money, with her words, with her sympathy. She would sit with him if he needed it, and speak comfort to him by the hour. His disgrace should be her disgrace;--his glory her glory;--his pursuits her pursuits. Was not that the marriage to which she had consented? But he had come to her and asked her for a kiss, and she had shuddered before him, when he made the demand. Then that other one had come and had touched her hand, and the fibres of her body had seemed to melt within her at the touch, so that she could have fallen at his feet.
She had done very wrong. She knew that she had done wrong. She knew that she had sinned with that sin which specially disgraces a woman. She had said that she would become the wife of a man to whom she could not cleave with a wife's love; and, mad with a vile ambition, she had given up the man for whose modest love her heart was longing. She had thrown off from her that wondrous aroma of precious delicacy, which is the greatest treasure of womanhood. She had sinned against her sex; and, in an agony of despair, as she crouched down upon the floor with her head against her chair, she told herself that there was no pardon for her. She understood it now, and knew that she could not forgive herself.
But can you forgive her, delicate reader? Or am I asking the question too early in my story? For myself, I have forgiven her. The story of the struggle has been present to my mind for many years,--and I have learned to think that even this offence against womanhood may, with deep repentance, be forgiven. And you also must forgive her before we close the book, or else my story will have been told amiss.
But let us own that she had sinned,--almost damnably, almost past forgiveness. What;--think that she knew what love meant, and not know which of two she loved! What;--doubt, of two men for whose arms she longed, of which the kisses would be sweet to bear; on which side lay the modesty of her maiden love! Faugh! She had submitted to pollution of heart and feeling before she had brought herself to such a pass as this. Come;--let us see if it be possible that she may be cleansed by the fire of her sorrow.
"What am I to do?" She passed that whole day in asking herself that question. She was herself astounded at the rapidity with which the conviction had forced itself upon her that a marriage with her cousin would be to her almost impossible; and could she permit it to be said of her that she had thrice in her career jilted a promised suitor,--that three times she would go back from her word because her fancy had changed? Where could she find the courage to tell her father, to tell Kate, to tell even George himself, that her purpose was again altered? But she had a year at her disposal. If only during that year he would take her money and squander it, and then require nothing further of her hands, might she not thus escape the doom before her? Might it not be possible that the refusal should this time come from him? But she succeeded in making one resolve. She thought at least that she succeeded. Come what might, she would never stand with him at the altar. While there was a cliff from which she might fall, water that would cover her, a death-dealing grain that might be mixed in her cup, she could not submit herself to be George Vavasor's wife. To no ear could she tell of this resolve. To no friend could she hint her purpose. She owed her money to the man after what had passed between them. It was his right to count upon such assistance as that would give him, and he should have it. Only as his betrothed she could give it him, for she understood well that if there were any breach between them, his accepting of such aid would be impossible. He should have her money, and then, when the day came, some escape should be found.
In the afternoon her father came to her, and it may be as well to explain that Mr. Grey had seen him again that day. Mr. Grey, when he left Queen Anne Street, had gone to his lawyer, and from thence had made his way to Mr. Vavasor. It was between five and six when Mr. Vavasor came back to his house, and he then found his daughter sitting over the drawing-room fire, without lights, in the gloom of the evening. Mr. Vavasor had returned with Grey to the lawyer's chambers, and had from thence come direct to his own house. He had been startled at the precision with which all the circumstances of his daughter's position had been explained to a mild-eyed old gentleman, with a bald head, who carried on his business in a narrow, dark, clean street, behind Doctors' Commons. Mr. Tombe was his name. "No;" Mr. Grey had said, when Mr. Vavasor had asked as to the peculiar nature of Mr. Tombe's business; "he is not specially an ecclesiastical lawyer. He had a partner at Ely, and was always employed by my father, and by most of the clergy there." Mr. Tombe had evinced no surprise, no dismay, and certainly no mock delicacy, when the whole affair was under discussion. George Vavasor was to get present moneys, but,--if it could be so arranged--from John Grey's stores rather than from those belonging to Alice. Mr. Tombe could probably arrange that with Mr. Vavasor's lawyer, who would no doubt be able to make difficulty as to raising ready money. Mr. Tombe would be able to raise ready money without difficulty. And then, at last, George Vavasor was to be made to surrender his bride, taking or having taken the price of his bargain. John Vavasor sat by in silence as the arrangement was being made, not knowing how to speak. He had no money with which to give assistance. "I wish you to understand from the lady's father," Grey said to the lawyer, "that the marriage would be regarded by him with as much dismay as by myself."
