“And why not?” said Kate, again starting up. “What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can’t see? Don’t I know which of the two men you like best?”
“You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother’s company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that—it is indelicate.”
“Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;—all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that’s the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it’s about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love anyone better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside getup, but you wouldn’t wish to answer for anything beneath.”
“If you think ill of me like that—”
“No; I don’t think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn’t been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George’s rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr.”
“And which is the Satyr?”
“I’ll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion—if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn’t raise a little finger to prevent it.”
To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;—that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;—that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career.
It was nearly one o’clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. “If you are tired, dear, we’ll put it off,” said Kate. “Not for worlds,” said Alice. “For half a word we’ll do it,” continued Kate. “I’ll slip out to George and tell him, and there’s nothing he’d like so much.” But Alice would not consent.
About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. “Don’t speak to me,” said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. “I shall only yawn in your face.” However, they were in time—which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started—and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg.
There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river.
VII
Aunt Greenow
Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. “I’m my aunt’s, body and soul, for the next six weeks,” she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. “And she is exigeant in a manner I can’t at all explain to you. You mustn’t be surprised if I don’t even write a line. I’ve escaped by stealth now. She went upstairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted.” She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor’s friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men.
It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly
