“I cannot convince you in that way,” she said, smiling.
“You will convince me in no other. You have not spoken to your father of this as yet?”
“Not as yet.”
“Do not do so, at any rate for the present. You will own that it might be possible that you would have to unsay what you had said.”
“No; it is not possible.”
“Give yourself and me the chance. It can do no harm. And, Alice, I ask you now for no reasons. I will not ask your reasons, or even listen to them, because I do not believe that they will long have effect even on yourself. Do you still think of going to Cheltenham?”
“I have decided nothing as yet.”
“If I were you, I would go. I think a change of air would be good for you.”
“Yes; you treat me as though I were partly silly, and partly insane; but it is not so. The change you speak of should be in my nature, and in yours.”
He shook his head and still smiled. There was something in the imperturbed security of his manner which almost made her angry with him. It seemed as though he assumed so great a superiority that he felt himself able to treat any resolve of hers as the petulance of a child. And though he spoke in strong language of his love, and of his longing that she should come to him, yet he was so well able to command his feelings, that he showed no sign of grief at the communication she had made to him. She did not doubt his love, but she believed him to be so much the master of his love—as he was the master of everything else, that her separation from him would cause him no uncontrollable grief. In that she utterly failed to understand his character. Had she known him better, she might have been sure that such a separation now would with him have carried its mark to the grave. Should he submit to her decision, he would go home and settle himself to his books the next day; but on no following day would he be again capable of walking forth among his flowers with an easy heart. He was a strong, constant man, perhaps over-conscious of his own strength; but then his strength was great. “He is perfect!” Alice had said to herself often. “Oh that he were less perfect!”
He did not stay with her long after the last word that has been recorded. “Perhaps,” he said, as for a moment he held her hand at parting, “I had better not come tomorrow.”
“No, no; it is better not.”
“I advise you not to tell your father of this, and doubtless you will think of it before you do so. But if you do tell him, let me know that you have done so.”
“Why that?”
“Because in such case I also must see him. God bless you, Alice! God bless you, dearest, dearest Alice!” Then he went, and she sat there on the sofa without moving, till she heard her father’s feet as he came up the stairs.
“What, Alice, are you not in bed yet?”
“Not yet, papa.”
“And so John Grey has been here. He has left his stick in the hall. I should know it among a thousand.”
“Yes; he has been here.”
“Is anything the matter, Alice?”
“No, papa, nothing is the matter.”
“He has not made himself disagreeable, has he?”
“Not in the least. He never does anything wrong. He may defy man or woman to find fault with him.”
“So that is it, is it? He is just a shade too good. Well, I have always thought that myself. But it’s a fault on the right side.”
“It’s no fault, Papa. If there be any fault, it is not with him. But I am yawning and tired, and I will go to bed.”
“Is he to be here tomorrow?”
“No; he returns to Nethercoats early. Good night, papa.”
Mr. Vavasor, as he went up to his bedroom, felt sure that there had been something wrong between his daughter and her lover. “I don’t know how she’ll ever put up with him,” he said to himself, “he is so terribly conceited. I shall never forget how he went on about Charles Kemble, and what a fool he made of himself.”
Alice, before she went to bed, sat down and wrote a letter to her cousin Kate.
XII
Mr. George Vavasor at Home
It cannot perhaps fairly be said that George Vavasor was an unhospitable man, seeing that it was his custom to entertain his friends occasionally at Greenwich, Richmond, or such places; and he would now and again have a friend to dine with him at his club. But he never gave breakfasts, dinners, or suppers under his own roof. During a short period of his wine-selling career, at which time he had occupied handsome rooms over his place of business in New Burlington Street, he had presided at certain feasts given to customers or expectant customers by the firm; but he had not found this employment to his taste, and had soon relinquished it to one of the other partners. Since that he had lived in lodgings in Cecil Street—down at the bottom of that retired nook, near to the river and away from the Strand. Here he had simply two rooms on the first floor, and hither his friends came to him very rarely. They came very rarely on any account. A stray man might now and then pass an hour with him here; but on such occasions the chances were that the visit had some reference, near or distant, to affairs of business. Eating or drinking there was never any to be found here by the most intimate of his allies. His lodgings were his private retreat, and they were so private that but few of his friends knew where he lived.
And had it been possible he would have