"Certainly;--it would be ruinous," Mr. Vavasor had answered.
"And you see, Mr. Tombe," Mr. Grey went on, "we only wish to try the man. If he be not such as we believe him to be, he can prove it by his conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her."
"You merely wish to open her eyes, Mr. Grey," said the mild-eyed lawyer.
"I wish that he should have what money he wants, and then we shall find what it is he really wishes."
"Yes; we shall know our man," said the lawyer. "He shall have the money, Mr. Grey," and so the interview had been ended.
Mr. Vavasor, when he entered the drawing-room, addressed his daughter in a cheery voice. "What; all in the dark?"
"Yes, papa. Why should I have candles when I am doing nothing? I did not expect you."
"No; I suppose not. I came here because I want to say a few words to you about business."
"What business, papa?" Alice well understood the tone of her father's voice. He was desirous of propitiating her; but was at the same time desirous of carrying some point in which he thought it probable that she would oppose him.
"Well; my love, if I understood you rightly, your cousin George wants some money."
"I did not say that he wants it now; but I think he will want it before the time for the election comes."
"If so, he will want it at once. He has not asked you for it yet?"
"No; he has merely said that should he be in need he would take me at my word."
"I think there is no doubt that he wants it. Indeed, I believe that he is almost entirely without present means of his own."
"I can hardly think so; but I have no knowledge about it. I can only say that he has not asked me yet, and that I should wish to oblige him whenever he may do so."
"To what extent, Alice?"
"I don't know what I have. I get about four hundred a year, but I do not know what it is worth, or how far it can all be turned into money. I should wish to keep a hundred a year and let him have the rest."
"What; eight thousand pounds!" said the father who in spite of his wish not to oppose her, could not but express his dismay.
"I do not imagine that he will want so much; but if he should, I wish that he should have it."
"Heaven and earth!" said John Vavasor. "Of course we should have to give up the house." He could not suppress his trouble, or refrain from bursting out in agony at the prospect of such a loss.
"But he has asked me for nothing yet, papa."
"No, exactly; and perhaps he may not; but I wish to know what to do when the demand is made. I am not going to oppose you now; your money is your own, and you have a right to do with it as you please;--but would you gratify me in one thing?"
"What is it, papa?"
"When he does apply, let the amount be raised through me?"
"How through you?"
"Come to me; I mean, so that I may see the lawyer, and have the arrangements made." Then he explained to her that in dealing with large sums of money, it could not be right that she should do so without his knowledge, even though the property was her own. "I will promise you that I will not oppose your wishes," he said. Then Alice undertook that when such case should arise the money should be raised through his means.
The day but one following this she received a letter from Lady Glencora, who was still at Matching Priory. It was a light-spirited, chatty, amusing letter, intended to be happy in its tone,--intended to have a flavour of happiness, but just failing through the too apparent meaning of a word here and there. "You will see that I am at Matching," the letter said, "whereas you will remember that I was to have been at Monkshade. I escaped at last by a violent effort, and am now passing my time innocently,--I fear not so profitably as she would induce me to do,--with Iphy Palliser. You remember Iphy. She is a good creature, and would fain turn even me to profit, if it were possible. I own that I am thinking of them all at Monkshade, and am in truth delighted that I am not there. My absence is entirely laid upon your shoulders. That wicked evening amidst the ruins! Poor ruins. I go there alone sometimes and fancy that I hear such voices from the walls, and see such faces through the broken windows! All the old Pallisers come and frown at me, and tell me that I am not good enough to belong to them. There is a particular window to which Sir Guy comes and makes faces at me. I told Iphy the other day, and she answered me very gravely, that I might, if I chose, make myself good enough for the Pallisers. Even for the Pallisers! Isn't that beautiful?"
