 CHAPTER 34 Mr. Vavasor speaks to his daughter. Alice Vavasor returned to London with her father, leaving Kate at Vavasor Hall with her grandfather. The journey was not a pleasant one. Mr. Vavasor knew that it was his duty to do something, to take some steps with the view of preventing the marriage, which his daughter meditated, but he did not know what that something should be, and he did know that whatever it might be, the doing of it would be thoroughly disagreeable. When they started from Vavasor, he had as yet hardly spoken to her a word upon the subject. I cannot congratulate you, he had simply said. I hope the time may come, papa, when you will, Alice had answered, and that had been all. The squire had promised that he would consent to a reconciliation with his grandson if Alice's father would express himself satisfied with the proposed marriage. John Vavasor had certainly expressed nothing of the kind. I think so badly of him, he had said, speaking to the old man of George, that I would rather know that almost any other calamity was to befall her than that she should be united to him. Then the squire, with his usual obstinacy, had taken up the cudgels on behalf of his grandson and had tried to prove that the match, after all, would not be so bad in its results as his son seemed to expect. It would do very well for the property, he said. I would settle the estate on their eldest son so that he could not touch it, and I don't see why he shouldn't reform as well as another. John Vavasor had then declared that George was thoroughly bad, that he was an adventurer, that he believed him to be a roined man, and that he would never reform. The squire upon this had waxed angry, and in this way George obtained aid and assistance down at the old house, which he certainly had no right to expect. When Alice wished her grandfather good-bye, the old man gave her a message to his grandson. You may tell him, said he, that I will never see him again unless he begs my pardon for his personal bad conduct to me, but that if he marries you I will take care that the property is properly settled upon his child and yours. I shall always be glad to see you, my dear, and for your sake I will see him if he will humble himself to me. There was no word spoken then about her father's consent, and Alice, when she left Vavasor, felt that the squire was rather her friend than her enemy in regard to this thing which she contemplated, that her father was and would be an uncompromising enemy to her, uncompromising though probably not energetical. She was well aware, and therefore the journey up to London was not comfortable. Alice had resolved, with great pain to herself, that in this matter she owed her father no obedience. There cannot be obedience on one side, she said to herself, without protection and support on the other. Now it was quite true that John Vavasor had done little in the way of supporting or protecting his daughter. Only in life, before she had resided under the same roof with him in London, he had, as it were, washed his hands of all solicitude regarding her, and having no other ties of family, had fallen into habits of life which made it almost impossible for him to live with her as any other father would live with his child. Then when their first sprang up between them that manner of sharing the same house without any joining together of their habits of life, she had excused himself to himself by saying that Alice was unlike other girls, and that she required no protection. Her fortune was her own, and at her own disposal. Her character was such that she showed no inclination to throw the burdens of such disposal on her father's shoulders. She was steady, too, and given to no pursuits which made it necessary that he should watch closely over her. She was a girl, he thought, who could do as well without surveillance as with it, as well or perhaps better. So it had come to pass that Alice had been the free mistress of her own actions and had been left to make the most she could of her own hours. It cannot be supposed that she had eaten her lonely dinners in Queen Anne Street night after night, week after week, month after month, without telling herself that her father was neglecting her. She could not perceive that he spent every evening in society, but never an evening in her society, without feeling that the tie between her and him was not the strong bond which usually binds a father to his child. She was well aware that she had been ill-used and being thus left desolate in her home. She had uttered no word of complaint, but she had learned, without being aware that she was doing so, to entertain a firm resolve that her father should not guide her in her path through life. In that affair of John Gray they had both for a time thought alike, and Mr. Vavasor had believed that his theory with reference to Alice had been quite correct. She had been left to herself and was going to dispose of herself in a way than which nothing could be more eligible. But evil days were now coming, and Mr. Vavasor, as he traveled up to London with his daughter seated opposite to him in the railway carriage, felt that now at last he must interfere. In part of the journey they had the carriage to themselves, and Mr. Vavasor thought that he would begin what he had to say, but he put it off till others joined them, and then there was no further opportunity for such conversation as that which would be necessary between them. They reached home about eight in the evening, having dined on the road. She will be tired tonight, he said to himself, as he went off to his club, and I will speak to her to-morrow. Alice especially felt his going on this evening. When two persons had together the tedium of such a journey as that from Westmoreland up to London, there should be some feeling between them to bind them together while enjoying the comfort of the evening. Had he stayed and sat with her at her tea-table, Alice would at any rate have endeavored to be soft with him in any discussion that might have been raised. But he went away from her at once, leaving her to think alone over the perils of the life before her. I want to speak to you after breakfast tomorrow, he said, as he went out. Alice answered that she should be there, as a matter of course. She scorned to tell him that she was always there, always alone at home. She had never uttered a word of complaint, and she would not begin now. The discussion after breakfast the next day was commenced with formal and almost ceremonial preparation. The father and daughter breakfasted together with the knowledge that the discussion was coming. It did not give to either of them a good appetite, and very little was said at table. Will you come upstairs? said Alice, when she perceived that her father had finished his tea. Perhaps that will be best, said he. Then he followed her into the drawing-room in which the fire had just been lit. Alice said he, I must speak to you about this engagement of yours. Won't you sit down, papa? It does look so dreadful you're standing up over one in that way. He had placed himself on the rug with his back to the incipient fire, but now at her request he sat himself down opposite to her. I was greatly grieved when I heard of this at Vavasor. I am sorry that you should be grieved, papa. I was grieved. I must confess that I never could understand why you treated Mr. Gray as you have done. Oh, papa, that's done in past. Pray let that be among the bygones. Does he know yet of your engagement with your cousin? He will know it by this time tomorrow. Then I beg of you, as a great favor, to postpone your letter to him. To this Alice made no answer. I have not troubled you with many such requests, Alice. Will you tell me that this one shall be granted? I think that I owe it to him as an imperative duty to let him know the truth. But you may change your mind again. Alice found that this was hard to bear and hard to answer, but there was a certain amount of truth in the grievous reproach conveyed in her father's words, which made her bow her neck to it. I have no right to say that it is impossible, she replied, in words that were barely audible. No, exactly so, said her father, and therefore it will be better that you should postpone any such communication. For how long do you mean? Till you and I shall have agreed together that he should be told. No, papa, I will not consent to that. I consider myself bound to let him know the truth without delay. I have done him a great injury, and I must put an end to that as soon as possible. You have done him an injury, certainly, my dear. A very great injury, said Mr. Vavasor, going away from his object about the a proposed letter, and I believe he will feel it as such to the last day of his life if this goes on. I hope not. I believe that it will not be so. I feel sure that it will not be so. But of course what I am thinking of now is your welfare, not his. When you simply told me that you intended to, Alice winced, for she feared to hear from her father that odious word which her