Can You Forgive Her?. Anthony Trollope
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“Of course you could not go alone with George,” said Lady Macleod, very grimly. Now George Vavasor was Kate’s brother, and was therefore also first cousin to Alice. He was heir to the old squire down in Westmoreland, with whom Kate lived, their father being dead. Nothing, it would seem, could be more rational than that Alice should go to Switzerland with her cousins; but Lady Macleod was clearly not of this opinion; she looked very grim as she made this allusion to cousin George, and seemed to be preparing herself for a fight.
“That is exactly what I say,” answered Alice. “But, indeed, he is simply going as an escort to me and Kate, as we don’t like the rôle of unprotected females. It is very goodnatured of him, seeing how much his time is taken up.”
“I thought he never did anything.”
“That’s because you don’t know him, aunt.”
“No; certainly I don’t know him.” She did not add that she had no wish to know Mr George Vavasor, but she looked it. “And has your father been told that he is going?”
“Of course he has.”
“And does—” Lady Macleod hesitated a little before she went on, and then finished her question with a little spasmodic assumption of courage. “And does Mr Grey know that he is going?”
Alice remained silent for a full minute before she answered this question, during which Lady Macleod sat watching her grimly, with her eyes very intent upon her niece’s face. If she supposed such silence to have been in any degree produced by shame in answering the question, she was much mistaken. But it may be doubted whether she understood the character of the girl whom she thought she knew so well, and it is probable that she did make such mistake.
“I might tell you simply that he does,” said Alice at last, “seeing that I wrote to him yesterday, letting him know that such were our arrangements; but I feel that I should not thus answer the question you mean to ask. You want to know whether Mr Grey will approve of it. As I only wrote yesterday of course I have not heard, and therefore cannot say. But I can say this, aunt, that much as I might regret his disapproval, it would make no change in my plans.”
“Would it not? Then I must tell you, you are very wrong. It ought to make a change. What! the disapproval of the man you are going to marry make no change in your plans?”
“Not in that matter. Come, aunt, if we must discuss this matter let us do it at any rate fairly. In an ordinary way, if Mr Grey had asked me to give up for any reason my trip altogether, I should have given it up certainly, as I would give up any other indifferent project at the request of so dear a friend,—a friend with whom I am so—so—so closely connected. But if he asked me not to travel with my cousin George, I should refuse him absolutely, without a word of parley on the subject, simply because of the nature and closeness of my connection with him. I suppose you understand what I mean, aunt?”
“I suppose I do. You mean that you would refuse to obey him on the very subject on which he has a right to claim your obedience.”
“He has no right to claim my obedience on any subject,” said Alice; and as she spoke Aunt Macleod jumped up with a little start at the vehemence of the words, and of the tone in which they were expressed. She had heard that tone before, and might have been used to it; but, nevertheless, the little jump was involuntary. “At present he has no right to my obedience on any subject, but least of all on that,” said Alice. “His advice he may give me, but I am quite sure he will not ask for obedience.”
“And if he advises you you will slight his advice.”
“If he tells me that I had better not travel with my cousin George I shall certainly not take his advice. Moreover, I should be careful to let him know how much I was offended by any such counsel from him. It would show a littleness on his part, and a suspicion of which I cannot suppose him to be capable.” Alice, as she said this, got up from her seat and walked about the room. When she had finished she stood at one of the windows with her back to her visitor. There was silence between them for a minute or two, during which Lady Macleod was deeply considering how best she might speak the terrible words, which, as Alice’s nearest female relative, she felt herself bound to utter. At last she collected her thoughts and her courage, and spoke out.
“My dear Alice, I need hardly say that if you had a mother living, or any person with you filling the place of a mother, I should not interfere in this matter.”
“Of course, Aunt Macleod, if you think I am wrong you have quite a right to say so.”
“I do think you are wrong,—very wrong, indeed; and if you persist in this I am afraid I must say that I shall think you wicked. Of course Mr Grey cannot like you to travel with George Vavasor.”
“And why not, aunt?” Alice, as she asked this question, turned round and confronted Lady Macleod boldly. She spoke with a steady voice, and fixed her eyes upon the old lady’s face, as though determined to show that she had no fear of what might be said to her.
“Why not, Alice? Surely you do not wish me to say why not.”
“But I do wish you to say why not. How can I defend myself till the accusation is made?”
“You are now engaged to marry Mr Grey, with the consent and approbation of all your friends. Two years ago you had—had—”
“Had what, aunt? If you mean to say that two years ago I was engaged to my cousin George you are mistaken. Three years ago I told him that under certain conditions I would become engaged to him. But my conditions did not suit him, nor his me, and no engagement was ever made. Mr Grey knows the history of the whole thing. As far as it was possible I have told him everything that took place.”
“The fact was, Alice, that George Vavasor’s mode of life was such that an engagement with him would have been absolute madness.”
“Dear aunt, you must excuse me if I say that I cannot discuss George Vavasor’s mode of life. If I were thinking of becoming his wife you would have a perfect right to discuss it, because of your constant kindness to me. But as matters are he is simply a cousin; and as I like him and you do not, we had better say nothing about him.”
“I must say this—that after what has passed, and at the present crisis of your life—”
“Dear aunt, I’m not in any crisis.”
“Yes you are, Alice; in the most special crisis of a girl’s life. You are still a girl, but you are the promised wife of a very worthy man, who will look to you for all his domestic happiness. George Vavasor has the name, at least, of being very wild.”
“The worthy man and the wild man must fight it out between them. If I were going away with George by himself, there might be something in what you say.”
“That would be monstrous.”
“Monstrous or not, it isn’t what I’m about to do. Kate and I have put our purses together, and are going to have an outing for our special fun and gratification. As we should be poor travellers alone, George has promised to go with his sister. Papa knows all about it, and never thought of making any objection.”
Lady Macleod shook her head. She did not like to say anything against Mr Vavasor before his daughter; but the shaking of her head was intended to signify that Mr Vavasor’s assent in such a matter was worth nothing.
“I can only say again,” said Lady Macleod, “that I think Mr Grey will be displeased,—and that he will have very great cause for displeasure. And I think, moreover, that his approbation ought to be your chief study. I believe, my dear, I’ll ask you to let Jane get me a cab. I shan’t have a bit too much time to dress for the concert.”
Alice simply rang the bell, and said no further word on the subject which they had been discussing. When Lady Macleod got up to go away, Alice kissed her, as was customary with them, and the old lady as she went uttered her customary valediction. “God bless you, my dear. Goodbye! I’ll come tomorrow if I can.” There