Then Lady Glencora went on to say, that her husband intended to come up to London early in the session, and that she would accompany him. "That is," added Lady Glencora, "if I am still good enough for the Pallisers at that time."

Alice sat alone for an hour without moving when John Grey had left her, with his last words sounding in her ears. "My heart is yours now as it has been since I knew you." It almost comforted her. At any rate, he did not despise her. Nay; had he not even declared that he would take her back with joy?
Ah! that could never be. Yet the assurance was sweet to her - dangerously sweet, as she soon told herself. She sat there, thinking of her fate, as though it belonged to someone else. She had been shipwrecked altogether; but though she might sink, she had not been thrust from the ship by hands which she loved.
But would it not have been better if he had reviled her? In that case, at least he would have escaped the grief of disappointed love. She had no right to feel consoled by the fact that his sufferings were equal to her own.
But when she thought of this, she told herself that it could not be so. He was not a passionate man, she said. Alas! it was the mistake she had always made about his character! He might be persistent, she thought, and true; but when she was put beyond his reach, he would not allow his calmness to be harassed by vain regret. He was a man too whole at every point - so Alice told herself - to allow his happiness to be marred by such an accident.
But must the accident occur? Was there no chance that he might be gratified, and that she might be saved? Over and over again she considered this, but always as though it were another woman whom she would save, and not herself.
She knew that her own fate was fixed. She had been mad when she had done the thing, but the thing was done. She had been mad when she had trusted herself abroad with two people, both intent on wrenching her happiness out of her grasp. She had been mad when she had told herself, whilst walking over the Westmorland fells, that after all she might as well marry her cousin, since that other marriage was beyond her reach! Her two cousins had succeeded in blighting all the hopes of her life; but why had she had been so weak as to submit?
Alas! she told herself, admitting in her misery all her weakness - alas, she had no mother. She had gloried in her independence, and this had come of it! She had scorned the prudence of Lady Macleod, and her scorn had brought her to this pass!
Was she to give herself body and soul to a man whom she did not love? Must she submit to his caresses, lie on his bosom, turn warmly to his kisses?
"No," she said aloud, "no; it was not in my bargain; I never meant it." But if so, what had she meant? What marriage had she thought of, when she was writing that letter to George Vavasor?
She would make any sacrifice for her cousin which one friend could make for another. She would fight his battles with her money, with her words, with her sympathy. She would sit and speak comfort to him by the hour. His disgrace should be her disgrace; his glory her glory. Was not that the marriage to which she had consented? But he had come and asked her for a kiss, and she had shuddered. Then that other one had come and had touched her hand, and the fibres of her body had seemed to melt at the touch, so that she could have fallen at his feet.
She had done very wrong, and she knew it. Mad with a vile ambition, she had given up the man for whom her heart was longing. She had sinned against her sex; and, in an agony of despair, as she crouched down upon the floor with her head against her chair, she told herself that there was no pardon for her. She understood it now, and knew that she could not forgive herself.
But can you forgive her, delicate reader? Or am I asking the question too early in my story? For myself, I have forgiven her.
Let us own that she had sinned. What; to think that she knew what love meant, and did not know which of two she loved!
"What am I to do?" She passed the whole day in asking herself that question. She was herself astounded at the rapidity with which she had become convinced that she could not marry her cousin; yet could she let it be said of her that she had thrice jilted a suitor - that three times she would go back from her word? Where could she find the courage to tell her father, to tell Kate, to tell George himself, that she had changed her mind?
But she had a year at her disposal. If only during that year he would take her money and squander it, and then need nothing further, might she not thus escape the doom before her? Might the refusal this time come from him?
She resolved on one thing. Come what might, she would never stand with George at the altar. While there was a cliff from which she might fall, water that would cover her, poison to be mixed in her cup, she could not submit herself to be George Vavasor's wife.