grandfather had used to her, and indeed the word had been on her father's lips, but he had refrained and spared her. That you intended to break your engagement with Mr. Gray, he continued, I said little or nothing to you. I would not ask you to marry any man, even though you had yourself promised to marry him. But when you tell me that you were engaged to your cousin George, the matter is very different. I do not think well of your cousin. Indeed I think anything but well of him. It is my duty to tell you that the world speaks very ill of him. He paused, but Alice remained silent. When you were about to travel with me, continued, I ought perhaps to have told you the same. But I did not wish to pay you or his sister, and more over I have heard worse of him since then, much worse than I had heard before. As you did not tell me before, I think you might spare me now, said Alice. No, my dear, I cannot allow you to sacrifice yourself without telling you that you are doing so. If it were not for your money, he would never think of marrying you. Of that I am well aware, said Alice. He has told me so himself very plainly. And yet you will marry him. Certainly I will. It seems to me, papa, that there is a great deal of false feeling about this matter of money and marriage, or rather perhaps a great deal of pretended feeling. Why should I be angry with a man for wishing to get that for which every man is struggling? At this point of George's career, the use of money is essential to him. He could not marry without it. You had better then give him your money without yourself, said her father, speaking in irony. That is just what I mean to do, papa, said Alice. What, said Mr. Vavasor, jumping up from his seat, you mean to give him your money before you marry him? Certainly I do, if he should want it, or I should rather say as much as he may want of it. Heavens on earth, exclaimed Mr. Vavasor, Alice, you must be mad. To part with my money to my friend, said she, it is a kind of madness of which I need not at any rate be ashamed. Tell me this, Alice, has he got any of it as yet? Not a shilling. Papa, pray do not look at me like that. If I had no thought of marrying him you would not call me mad because I lent to my cousin what money he might need. I should only say that so much of your fortune was thrown away, and if it were not much that would be an end of it. I would sooner see you surrender to him the half of all you have without any engagement to marry him than know that he had received a shilling from you under such a promise. You are prejudiced against him, sir. Was it prejudice that made you reject him once before? Did you condemn him then through prejudice? Had you not ascertained that he was altogether unworthy of you? We were both younger then, said Alice, speaking very softly but very seriously. We were both much younger then, and looked at life with other eyes than those which we now use. For myself I expected much then, which I now seem hardly to regard at all, and as for him he was then attached to pleasures to which I believe he has now learned to be indifferent. Pshah! ejaculated the father. I can only speak as I believe, continued Alice, and I think I may perhaps know more of his manner of life than you could do, papa. But I am prepared to run risks now which I feared before. Even though he were all that you think him to be, I would still endeavor to do my duty to him and to bring him to other things. What is it you expect to get by marrying him? asked Mr. Vavasor. A husband whose mode of thinking is congenial to my own, answered Alice. A husband who proposes to himself a career in life with which I can sympathize. I think that I may perhaps help my cousin in the career which he has chosen, and that alone is a great reason why I should attempt to do so. With your money, said Mr. Vavasor, with a sneer. Partly with my money, said Alice, disdaining to answer the sneer, though it were only with my money, even that would be something. Well, Alice, as your father, I can only implore you to pause before you commit yourself to his hands. If he demands money from you, and you are minded to give it to him, let him have it in moderation. Anything will be better than marrying him. I know that I cannot hinder you, you are as much your own mistress as I am my own master, or rather a great deal more, as my income depends on my going to that horrid place and chance relaying. But yet I suppose you must think something of your father's wishes and your father's opinion. It will not be pleasant for you to stand at the altar without my being there near you. To this Alice made no answer, but she told herself that it had not been pleasant to her to have stood at so many places during the last four years and to have found herself so often alone without her father being near to her. That had been his fault, and it was not now in her power to remedy the ill effects of it. Has any day been fixed between you and him, he asked? No, papa. Nothing has been said about that. Yes, something has been said. I have told him that it cannot be for a year yet. It is because I told him that that I told him also that he should have my money when he wanted it. Not all of it, said Mr. Bavisaur. I don't suppose he will need it all. He intends to stand again for Chelsea, and it is the great expense of the election which makes him want money. You are not to suppose that he has asked me for it. When I made him understand that I did not wish to marry quite yet, I offered him the use of that, which would be ultimately his own. And he has accepted it. He answered me just as I had intended, that when the need came he would take me at my word. Then Alice, I will tell you what is my belief. He will drain you of every shilling of your money, and when that is gone there will be no more herd of the marriage. We must take a small house and some cheap part of the town and live on my income as best we may. I shall go and ensure my life so that you may not absolutely starve when I die. Having said this, Mr. Bavisaur went away, not immediately to the insurance office, as his words seem to imply, but to his club where he sat alone, reading the newspaper very gloomily, till the time came for his afternoon rubber of wist and the club dinner-bill for the day was brought under his eye. Alice had no such consolations in her solitude. She had fought her battle with her father tolerably well, but she was now called upon to fight a battle with herself which was one much more difficult to win. Was her cousin, her betrothed, as she now must regard him, the worthless, heartless, mercenary rascal in which her father painted him? There had almost certainly been a time, and not that very long distant, in which Alice herself had been almost constrained so to regard him, since that any change for the better in her opinion of him had been grounded on evidence given either by himself or by his sister Kate. He had done nothing to inspire her with any confidence, unless his reckless daring in coming forward to contest a seat in Parliament could be regarded as a doing of something. And he had owned himself to be a man almost penniless. He had spoken of himself as being utterly reckless, as being one who standing in the world was and must continue to be a perch on the edge of a precipice from which any accident might knock him headlong. Alice believed in her heart that this last profession or trade to which he had applied himself was becoming as nothing to him, that he received from it no certain income, no income that a man could make to appear respectable to fathers or guardians when seeking a girl in marriage. Her father declared that all men spoke badly of him. Alice knew her father to be an idle man, a man given to pleasure to be one who thought by far too much of the good things of the world, but she had never found him to be either false or malicious. His unwanted energy in this matter was in itself evidence that he believed himself to be right in what he said. To tell the truth Alice was frightened at what she had done and almost repented of it already. Her acceptance of her cousin's offer had not come of love, nor had it in truth come chiefly of ambition. She had not so much asked herself why she should do this thing as why she should not do it, seeing that it was required of her by her friend. What after all did it matter? That was her argument with herself. It cannot be supposed that she looked back on the past events of her life with any self-satisfaction. There was no self-satisfaction, but in truth there was more self-reproach than she deserved. As a girl she had loved her cousin George passionately, and that love had failed her. She did not tell herself that she had been wrong when she gave him up, but she thought herself to have been most unfortunate in the one necessity. After such an experience as that, would it not have been better for her to have remained without further thought of marriage? Then came that terrible episode in her life for which she never could forgive herself. She had accepted Mr. Gray