Can You Forgive Her?. Anthony Trollope

that the match might be renewed; but, if she knew herself, she had strength to withstand Lady Macleod.

      She received one letter from Mr Grey before the time came for her departure, and she answered it, telling him of her intention;—telling him also that she now felt herself bound to explain to her father her present position. “I tell you this,” she said, “in consequence of what you said to me on the matter. My father will know it tomorrow, and on the following morning I shall start for Cheltenham. I have heard from Lady Macleod and she expects me.”

      On the following morning she did tell her father, standing by him as he sat at his breakfast. “What!” said he, putting down his tea-cup and looking up into her face; “What! not marry John Grey!”

      “No, papa; I know how strange you must think it.”

      “And you say that there has been no quarrel.”

      “No;—there has been no quarrel. By degrees I have learned to feel that I should not make him happy as his wife.”

      “It’s d––––d nonsense,” said Mr Vavasor. Now such an expression as this from him, addressed to his daughter, showed that he was very deeply moved.

      “Oh, papa! don’t talk to me in that way.”

      “But it is. I never heard such trash in my life. If he comes to me I shall tell him so. Not make him happy! Why can’t you make him happy?”

      “We are not suited to each other.”

      “But what’s the matter with him? He’s a gentleman.”

      “Yes; he’s a gentleman.”

      “And a man of honour, and with good means, and with all that knowledge and reading which you profess to like. Look here, Alice; I am not going to interfere, nor shall I attempt to make you marry anyone. You are your own mistress as far as that is concerned. But I do hope, for your sake and for mine,—I do hope that there is nothing again between you and your cousin.”

      “There is nothing, papa.”

      “I did not like your going abroad with him, though I didn’t choose to interrupt your plan by saying so. But if there were anything of that kind going on, I should be bound to tell you that your cousin’s position at present is not a good one. Men do not speak well of him.”

      “There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speaking ill of him would not deter me.”

      “And men speaking well of Mr Grey will not do the other thing. I know very well that women can be obstinate.”

      “I haven’t come to this resolution without thinking much about it, papa.”

      “I suppose not. Well;—I can’t say anything more. You are your own mistress, and your fortune is in your own keeping. I can’t make you marry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me I shall tell him so. You are going down to Cheltenham, are you?”

      “Yes, papa; I have promised Lady Macleod.”

      “Very well. I’d sooner it should be you than me; that’s all I can say.” Then he took up his newspaper, thereby showing that he had nothing further to say on the matter, and Alice left him alone.

      The whole thing was so vexatious that even Mr Vavasor was disturbed by it. As it was not term time he had no signing to do in Chancery Lane, and could not, therefore, bury his unhappiness in his daily labour,—or rather in his labour that was by no means daily. So he sat at home till four o’clock, expressing to himself in various phrases his wonder that “any man alive should ever rear a daughter.” And when he got to his club the waiters found him quite unmanageable about his dinner, which he ate alone, rejecting all proposition of companionship. But later in the evening he regained his composure over a glass of whiskey-toddy and a cigar. “She’s got her own money,” he said to himself, “and what does it matter? I don’t suppose she’ll marry her cousin. I don’t think she’s fool enough for that. And after all she’ll probably make it up again with John Grey.” And in this way he determined that he might let this annoyance run off him, and that he need not as a father take the trouble of any interference.

      But while he was at his club there came a visitor to Queen Anne Street, and that visitor was the dangerous cousin of whom, according to his uncle’s testimony, men at present did not speak well. Alice had not seen him since they had parted on the day of their arrival in London,—nor, indeed, had heard of his whereabouts. In the consternation of her mind at this step which she was taking,—a step which she had taught herself to regard as essentially her duty before it was taken, but which seemed to herself to be false and treacherous the moment she had taken it,—she had become aware that she had been wrong to travel with her cousin. She felt sure,—she thought that she was sure,—that her doing so had in nowise affected her dealings with Mr Grey. She was very certain,—she thought that she was certain,—that she would have rejected him just the same had she never gone to Switzerland. But every one would say of her that her journey to Switzerland with such companions had produced that result. It had been unlucky and she was sorry for it, and she now wished to avoid all communication with her cousin till this affair should be altogether over. She was especially unwilling to see him; but she had not felt it necessary to give any special injunctions as to his admittance; and now, before she had time to think of it,—on the eve of her departure for Cheltenham,—he was in the room with her, just as the dusk of the October evening was coming on. She was sitting away from the fire, almost behind the window-curtains, thinking of John Grey and very unhappy in her thoughts, when George Vavasor was announced. It will of course be understood that Vavasor had at this time received his sister’s letter. He had received it, and had had time to consider the matter since the Sunday morning on which we saw him in his own rooms in Cecil Street. “She can turn it all into capital tomorrow, if she pleases,” he had said to himself when thinking of her income. But he had also reminded himself that her grandfather would probably enable him to settle an income out of the property upon Alice, in the event of their being married. And then he had also felt that he could have no greater triumph than “walking atop of John Grey,” as he called it. His return for the Chelsea Districts would hardly be sweeter to him than that.

      “You must have thought I had vanished out of the world,” said George, coming up to her with his extended hand.

      Alice was confused, and hardly knew how to address him. “Somebody told me that you were shooting,” she said after a pause.

      “So I was, but my shooting is not like the shooting of your great Nimrods,—men who are hunters upon the earth. Two days among the grouse and two more among the partridges are about the extent of it. Capel Court is the preserve in which I am usually to be found.”

      Alice knew nothing of Capel Court, and said, “Oh, indeed.”

      “Have you heard from Kate?” George asked.

      “Yes, once or twice; she is still at Yarmouth with Aunt Greenow.”

      “And is going to Norwich, as she says. Kate seems to have made a league with Aunt Greenow. I, who don’t pretend to be very disinterested in money matters, think that she is quite right. No doubt Aunt Greenow may marry again, but friends with forty thousand pounds are always agreeable.”

      “I don’t believe that Kate thinks much of that,” said Alice.

      “Not so much as she ought, I dare say. Poor Kate is not a rich woman, or, I fear, likely to become one. She doesn’t seem to dream of getting married, and her own fortune is less than a hundred a year.”

      “Girls who never dream of getting married are just those who make the best marriages at last,” said Alice.

      “Perhaps so, but I wish I was easier about Kate. She is the best sister a man ever had.”

      “Indeed she is.”

      “And I have done nothing for her as yet. I did think, while I was in that wine business, that I could have done anything I pleased for her. But my grandfather’s obstinacy put