To no ear could she tell this resolve. She owed her money to the man, and he should have it. Only as his betrothed could she give it him. He should have her money, and then, when the day came, some escape should be found.
In the afternoon her father came to her, having seen Mr. Grey again that day. Mr. Grey, when he left Queen Anne Street, had gone to his lawyer, and then to Mr. Vavasor. They had both returned to the lawyer's chambers, where Mr. Vavasor had been startled at the precision with which all his daughter's circumstances had been explained to a mild-eyed old lawyer called Mr. Tombe.
Mr. Tombe had shown no surprise or dismay at the affair under discussion. George Vavasor was to get money, but from John Grey's funds rather than from Alice's. Mr. Tombe could probably arrange that with Mr. Vavasor's lawyer. And then, at last, having taken the price of his bargain, George Vavasor was to be made to surrender his bride. John Vavasor sat by in silence as the arrangement was made. He had no money with which to assist.
"I wish you to understand from the lady's father," Grey said to the lawyer, "that he would regard the marriage with as much dismay as by myself."
"Certainly; it would be ruinous," Mr. Vavasor said.
"And you see, Mr. Tombe," Mr. Grey went on, "we only wish to try the man. If he is not as bad as we believe, he can prove it by his conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her."
"You merely wish to open her eyes, Mr. Grey," said the mild-eyed lawyer. "Yes; we shall know our man. He shall have the money, Mr. Grey," and so the interview had ended.
Mr. Vavasor, when he came home after this and entered the drawing-room, found his daughter sitting in the dusk. He addressed her in a cheery voice. "What; all in the dark?"
"Yes, papa. I did not expect you."
"No; I suppose not. I want to say a few words to you about business."
"What business, papa?" Alice understood the tone of her father's voice. He wanted to propitiate; but he also wanted his own way on some point.
"Well; my love, if I understood you rightly, your cousin George wants some money."
"I think he will want it before the election."
"He has not asked you for it yet?"
"No; he has merely said that if he is in need he will take me at my word. I should wish to oblige him whenever he may do so."
"To what extent, Alice?"
"I don't know what I have. I get about four hundred a year, but I do not know what my capital is worth, or how far it can all be turned into money. I should wish to keep a hundred a year and let him have the rest."
"What; eight thousand pounds!" said the father in dismay.
"I do not imagine that he will want so much; but if he should, I wish that he should have it."
"Heaven and earth!" said John Vavasor, unable to restrain himself. "Of course we should have to give up the house."
"But he has asked me for nothing yet, papa."
"No, and perhaps he may not; but I wish to know when the demand is made. I am not going to oppose you now; your money is your own - but would you gratify me in one thing?"
"What is it, papa?"
"When he does apply, will you come to me, so that I may see the lawyer, and have the arrangements made?" Then he explained to her that in dealing with large sums of money, it could not be right that she should do so without his knowledge, even though the property was her own.
"I promise you that I will not oppose your wishes," he said. Then Alice agreed that the money should be raised through his means.
Two days after this she received a letter from Lady Glencora, who was still at Matching Priory. It was a light-spirited, chatty, amusing letter, intended to be happy in its tone, but just failing.
"You will see that I am at Matching," the letter said, "instead of Monkshade. I escaped at last by a violent effort, and am now passing my time innocently with Iphy Palliser. She is a good creature. I admit that I am thinking of them all at Monkshade, and am truly delighted that I am not there. My absence is entirely laid upon your shoulders. That wicked evening amidst the ruins! Poor ruins. I go there alone sometimes and fancy that I hear such voices from the walls, and see all the old Pallisers frown at me through the broken windows, telling me that I am not good enough to belong to them. I told Iphy that the other day, and she answered very gravely, that I might, if I chose, make myself good enough for the Pallisers. Even for the Pallisers! Isn't that beautiful?"
Then Lady Glencora went on to say that her husband intended to come to London early in the parliamentary session, and that she would accompany him. "That is," she added, "if I am still good enough for the Pallisers at that time."