because she liked him and honored him. And I did love him, she said to herself, now on this morning, poor wretched, heart-wrung woman. As she sat here thinking of it all in her solitude she was to be pitied at any rate, if not to be forgiven. Now as she thought of nethercoats with its quiet life, its gardens, its books, and the peaceful affectionate ascendancy of him who would have been her lord and master, her feelings were very different from those which had induced her to resolve that she would not stoop to put her neck beneath that yoke. Would it not have been well for her to have a master who by his wisdom and strength could save her from such wretched doubtings as these? But she had refused to bend, and then she had found herself desolate and alone in the world. If I can do him good, why should I not marry him? In that feeling had been the chief argument which had induced her to return such an answer as she had sent to her cousin. For myself what does it matter? As to this life of mine and all that belongs to it, why should I regard it otherwise than to make it of some service to someone who is dear to me? He had been ever dear to her from her earliest years. She believed in his intellect, even if she could not believe in his conduct. Kate, her friend, longed for this thing. As for that dream of love, it meant nothing. And as for those arguments of prudence, that cold calculation about her money, which all people seemed to expect from her, she would throw it to the winds. What if she were roined? There was always the other chance. She might save him from roying, and help him to honor and fortune. But then, when the word was once past her lips, there returned to her that true woman's feeling which made her plead for a long day, which made her feel that that long day would be all too short, which made her already dread the coming of the end of the year. She had said that she would become George Vavasor's wife, but she wished that the saying so might be the end of it. When he came to her to embrace her, how should she receive him? The memory of John Gray's last kiss still lingered on her lips. She had told herself that she scorned the delights of love. If it were so, was she not bound to keep herself far from them? If it were so, would not her cousin's kiss pollute her? It may be, as my father says, she thought. It may be that he wants my money only. If so, let him have it. Surely when the year is over, I shall know. Then a plan formed itself in her head, which she did not make willingly with any voluntary action of her mind, but which came upon her as plans do come, and recommended itself to her in despite of herself. He should have her money as he might call for it, all of it accepting some small portion of her income which might suffice to keep her from burdening her father. Then if he were contented, he should go free without reproach, and there should be an end of all question of marriage for her. As she thought of this, and matured it in her mind, the door opened, and the servant announced her cousin George. End of Chapter 34, Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 35 of Can You Forgive Her. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Can You Forgive Her. By Antony Trollop. Chapter 35 Passion vs. Prudence. It had not occurred to Alice that her accepted lover would come to her so soon. She had not told him expressly of the day on which she would return, and had not reflected that Kate would certainly inform him. She had been thinking so much of the distant perils of this engagement that this peril, so sure to come upon her before many days or hours could pass by, had been forgotten. When the name struck her ear and George's step was heard outside on the landing-place, she felt the blood rush violently to her heart, and she jumped up from her seat panic-stricken and in utter dismay. How should she receive him? And then again, with what form of affection would she be accosted by him? But he was there in the room with her before she had had a moment allowed to her for thought. She hardly ventured to look up at him, but nevertheless she became aware that there was something in his appearance in dress, brighter, more lover-like, perhaps newer, than was usual with him. This in itself was an affliction to her. He ought to have understood that such an engagement as there's not only did not require, but absolutely forbade any such symptom of young love as this. Even when their marriage came, if it must come, it should come without any customary sign of smartness, without any outward mark of exultation. It would have been very good in him to have remained away from her for weeks and months, but to come upon her thus, on the first morning of her return, was a cruelty not to be forgiven. These were the feelings with which Alice regarded her betrothed when he came to see her. Alice said he, coming up to her with his extended hand, dearest Alice. She gave him her hand and muttered some word which was inaudible even to him. She gave him her hand and immediately endeavored to resume it, but he held it clenched within his own, and she felt that she was his prisoner. He was standing close to her now, and she could not escape from him. She was trembling with fear lest worse might betide her even than this. She had promised to marry him, and now she was covered with dismay as she felt rather than thought how very far she was from loving the man to whom she had given this promise. Alice, he said, I am a man once again. It is only now that I can tell you what I have suffered during these last few years. He still held her hand, but he had not as yet attempted any closer embrace. She knew that she was standing away from him awkwardly, whilst showing her repugnance to him. But it was altogether beyond her power to assume an attitude of ordinary ease. Alice, he continued, I feel that I am a strong man again, armed to meet the world at all points. Will you not let me thank you for what you have done for me? She must speak to him. Though the doing so should be ever so painful to her, she must say some word to him which should have it in a sound of kindness. After all, it was his undoubted right to come to her, and the footing on which he assumed to stand was simply that which she herself had given to him. It was not his fault if at this moment he inspired her with disgust rather than with love. I have done nothing for you, George, she said, nothing at all. Then she got her hand away from him, and he treated back to a sofa where she seated herself, leaving him still standing in the space before the fire. But you may do so much for yourself as my greatest hope. If I can help you, I will do so most heartily. Then she became thoroughly ashamed of her words, feeling that she was at once offering to him the use of her purse. Of course you will help me, he said. I am full of plans, all of which you must share with me. But now, at this moment, my one great plan is that in which you have already consented to be my partner. Alice, you are my wife now. Tell me that it will make you happy to call me your husband. Not for worlds could she have said so at this moment. It was ill-judged in him to press her thus. He should already have seen, with half an eye, that no such triumph as that which he now demanded could be his on this occasion. He had had his triumph when, in the solitude of his own room with quiet sarcasm, he had thrown on one side of him the letter in which she had accepted him, as though the matter had been one almost indifferent to him. He had no right to expect the double triumph. Then he had frankly told himself that her money would be useful to him. He should have been contented with that conviction and not have required her also to speak to him soft-winning words of love. That must be still distant, George, she said. I have suffered so much. And it has been my fault that you have suffered. I know that. These years of misery have been my doing. It was, however, the year of coming misery that was the most to be dreaded. I did not say that, she replied. Nor have I ever thought it. I have myself and myself only to blame. Here he altogether misunderstood her, believing her to mean that the fault for which she blamed herself had been committed in separating herself from him on that former occasion. Alice, dear, let bygones be bygones. Bygones will not be bygones. It may be well for people to say so, but it is never true. One might as well say so to one's body as to one's heart, but the hairs will grow gray and the heart will grow cold. I do not see that one follows upon the other, said George. My hair is growing very gray. And to show that it was so, he lifted the dark clock from the side of his forehead and displayed the incipient grizzling of the hair from behind. If gray hairs make an old man, Alice, you will marry an old husband. But even you shall not be allowed to say that my heart is old. That word, husband, which her cousin had twice used, was painful to Alice's ear. She shrunk from it with palpable bodily suffering. Marry an old