“And, Alice, I hope that you are proud of your lover!” “He is not my lover,” Alice said to herself. “He knows that he is not. He understands it, though she may not.” And if not your lover, Alice Vavasor, what is he then to you? And what are you to him, if not his love? She was beginning to understand that she had put herself in the way of utter destruction;—that she had walked to the brink of a precipice, and that she must now topple over it. “He is not my lover,” she said; and then she sat silent and moody, and it took her hours to get her answer written to Kate.
On the same afternoon she saw her father for a moment or two. “So George has got himself returned,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, he has been successful. I’m sure you must be glad, papa.”
“Upon my word, I’m not. He has bought a seat for three months; and with whose money has he purchased it?”
“Don’t let us always speak of money, papa.”
“When you discuss the value of a thing just purchased, you must mention the price before you know whether the purchaser has done well or badly. They have let him in for his money because there are only a few months left before the general election. Two thousand pounds he has had, I believe?”
“And if as much more is wanted for the next election he shall have it.”
“Very well, my dear;—very well. If you choose to make a beggar of yourself, I cannot help it. Indeed, I shall not complain though he should spend all your money, if you do not marry him at last.” In answer to this, Alice said nothing. On that point her father’s wishes were fast growing to be identical with her own.
“I tell you fairly what are my feelings and my wishes,” he continued. “Nothing, in my opinion, would be so deplorable and ruinous as such a marriage. You tell me that you have made up your mind to take him, and I know well that nothing that I can say will turn you. But I believe that when he has spent all your money he will not take you, and that thus you will be saved. Thinking as I do about him, you can hardly expect that I should triumph because he has got himself into Parliament with your money!”
Then he left her, and it seemed to Alice that he had been very cruel. There had been little, she thought, nay, nothing of a father’s loving tenderness in his words to her. If he had spoken to her differently, might she not even now have confessed everything to him? But herein Alice accused him wrongfully. Tenderness from him on this subject had, we may say, become impossible. She had made it impossible. Nor could he tell her the extent of his wishes without damaging his own cause. He could not let her know that all that was done was so done with the view of driving her into John Grey’s arms.
But what words were those for a father to speak to a daughter! Had she brought herself to such a state that her own father desired to see her deserted and thrown aside? And was it probable that this wish of his should come to pass? As to that, Alice had already made up her mind. She thought that she had made up her mind that she would never become her cousin’s wife. It needed not her father’s wish to accomplish her salvation, if her salvation lay in being separated from him.
On the next morning George went to her. The reader will, perhaps, remember their last interview. He had come to her after her letter to him from Westmoreland, and had asked her to seal their reconciliation with a kiss; but she had refused him. He had offered to embrace her, and she had shuddered before him, fearing his touch, telling him by signs much more clear than any words, that she felt for him none of the love of a woman. Then he had turned from her in anger, declaring to her honestly that he was angry. Since that he had borrowed her money—had made two separate assaults upon her purse—and was now come to tell her of the results. How was he to address her? I beg that it may be also remembered that he was not a man to forget the treatment he had received. When he entered the room, Alice looked at him, at first, almost furtively. She was afraid of him. It must be confessed that she already feared him. Had there been in the man anything of lofty principle he might still have made her his slave, though I doubt whether he could ever again have forced her to love him. She looked at him furtively, and perceived that the gash on his face was nearly closed. The mark of existing anger was not there. He had come to her intending to be gentle, if it might be possible. He had been careful in his dress, as though he wished to try once again if the role of lover might be within his reach.
Alice was the first to speak. “George, I am so glad that you have succeeded! I wish you joy with my whole heart.”
“Thanks, dearest. But before I say another word, let me acknowledge my debt. Unless you had aided me
