“Let us hope that he has had enough.”
“Enough! Did such a man ever have enough?”
“Let us hope, then, that she thinks he has had enough. Come;—may I go upstairs?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll follow you. She’ll think that I mean something if I leave you together.”
From all this it will be seen that Alice’s father and her lover still stood together on confidential terms. Not easily had Mr. Vavasor brought himself to speak of his daughter to John Grey, in such language as he had now used; but he had been forced by adverse circumstances to pass the Rubicon of parental delicacy; he had been driven to tell his wished-for son-in-law that he did wish to have him as a son-in-law; he had been compelled to lay aside those little airs of reserve with which a father generally speaks of his daughter—and now all was open between them.
“And you really start tomorrow?” said Grey, as he stood close over Alice’s worktable. Mr. Vavasor had followed him into the drawing-room, but had seated himself in an easy-chair on the other side of the fire. There was no tone of whispering in Grey’s voice, but yet he spoke in a manner which showed that he did not intend to be audible on the other side of the room.
“I start for Westmoreland tomorrow. We do not leave London for the continent till the latter end of next week.”
“But you will not be here again?”
“No; I shall not come back to Queen Anne Street.”
“And you will be away for many months?”
“Mr. Palliser talked of next Easter as the term of his return. He mentioned Easter to Lady Glencora. I have not seen him myself since I agreed to go with him.”
“What should you say if you met me somewhere in your travels?” He had now gently seated himself on the sofa beside her;—not so close to her as to give her just cause to move away, but yet so near as to make his conversation with her quite private.
“I don’t think that will be very likely,” she replied, not knowing what to say.
“I think it is very likely. For myself, I hate surprises. I could not bring myself to fall in upon your track unawares. I shall go abroad, but it will not be till the late autumn, when the summer heats are gone—and I shall endeavour to find you.”
“To find me, Mr. Grey!” There was a quivering in her voice, as she spoke, which she could not prevent, though she would have given worlds to prevent it. “I do not think that will be quite fair.”
“It will not be unfair, I think, if I give you notice of my approach. I will not fall upon you and your friends unawares.”
“I was not thinking of them. They would be glad to know you, of course.”
“And equally, of course! or, rather, much more of course, you will not be glad to see me? That’s what you mean?”
“I mean that we had better not meet more than we can help.”
“I think differently, Alice—quite differently. The more we meet the better—that is what I think. But I will not stop to trouble you now. Good night!” Then he got up and went away, and her father went with him. Mr. Vavasor, as he rose from his chair, declared that he would just walk through a couple of streets; but Alice knew that he was gone to his club.
LXIV
The Rocks and Valleys
During these days Mrs. Greenow was mistress of the old Hall down in Westmoreland, and was nursing Kate assiduously through the calamity of her broken arm. There had come to be a considerable amount of confidence between the aunt and the niece. Kate had acknowledged to her aunt that her brother had behaved badly—very badly; and the aunt had confessed to the niece that she regarded Captain Bellfield as a fit subject for compassion.
“And he was violent to you, and broke your arm? I always knew it was so,” Mrs. Greenow had said, speaking with reference to her nephew. But this Kate had denied. “No,” said she; “that was an accident. When he went away and left me, he knew nothing about it. And if he had broken both my arms I should not have cared much. I could have forgiven him that.” But that which Kate could not forgive him was the fault which she had herself committed. For his sake she had done her best to separate Alice and John Grey, and George had shown himself to be unworthy of the kindness of her treachery. “I would give all I have in the world to bring them together again,” Kate said. “They’ll come together fast enough if they like each other,” said Mrs. Greenow. “Alice is young still, and they tell me she’s as good looking as ever. A girl with her money won’t have far to seek for a husband, even if this paragon from Cambridgeshire should not turn up again.”
“You don’t know Alice, aunt.”
“No, I don’t. But I know what young women are, and I know what young men are. All this nonsense about her cousin George—what difference will it make? A man like Mr. Grey won’t care about that—especially not if she tells him all about it. My belief is that a girl can have anything forgiven her, if she’ll only tell it herself.”
But Kate preferred the other subject, and so, I think, did Mrs. Greenow herself. “Of course, my dear,” she would say, “marriage with me, if I should marry again, would be a very different thing to your marriage, or that of any other young person. As for love, that has been all over for me since poor Greenow died. I have known nothing of the softness of affection since I laid him in his cold grave, and never can again. ‘Captain Bellfield,’ I said to him, ‘if you were to kneel at my feet for years, it would not make