husband. His age was nothing to the purpose, though he had been as old as Enoch. But she was again obliged to answer him. I spoke of my own heart, said she. I sometimes feel that it has grown very old. Alice, that is hardly cheering to me. You have come to me too quickly, George, and do not reflect how much there is that I must remember. You have said that bygones should be bygones. Let them be so, at any rate, as far as words are concerned. Give me a few months in which I may learn not to forget them, for that will be impossible, but to abstain from speaking of them. There was something in her look as she spoke, and in the tone of her voice, that was very sad. It struck him forcibly, but it struck him with anger, rather than with sadness. Doubtless her money had been his chief object when he offered to renew his engagement with her. Doubtless he would have made no such offer had she been penniless, or even had his own need been less pressing. But nevertheless he desired something more than money. The triumph of being preferred to John Gray, of having John Gray sent altogether adrift in order that his old love might be recovered, would have been too costly a luxury for him to seek, had he not in seeking it been able to combine prudence with the luxury. But though his prudence had been undoubted, he desired the luxury also. It was on a calculation of the combined advantage that he had made his second offer to his cousin. As he would by no means have consented to proceed with the arrangement without the benefit of his cousin's money. So also did he feel unwilling to dispense with some expression of her love for him, which would be to him triumphant. Hitherto in their present interview, there had certainly been no expression of her love. Alice, he said, you're greeting to me as hardly all that I had hoped. Is it not, said she, indeed, George, I am sorry that you should be disappointed, but what can I say? You would not have me affect a lightness of spirit which I do not feel. If you wish, said he, very slowly, if you wish to retract your letter to me, you now have my leave to do so. What an opportunity was this of escape, but she had not the courage to accept it. What girl under such circumstances would have had such courage? How often are offers made to us which we would almost give our eyes to accept, but dare not accept because we fear the countenance of the offerer. I do not wish to retract my letter, said she, speaking as slowly as he had spoken, but I wish to be left awhile that I may recover my strength of mind. Have you not heard doctors say that muscles which have been strained should be allowed rest or they will never entirely renew their tension? It is so with me now. If I could be quiet for a few months, I think I could learn to face the future with a better courage. And is that all you can say to me, Alice? What would you have me say? I would feign here one word of love from you. Is that unreasonable? I would wish to know from your own lips that you have satisfaction in the renewed prospect of our union. Is that too ambitious? It might have been that I was overbold and pressing my suit upon you again, but as you accepted it, have I not a right to expect that you should show me that you have been happy in accepting it? But she had not been happy in accepting it. She was not happy now that she had accepted it. She could not show to him any sign of such joy as that which he desired to see. And now at this moment, she feared with an excessive fear that there would come some demand for an outward demonstration of love, such as he in his position might have a right to make. She seemed to be aware that this might be prevented only by such demeanor on her part is that which she had practiced and she could not, therefore, be stirred to the expression of any word of affection. She listened to his appeal and when it was finished, she made no reply. If he chose to take her in Dungeon, he must do so. She would make for him any sacrifice that was possible to her, but this sacrifice was not possible. And you have not a word to say to me, he asked. She looked up at him and saw that the cicature on his face was becoming ominous. His eyes were bent upon her with all their forbidding brilliance and he was assuming that look of angry audacity, which was so peculiar to him and which had so often cowed those with whom he was brought in contact. No other word at present, George. I have told you that I am not at ease why do you press me now? He had her letter to him in the breast pocket of his coat and his hand was on it that he might fling it back to her and tell her that he would not hold her to be his promised wife under such circumstances as these. The anger which would have induced him to do so was the better part of his nature. Three or four years since this better part would have prevailed and he would have given way to his rage. But now, as his fingers played upon the paper, he remembered that her money was absolutely essential to him, that some of it was needed by him almost instantly, that on this very morning he was bound to go where money would be demanded from him and that his hopes with regard to Chelsea could not be maintained unless he was able to make some substantial promise of providing funds. His sister Kate's fortune was just 2,000 pounds. That and no more was now the capital of his command if he should abandon this other source of aid. Even that must go if all other sources should fail him. Would he would feign have that untouched if it were possible? Oh, that that old man in Westmoreland would die and be gathered to his fathers now that he was full of years and ripe for the sickle. But there was no sign of death about the old man so his fingers released their hold on the letter and he stood looking at her in his anger. You wish me then to go from you, he said. Do not be angry with me, George. Angry? I have no right to be angry but by heaven I am wrong there. I have the right and I am angry. I think you owed it to me to give me some warmer welcome. Is it to be thus with us always for the next accursed year? Oh, George, to me it will be accursed. But is it to be thus between us always? Alice, I have loved you above all women. I may say that I have never loved any woman but you. And yet I am sometimes driven to doubt whether you have a heart and you capable of love. After all that has passed, all your old protestations, all my repentance and your proffer of forgiveness, you should have received me with open arms. I suppose I may go now and feel that I have been kicked out of your house like a dog. If you speak to me like that and look at me like that, how can I answer you? I want no answer. I wanted you to put your hand in mine to kiss me and to tell me that you were once more my own. Alice, think better of it. Kiss me and let me feel my arm once more around your waist. She shuddered as she sat, still silent on her seat, and he saw that she shuddered. With all his desire for her money, his instant need of it, this was too much for him. And he turned upon his heel and left the room without another word. She heard the door slam as he left the house, but still she did not move from her seat. Her immediate desire had been that he should go and now he was gone. There was in that a relief which almost comforted her. And this was the man from whom, within the last few days, she had accepted an offer of marriage. George, when he left the house, walked hurriedly into Cavendish Square and down along the east side till he made his way out along Princess Street and to the Circus and Oxford Street. Close to him there, in Great Marlboro Street, was the house of his parliamentary attorney, Mr. Scruby, on whom he was bound to call on that morning. As he had walked away from Queen Anne Street, he had thought of nothing but that too visible shudder which his cousin Alice had been unable to repress. He had been feeding on his anger and indulging it, telling himself at one moment that he would let her and her money go from him whether they list and making inward threats in the next that the time should come in which he would punish her for this ill usage. But there was a necessity of resolving what he would say to Mr. Scruby. To Mr. Scruby would still do some trifle on the cost of the last election. But even if this were paid, Mr. Scruby would make no heavy advance towards the expense of the next election. Whoever might come out at the end of such affairs without a satisfactory settlement of his little bill as had for a while been the case with Mr. Grimes from the Handsome Man, and as indeed still was the case with him as that note of hand at three months date was not yet paid, Mr. Scruby seldom allowed himself to suffer. It was true that the election would not take place till the summer, but there were preliminary expenses which needed ready money. Metropolitan voters, as Mr. Scruby often declared, required to be kept in good humor so that Mr. Scruby wanted the present payment of some 500 pounds and a well-grounded assurance that he would be put in full funds