Can You Forgive Her?

she acknowledged, be an end to her pride⁠—to that pride which had hitherto taught her to think that she could more wisely follow her own guidance than that of any other who might claim to guide her. She knew now that she must follow his guidance. She had found her master, as we sometimes say, and laughed to herself with a little inward laughter as she confessed that it was so. She was from henceforth altogether in his hands. If he chose to tell her that they were to be married at Michaelmas, or at Christmas, or on Lady Day, they would, of course, be married accordingly. She had taken her fling at having her own will, and she and all her friends had seen what had come of it. She had assumed the command of the ship, and had thrown it upon the rocks, and she felt that she never ought to take the captain’s place again. It was well for her that he who was to be captain was one whom she respected as thoroughly as she loved him.

She would write to her father at once⁠—to her father and Lady Macleod⁠—and would confess everything. She felt that she owed it to them that they should be told by herself that they had been right and that she had been wrong. Hitherto she had not mentioned to either of them the fact that Mr. Grey was with them in Switzerland. And, then, what must she do as to Lady Midlothian? As to Lady Midlothian, she would do nothing. Lady Midlothian, of course, would triumph;⁠—would jump upon her, as Lady Glencora had once expressed it, with very triumphant heels⁠—would try to patronize her, or, which would be almost worse, would make a parade of her forgiveness. But she would have nothing to do with Lady Midlothian, unless, indeed, Mr. Grey should order it. Then she laughed at herself again with that inward laughter, and, rising from her seat, proceeded to walk down the hill to the hotel.

“Vanquished at last!” said Lady Glencora, as Alice entered the room.

“Yes, vanquished; if you like to call it so,” said Alice.

“It is not what I call it, but what you feel it,” said the other. “Do you think that I don’t know you well enough to be sure that you regard yourself now as an unfortunate prisoner⁠—as a captive taken in war, to be led away in triumph, without any hope of a ransom? I know that it is quite a misery to you that you should be made a happy woman of at last. I understand it all, my dear, and my heart bleeds for you.”

“Of course; I knew that was the way you would treat me.”

“In what way would you have me treat you? If I were to hug you with joy, and tell you how good he is, and how fortunate you are⁠—if I were to praise him, and bid you triumph in your success, as might be expected on such an occasion⁠—you would put on a long face at once, and tell me that though the thing is to be, it would be much better that the thing shouldn’t be. Don’t I know you, Alice?”

“I shouldn’t have said that;⁠—not now.”

“I believe in my heart you would;⁠—that, or something like it. But I do wish you joy all the same, and you may say what you please. He has got you in his power now, and I don’t think even you can go back.”

“No; I shall not go back again.”

“I would join with Lady Midlothian in putting you into a madhouse, if you did. But I am so glad; I am, indeed. I was afraid to the last⁠—terribly afraid; you are so hard and so proud. I don’t mean hard to me, dear. You have never been half hard enough to me. But you are hard to yourself, and, upon my word, you have been hard to him. What a deal you will have to make up to him!”

“I feel that I ought to stand before him always as a penitent⁠—in a white sheet.”

“He will like it better, I dare say, if you will sit upon his knee. Some penitents do, you know. And how happy you will be! He’ll never explain the sugar-duties to you, and there’ll be no Mr. Bott at Nethercoats.” They sat together the whole morning⁠—while Mr. Palliser was seeing to the springs and cushions⁠—and by degrees Alice began to enjoy her happiness. As she did so her friend enjoyed it with her, and at last they had something of the comfort and excitement which such an occasion should give. “I’ll tell you what, Alice; you shall come and be married at Matching, in August, or perhaps September. That’s the only way in which I can be present; and if we can bespeak some sun, we’ll have the breakfast out in the ruins.”

On the following morning they all started together, a first-class compartment having been taken for the Palliser family, and a second-class compartment close to them for the Palliser servants. Mr. Palliser, as he slowly handed his wife in, was a triumphant man; as was also Mr. Grey, as he handed in his ladylove, though, in a manner, much less manifest. We may say that both the gentlemen had been very fortunate while at Lucerne. Mr. Palliser had come abroad with a feeling that all the world had been cut from under his feet. A great change was needed for his wife, and he had acknowledged at once that everything must be made to yield to that necessity. He certainly had his reward⁠—now in his triumphant return. Terrible troubles had afflicted him as he went, which seemed now to have dissipated themselves altogether. When he thought of Burgo Fitzgerald he remembered him only as a poor, unfortunate fellow, for whom he should be glad to do something, if the doing of anything were only in his power; and he had in his pocket a letter which