“But I should not wish him to borrow from Aunt Greenow. She would advance him the money, as you say, upon stamped paper, and then talk of it.”
“He shall have mine,” said Kate.
“And who are you?” said Alice, laughing. “You are not going to be his wife?”
“He shall not touch your money till you are his wife,” said Kate, very seriously. “I wish you would consent to change your mind about this stupid tedious year, and then you might do as you pleased. I have no doubt such a settlement might be made as to the property here, when my grandfather hears of it, as would make you ultimately safe.”
“And do you think I care to be ultimately safe, as you call it? Kate, my dear, you do not understand me.”
“I suppose not. And yet I thought that I had known something about you.”
“It is because I do not care for the safety of which you speak that I am now going to become your brother’s wife. Do you suppose that I do not see that I must run much risk?”
“You prefer the excitement of London to the tranquillity, may I say, of Cambridgeshire.”
“Exactly;—and therefore I have told George that he shall have my money whenever he wants it.”
Kate was very persistent in her objection to this scheme till George’s answer came. His answer to Alice was accompanied by a letter to his sister, and after that Kate said nothing more about the money question. She said no more then; but it must not therefore be supposed that she was less determined than she had been that no part of Alice’s fortune should be sacrificed to her brother’s wants;—at any rate before Alice should become her brother’s wife. But her brother’s letter for the moment stopped her mouth. It would be necessary that she should speak to him before she again spoke to Alice.
In what words Alice had written her assent it will be necessary that the reader should know, in order that something may be understood of the struggle which she made upon the occasion; but they shall be given presently, when I come to speak of George Vavasor’s position as he received them. George’s reply was very short and apparently very frank. He deprecated the delay of twelve months, and still hoped to be able to induce her to be more lenient to him. He advised her to write to Mr. Grey at once—and as regarded the Squire he gave her carte blanche to act as she pleased. If the Squire required any kind of apology, expression of sorrow—and asking for pardon, or suchlike, he, George, would, under the circumstances as they now existed, comply with the requisition most willingly. He would regard it as a simple form, made necessary by his coming marriage. As to Alice’s money, he thanked her heartily for her confidence. If the nature of his coming contest at Chelsea should make it necessary, he would use her offer as frankly as it had been made. Such was his letter to Alice. What was contained in his letter to Kate, Alice never knew.
Then came the business of telling this new love tale—the third which poor Alice had been forced to tell her father and grandfather;—and a grievous task it was. In this matter she feared her father much more than her grandfather, and therefore she resolved to tell her grandfather first;—or, rather, she determined that she would tell the Squire, and that in the meantime Kate should talk to her father.
“Grandpapa,” she said to him the morning after she had received her cousin’s second letter.—The old man was in the habit of breakfasting alone in a closet of his own, which was called his dressing-room, but in which he kept no appurtenances for dressing, but in lieu of them a large collection of old spuds and sticks and horse’s-bits. There was a broken spade here, and a hoe or two; and a small table in the corner was covered with the debris of tradesmen’s bills from Penrith, and dirty scraps which he was wont to call his farm accounts.—“Grandpapa,” said Alice, rushing away at once into the middle of her subject, “you told me the other day that you thought I ought to be—married.”
“Did I, my dear? Well, yes; so I did. And so you ought;—I mean to that Mr. Grey.”
“That is impossible, sir.”
“Then what’s the use of your coming and talking to me about it?”
This made Alice’s task not very easy; but, nevertheless, she persevered. “I am come, grandpapa, to tell you of another engagement.”
“Another!” said he. And by the tone of his voice he accused his granddaughter of having a larger number of favoured suitors than ought to fall to the lot of any young lady. It was very hard upon her, but still she went on.
“You know,” said she, “that some years ago I was to have been married to my cousin George;”—and then she paused.
“Well,” said the old man.
“And I remember you told me then that you were much pleased.”
“So I was. George was doing well then; or—which is more likely—had made us believe that he was doing well. Have you made it up with him again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that’s the meaning of your jilting Mr. Grey, is it?”
Poor Alice! It is hard to explain how heavy a blow fell upon her from the open utterance of that word! Of all words in the language it was the one which she now most dreaded. She had called herself a jilt, with that inaudible voice which one uses in making self-accusations;—but hitherto no lips had pronounced the odious word to her ears. Poor Alice! She was a jilt; and perhaps it may have been well that the old man should tell her so.
“Grandpapa!” she said; and there was that in the tone of her voice which somewhat softened the Squire’s heart.
“Well, my dear,