by the beginning of next June. Even Mr. Scruby might not be true as perfect steel if he thought that his candidate at the last moment would not come forth properly prepared. Other candidates with money in their pockets might find their way into Mr. Scruby's offices. As George Vavasor crossed Regent Street, he gulped down his anger and applied his mind to business. Should he prepare himself to give orders that Kate's little property should be sold out or would he resolve to use his cousin's money? That his cousin's money would still be at his disposal in spite of the stormy mood in which he had retreated from her presence, he felt sure. But the asking for it on his part would be unpleasant. That duty he must entrust to Kate. But as he reached Mr. Scruby's door, he had decided that for such purposes as those now in hand, it was preferable that he should use his wife's fortune. It was thus that in his own mind he worded the phrase and made for himself an excuse. Yes, he would use his wife's fortune and explain to Mr. Scruby that he would be justified in doing so by the fact that his own heritage would be settled on her at her marriage. I do not suppose that he altogether liked it. He was not at any rate as yet an altogether heartless swindler. He could not take his cousin's money without meaning, without thinking that he meant to repay her in full all that he took. Her behavior to him this very morning had no doubt made the affair more difficult to his mind and more unpleasant than it would have been had she smiled on him. But even as it was, he managed to assure himself that he was doing her no wrong and with this self-assurance he entered Mr. Scruby's office. The clerks in the outer office were very civil to him and undertook to promise him that he should not be kept waiting an instant. There were four gentlemen in the little parlor, they said, waiting to see Mr. Scruby. But there they should remain till Mr. Vavasor's interview was over. One gentleman, as it seemed, was even turned out to make way for him. For as George was ushered into the lawyer's room, a little man looking very meek was hurried away from it. You can wait, Smithers, said Mr. Scruby, speaking from within. I shan't be very long. Vavasor apologized to his agent for the injury he was doing Smithers. But Mr. Scruby explained that he was only a poor devil of a printer looking for payment of his little account. He had printed and posted 30,000 placards for one of the late Marilobone candidates and found some difficulty in getting his money. You see, when they're in a small way of business, it ruins them, said Scruby. Now that poor devil, he hasn't had a shilling of his money yet and the greater part has been paid out of his pocket to the posters. It is hard. It comforted Vavasor when he thus heard that there were others who were more backward in their payments even than himself and made him reflect that a longer credit that had yet been achieved by him might perhaps be within his reach. It is astonishing how much a man may get done for him, said he, without paying anything for years. Yes, that's true. So he may, if he knows how to go about it. But when he does pay Mr. Vavasor, he does it through the nose. Cent per cent and worse for all his former shortcomings. How many there are who never pay at all, said George. Yes, Mr. Vavasor, that's true too. But see what a life they lead. It isn't a pleasant thing to be afraid of coming into your agent's office. Not what you would like, Mr. Vavasor, not if I know you. I never was afraid of meeting anyone yet, said Vavasor, but I don't know what I may come to. Nor never will, I'll go bail. But Lord love you, I could tell you such tales. I have had numbers of parliament, past, present, and future, almost down on their knees to me in this little room. It's about a month or six weeks before the elections come on when they're at their worst. There is so much you see, Mr. Vavasor, for which a gentleman must pay ready money. It isn't like a business in which a lawyer is supposed to find the capital. If I had money enough to pay out of my own pocket, all the cost of all the metropolitan gentlemen for whom I act, why I could live on the interest without any trouble and go into parliament myself like a man. George Vavasor perfectly understood that Mr. Scrooby was explaining to him with what best attempt at delicacy he could make that funds for the expense of the Chelsea election were not to be forthcoming from the Great Marlboro Street establishment. I suppose so, he said, but you do do it sometimes. Never, Mr. Vavasor, said Mr. Scrooby very solemnly. As a rule, never. I may advance the money on interest, of course, when I receive a guarantee from the candidate's father or from six or seven among the committee who must all be very substantial, very substantial indeed. But in a general way, I don't do it. It isn't my place. I thought you did, but at any rate, I don't want you to do it for me. I'm quite sure you don't, said Mr. Scrooby with a brighter tone of voice than that he had just been using. I never thought you did, Mr. Vavasor. Lord bless you, Mr. Vavasor. I know the difference between gentlemen as soon as I see them. Then they went to business and Vavasor became aware that it would be thought convenient that he should lodge with Mr. Scrooby to his own account a sum not less than 600 pounds within the next week and it would be also necessary that he should provide for taking up that bill amounting to 92 pounds, which he had given to the landlord of the handsome man. In short, it would be well that he should borrow a thousand pounds from Alice. And as he did not wish that the family attorney of the Vavasor should be employed to raise it, he communicated to Mr. Scrooby as much of his plans as was necessary, feeling more hesitation in doing it than might have been expected from him. When he had done so, he was very intent on explaining also that the money taken from his cousin and future bride would be repaid to her out of the property in Westmoreland, which was, did he say settle on himself? I'm afraid he did. Yes, yes, a family arrangement said Mr. Scrooby as he congratulated him on his proposed marriage. Mr. Scrooby did not care a straw from what source the necessary funds might be drawn. End of chapter 35, recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 36 of Can You Forgive Her? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Can You Forgive Her? by Antoni Trollop. Chapter 36, John Gray goes a second time to London. Early in that conversation which Mr. Vavasor had with his daughter and which was recorded a few pages back, he implored her to pause a while before she informed Mr. Gray of her engagement with her cousin. Nothing, however, on that point had been settled between them. Mr. Vavasor had wished her to say that she would not write till he should have assented to her doing so. She had declined to bind herself in this way and then they had gone off to other things. To George Vavasor's character in the disposition of her money. Alice, however, had felt herself bound not to write to Mr. Gray quite at once. Indeed, when her cousin left her, she had no appetite for writing such a letter as hers was to be. A day or two passed by her in this way and nothing more was said by her or her father. It was now the middle of January and the reader may remember that Mr. Gray had promised that he would come to her in London in that month as soon as he should know that she had returned from Westmoreland. She must at any rate do something to prevent that visit. Mr. Gray would not come without giving her notice. She knew enough of the habits of the man to be sure of that but she desired that her letter to him should be in time to prevent his to her. So when those few days were gone, she sat down to write without speaking to her father again upon the subject. It was a terrible job. Perhaps the most difficult of all the difficult tasks which her adverse fate had imposed upon her. She found when she did attempt it that she could have done it better if she had done it at the moment when she was writing the other letter to her cousin George. Then Kate had been near her and she had been comforted by Kate's affectionate happiness. She had been strengthened at that moment by a feeling that she was doing the best in her power, if not for herself at any rate for others. All that comfort and all that strength had left her now. The atmosphere of the fells had buoyed her up and now the thick air of London depressed her. She sat for hours with the pen in her hand and could not write the letter. She let a day go by and a night and still it was not written. She hardly knew herself in her unnatural weakness. As the mental photographs of the two men forced themselves upon her, she could not force herself to forget those words. Look here upon this picture and on this. How was it that she now knew how great was the difference between the two men, how immense the preeminence of him whom she had rejected and that she had not before been able to see this on any of those many previous occasions on which she had compared the two together. As she thought of her cousin George's face when he left her room a few days since and remembered Mr. Gray's countenance when last he held her hand at Caltonham, the quiet dignity of his beauty which would submit to show no consciousness of injury. She could not but tell herself that when paradise had been open to her, she had declared herself to be fit only for pandemonium. In that was her chief misery that now, now when it was too late, she could look at it right. But the letter must be written and on the second day she declared to herself that she would not rise from her chair till it was done. The letter was written on that day and was posted. I will now ask the reader to go down with me to Nethercoats that we may be present with John Gray when he received it. He was sitting at breakfast in his study there and opposite to him, lounging in an armchair with a quarterly in his hand, was the most intimate of his friends, Frank Seward, a fellow of the college to which they had both belonged. Mr. Seward was a clergyman and the tutor of his college and a man who worked very hard at Cambridge. In the days of his leisure, he spent much of his time at Nethercoats and he was the only man to whom Gray had told anything of his love for Alice and of his disappointment. Even to Seward, he had not told the whole story. He had at first informed his friend that he was engaged to be married and as he had told this as no secret, having even said that he hated secrets on such matters, the engagement had been mentioned in the common room of their college and then at Cambridge knew that Mr. Gray was going to take to himself a wife. Then Mr. Seward had been told that trouble had come and that it was not improbable that there would be no such marriage. Even when saying this, Mr. Gray told one of the particulars though he owned to his friend that a heavy blow had struck him. His intimacy with Seward was of that thorough kind which is engendered only out of such young and lasting friendship as had existed between them but even to such a friend as this, Mr. Gray could not open his whole heart. It was only to a friend who should also be his wife that he could do that as he himself thoroughly understood. He had felt that such a friend was wanting to him and he had made the attempt. Don't speak of this as yet, he had said to Mr. Seward. Of course when the matter is settled those few people who know me must know it but perhaps there may be a doubt as yet and as long as there is a doubt it is better that it should not be discussed. He had said no more than this, had imputed no blame to Alice, had told none of the circumstances but Seward had known that the girl had jilted his friend and had made up his mind that she must be heartless and false. He had known also that his friend would never look for any other such companion for his home. Letters were brought to each of them on this morning and Seward's attention was of course occupied by those which he received. Gray, as soon as the envelopes had touched his hand became aware that one of them was from Alice and this he at once opened. He did it very calmly but without any of that bravado of indifference with which George Vavasor had received Alice's letter from Westmoreland. It is right that I should tell you at once, said Alice rushing into the middle of her subject without even the formality of the customary address. It is right that I should tell you at once that oh the difficulty which she had encountered when her words had carried her as far as this that my cousin George Vavasor has repeated to me his offer of marriage and that I have accepted it. I tell you chiefly in order that I may save you from the trouble which you purposed to take when I last saw you at Keltonham. I will not tell you any of the circumstances of this engagement because I have no right to presume that you will care to hear them. I hardly dare to ask you to believe of me that in all that I have done I have endeavored to act with truth and honesty that I have been very ignorant, foolish but you will that is bad, I know well. Otherwise there could not have been so much in the last few years of my life on which I am utterly ashamed to look back. For the injury that I have done you I can only express deep contrition. I do not dare to ask you to forgive me. Alice Vavasor. She had tormented herself in writing this had so nearly driven herself distracted with attempts which she had destroyed that she would not even read once to herself these last words. He'll know it and that is all that is necessary. She said to herself as she sent the letter away from her. Mr. Gray read it twice over leaving the other letters unnoticed on the table by his teacup. He read it twice over and the work of reading it was one to him of intense agony. Hitherto he had fed himself with hope that Alice should have been brought to think of her engagement with him in a spirit of doubt and with a mind so troubled that she had been inclined to attempt an escape from it. It had been very grievous to him but it had been in his mind of fantasy a morbid fear of himself which might be cured by time. He at any rate would give all his energies toward achieving such a cure. There had been one thing however which he most feared which he had chiefly feared though he had forbidden himself to think that it could be probable. And this thing had now happened. He had ever disliked and feared George Vavasor. Not from any effect which the man had upon himself for as we know his acquaintance with Vavasor was of the slightest but he had feared and disliked his influence upon Alice. He had also feared the influence of her cousin Kate. To have cautioned Alice against her cousins would have been to him impossible. It was not his nature to express suspicion to one he loved. It is the tone of that letter remembered in which he had answered Alice when she informed him that her cousin George was to go with Kate and her to Switzerland. He had written with a pleasant joke words which Alice had been able to read with some little feeling of triumph to her two friends. He had not so written because he liked what he knew of the man. He disliked all that he knew of him but it had not been possible for him to show that he distrusted the prudence of her whom as his future wife he was prepared to trust in all things. I have said that he read Alice's letter with an agony of sorrow. As he sat with it in his hand he suffered as probably he had never suffered before but there was nothing in his countenance to show that he was in pain. Seward had received some long epistle crossed from end to end indicative I should say of a not far distant termination to that college tutorship and was reading it with placid contentment. It did not occur to him to look across at Gray but had he done so I doubt whether he would have seen anything to attract his attention. But Gray though he was wounded would not allow himself to be dismayed. There was less hope now than before but there might still be hope. Hope for her even though there might be none for him. Tidings had reached his ears also as to George Fabisor which it taught him to believe that the man was needy, reckless and on the brink of ruin. Such a marriage to Alice Fabisor would be altogether ruinous. Whatever might be his own ultimate fate he would still seek to save her from that. Her cousin doubtless wanted her money. Might it not be possible that he would be satisfied with her money and that thus the woman might be saved? Seward he said at last addressing his friend who had not yet come to the end of the last cross page. Is there anything wrong? Said Seward. Well yes there is something a little wrong. I fear I must leave you and go up to town today. Nobody ill I hope. No nobody is ill. But I must go up to London. Mrs. Boll will take care of you and you must not be angry with me for leaving you. Seward assured him that he would not be in the least angry and that he was thoroughly conversant with the capabilities and good intentions of Mrs. Boll the housekeeper. But added that as he was so near his own college he would of course go back to Cambridge. He longed to say some word as to the purpose of Gray's threatened journey to make some inquiry as to this new trouble. But he knew that Gray was a man who did not well bear close inquiries and he was silent. Why not stay here? Said Gray after a minute's pause. I wish you would old fellow. I do indeed. There was a tone of special affection in his voice which struck Seward at once. If I can be of the slightest service or comfort to you I will of course. Gray again sat silent for a little while. I wish you would. I do indeed. Then I will. And again there was a pause. I have got a letter here from Ms. Vavasor said Gray. May I hope that no, it does not bring good news to me. I do not know that I can tell it you all. I would if I could, but the whole story is one not to be told in a hurry. I should leave false impressions. There are things which a man cannot tell. Indeed there are said Seward. I wish with all my heart that you knew it all as I know it, but that is impossible. There are things which happen in a day which it would take a lifetime to explain. Then there was another pause. I have heard bad news this morning and I must go up to London at once. I should go into Ely so as to be there by 12. And if you will, you shall drive me over. I may be back in a day, certainly in less than a week, but it will be a comfort to me to know that I shall find you here. The matter was so arranged and at 11 they started. During the first two miles, not a word was spoken between them. Seward, Gray said at last, if I fail in what I am going to attempt, it is probable that you will never hear Alice Vavasor's name mentioned by me again. But I want you always to bear this in mind that at no moment has my opinion of her ever been changed, nor must you in such case imagine from my silence that it has changed. Do you understand me? I think I do. To my thinking, she is the finest of God's creatures that I have known. It may be that in her future life she will be severed from me altogether, but I shall not therefore think the less well of her. And I wish that you as my friend should know that I so esteem her, even though her name should never be mentioned between us. Seward, in some few words, assured him that it should be so, and then they finished their journey in silence. From the station at Ely, Gray sent a message by the wires of the John Vavasor, saying that he would call on him that afternoon at his office in Chancery Lane. The chances were always much against finding Mr. Vavasor at his office, but on this occasion the telegram did reach him there and he remained to the unaccustomed hour of half past four to meet the man who was to have been his son-in-law. Have you heard from her? He asked as soon as Gray entered the dingy little room, not in Chancery Lane, but in its neighborhood, which was allocated to him for his signing purposes. Yes, said Gray, she has written to me and told you about her cousin, George. I tried to hinder her from writing, but she is very willful. Why should you have hindered her? If the thing was to be told, it is better that it should be done at once. But I hoped that there might be an escape. I don't know what you think of all this, Gray, but to me it is the bitterest misfortune that I have known and I've had some bitter things too, he added, thinking of that period of his life when the work of which he was ashamed was first ordained as his future task. What is the escape that you hoped, asked Gray? I hardly know. The whole thing seems to me to be so mad that I partly trusted that she would see the madness of it. I'm not sure whether you know anything of my nephew, George, asked Mr. Vavasor. Very little, said Gray. I believe him to be utterly an adventurer, a man without means and without principle, upon the whole about as bad a man as you may meet. I give you my word, Gray, that I don't think I know a worse man. He's going to marry her for her money, then he will beggar her, after that he'll treat her, and yet what can I do? Prevent the marriage. But how, my dear fellow, prevent it. It's all very well to say that and it's the very thing I want to do, but how am I to prevent it? She's as much her own master as you are yours. She can give him every shilling of her fortune tomorrow. How am I to prevent her from marrying him? Let her give him every shilling of her fortune tomorrow, said Gray. And what is she to do then? asked Mr. Vavasor. Then, then, then, then let her come to me, said John Gray, and as he spoke there was the fragment of a tear in his eye and the hint of quiver in his voice. Even the worldly, worn out, unsympathetic nature of John Vavasor was struck and, as it were, warmed by this. God bless you. God bless you, my dear fellow. I heartily wish for her sake that I could look forward to any such an end to this affair. And why not look forward to it? You say that he merely wants her money. As he wants it, let him have it. But Gray, you do not know Alice. You do not understand, my girl. When she had lost her fortune, nothing would induce her to become your wife. Leave that to follow as it may, said John Gray. Our first object must be to sever her from a man who was, as you say, himself on the verge of groin and who would certainly make her wretched. I am here now, not because I wish her to be my own wife, but because I wish that she should not become the wife of such a one as your nephew. If I were you, I would let him have her money. If you were I, you would have nothing more to do with it than the man that is as yet unborn. I know that she will give him her money because she has said so. But I have no power as to her giving it or as to her withholding it. That's the hardship of my position. But it is of no use to think of that now. John Gray certainly did not think about it. He knew well that Alice was independent and that she was not inclined to give up that independence to anyone. He had not expected that her father would be able to do much towards hindering his daughter from becoming the wife of George Vavasor, but he had wished that he himself and her father should be in accord in their views and he found that this was so. When he left Mr. Vavasor's room, nothing had been said about the period of the marriage. Gray thought it improbable that Alice would find herself able to give herself in marriage to her cousin immediately so soon after the breach with him. But as to this, he had no assurance and he determined to have the facts from her own lips if she would see him. So he wrote to her, naming a day on which he would call upon her early in the morning and having received from her no prohibition, he was in Queen Anne Street at the hour appointed. He had conceived a scheme which he had not made known to Mr. Vavasor and as to the practicability of which he had much doubt but which nevertheless he was resolved to try if he should find the attempt possible. He himself would buy off George Vavasor. He had ever been a prudent man and he had money at command. If Vavasor was such a man as they who knew him best represented him, such a purchase might be possible. But then before this was attempted, he must be quite sure that he knew his man and he must satisfy himself also that in doing so he would not in truth add to Alice's misery. He could hardly bring himself to think it possible that she did in truth love her cousin with passionate love. It seemed to him as he remembered what Alice had been to himself, that this must be impossible. But if it were so, that of course must put an end to his interference. He thought that if he saw her, he might learn all this and therefore he went to Queen Anne Street. Of course he must come if he will, she said to herself when she received his note. It can make no matter. He will say nothing half so hard to me as what I say to myself all day long. But when the morning came and the hour came and the knock at the door for which her ears were on the alert, her heart misgave her and she felt that the present moment of her punishment, though not the heaviest, would still be hard to bear. He came slowly upstairs, his step was ever slow and gently opened the door for himself. Then before he even looked at her, he closed it again. I do not know how to explain that it was so but it was this perfect command of himself at all seasons which had in part made Alice afraid of him and drove her to believe that they were not fitted for each other. She, when he thus turned for a moment from her and then walked slowly towards her, stood with both her hands leaning on the center table of the room and with her eyes fixed upon its surface. Alice, he said, walking up to her very slowly. Her whole frame shuttered as she heard the sweetness of his voice. Had I not better tell the truth of her at once? Oh, if she could only have been his again. What madness during these last six months had driven her to such a plight as this. The old love came back upon her. Nay, it had never gone but that trust in his love returned to her. That trust which told her that such love and such worth would have suffice to make her happy but this confidence in him was worthless now. Even though he should desire it, she could not change again. Alice, he said again. And then as slowly she looked up at him, he asked her for her hand. You may give it me, he said, as to an old friend. She put her hand in his hand and then withdrawing it felt that she must never trust herself to do so again. Alice, he continued, I do not expect you to say much to me but there is a question or two which I think you will answer. Has a day been fixed for this marriage? No, she said. Will it be in a month? Oh no, not for a year, she replied hurriedly and he knew at once by her voice that she already dreaded this new wedlock. Whatever anger he might before have felt for her was banished. She had brought herself by her ill judgment, by her ignorance as she had confessed to a sad pass but he believed that she was still worthy of his love. And now one other question, Alice. But if you were silent, I will not ask it again. Can you tell me why you have again accepted your cousin's offer? Because, she said very quickly looking up as though she were about to speak with all her old courage, but you would never understand me, she said. And there can be no reason why I should dare to hope that you should ever think well of me again. He knew that there was no love, no love for that man to whom she had pledged her hand. He did not know on the other hand how strong, how unchanged, how true was her love for himself. Indeed, of himself he was thinking not at all. He desired to learn whether she would suffer if by any scheme he might succeed in breaking off this marriage. When he had asked her whether she were to be married at once, she had shuttered at the thought. When he asked her why she had accepted her cousin, she had faltered and hinted at some excuse which he might fail to understand. Had she loved George Vavasor, he could have understood that well enough. Alice, he said, speaking still very slowly. Nothing has ever yet been done which need to a certainty separate you and me. I am a persistent man and I do not even yet give up all hope. A year is a long time. As you say yourself, I do not as yet quite understand you. But Alice, and I think that the position in which we stood a few months since justifies me in saying so without offense, I love you now as well as ever. And should things change with you, I cannot tell you with how much joy and eagerness I should take you back to my bosom. My heart is yours now as it has been since I knew you. Then he again just touched her hand and left her before she had been able to answer a word. End of chapter 36, recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 37 of Can You Forgive Her? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Can You Forgive Her? By Anthony Trollop. Chapter 37, Mr. Toom's Advice. Alice sat alone for an hour without moving when John Gray had left her and the last words which he had uttered were sounding in her ears all the time. My heart is still yours as it has been since I knew you. There had been something in his words which had soothed her spirits and had for the moment almost comforted her. At any rate, he did not despise her. He could not have spoken such words as these to her had he not still held her high in his esteem. Nay, had he not even declared that he would yet take her as his own if she would come to him, I cannot tell you with how much joy I would take you back to my bosom. That might never be, but yet the assurance had been sweet to her, dangerously sweet as she soon told herself. She knew that she had lost her Eden, but it was something to her that the master of the garden had not himself driven her forth. She sat there thinking of her fate as though it belonged to some other one, not to herself, as though it were a tale that she had read. Herself she had shipwrecked altogether, but though she might sink, she had not been thrust from the ship by hands which she loved. But would it not have been better that he should have scorned her and reviled her? Had he been able to do so, he at least would have escaped the grief of disappointed love. Had he learned to despise her, he would have ceased to regret her. She had no right to feel consolation in the fact that his sufferings were equal to her own. But when she thought of this, she told herself that it could not be that it was so. He was a man, she said, not passionate by nature. Alas, it was the mistake she had ever made when summing up the items of his character. He might be persistent, she thought, and still striving to do that upon which she had once resolved. He had said so, and that which he said was always true to the letter. But nevertheless, when this thing which he still chose to pursue should have been put absolutely beyond his reach, he would not allow his calm bosom to be harassed by a vain regret. He was a man too whole at every point, so Alas told herself, to allow his happiness to be marred by such an accident. But must the accident occur? Was there no chance that he might be saved, even from such trouble as might follow upon such a loss? Could it not be possible that he might be gratified since it would gratify him and that she might be saved? Over and over again she considered this, but always as though it were another woman whom she would feign save and not herself. But she knew that her own fate was fixed. She had been mad when she had done the thing, but the thing was not on that account the less done. She had been mad when she had trusted herself abroad with two persons, both of whom as she had well known were intent on wrenching her happiness from out of her grasp. She had been mad when she had told herself, whilst walking over the Westmoreland fells, that after all she might as well marry her cousin since that other marriage was then beyond her reach. Her two cousins had succeeded in blighting all the hopes of her life. But what could she now think of herself in that she had been so weakest to submit to such usage from their hands? Alas, she told herself, admitting in her misery all her weakness. Alas, she had no mother. She had gloried in her independence and this had come of it. She had scorned the prudence of Lady MacLeod and her scorn had brought her to this pass. Was she to give herself bodily, body and soul as she said aloud in her solitary agony to a man whom she did not love? Must she submit to his caresses, lie on his bosom, turn herself warmly to his kisses? No, she said. No. Speaking audibly as she walked about the room. No, it was not in my bargain. I never meant it. But if so, what had she meant? What had been her dream? Of what marriage had she thought when she was writing that letter back to George Vavasor? How am I to analyze her mind and make her thoughts and feelings intelligible to those who may care to trouble themselves with the study? Any sacrifice she would make for her cousin, which one friend could make for another. She would fight his battles with her money, with her words, with her sympathy. She would sit with him if he needed it and speak comfort to him by the hour. His disgrace should be her disgrace, his glory, her glory, his pursuits, her pursuits. Was not that the marriage to which she had consented? But he had come to her and asked her for a kiss and she had shuttered before him when he made the demand. Then that other one had come and had touched her hand and the fibers of her body had seemed to melt within her at the touch so that she could have fallen at his feet. She had done very wrong. She knew that she had done wrong. She knew that she had sinned with that sin which specially disgraces a woman. She had said that she would become the wife of a man to whom she could not cleave with a wife's love and mad with a vile ambition she had given up the man for whose modest love her heart was longing. She had thrown off from her that wondrous aroma of precious delicacy, which is the greatest treasure of womanhood. She had sinned against her sex and in an agony of despair as she crouched down upon the floor with her head against her chair, she told herself that there was no pardon for her. She understood it now and knew that she could not forgive herself. But can you forgive her, delicate reader? Or am I asking the question too early in my story? For myself, I have forgiven her. The story of the struggle has been present to my mind for many years and I have learned to think that even this offense against womanhood may with deep repentance be forgiven. And you also must forgive her before we close the book or else my story will have been told amiss. But let us own that she had sinned almost damnably, almost past forgiveness. What, think that she knew what love meant and not know which of two she loved? What, doubt of two men for whose arms she longed, of which the kisses would be sweet to bear, on which side lay the modesty of her maiden love? Faw, she had submitted to pollution of heart and feeling before she had brought herself to such a pass as this. Come, let us see if it be possible that she may be cleansed by the fire of her sorrow. What am I to do? She passed that whole day and asking herself that question. She was herself astounded at the rapidity with which the conviction had forced itself upon her that a marriage with her cousin would be to her almost impossible. And could she permit it to be said of her that she had thrice in her career jilted a promised suitor? That three times she would go back from her word because her fancy had changed. Where could she find the courage to tell her father, to tell Kate, to tell even George himself that her purpose was again altered? But she had a year at her disposal. If only during that year he would take her money and squander it and then require nothing further of her hands, might she not thus escape the doom before her? Might it not be possible that the refusal should this time come from him? But she succeeded in making one resolve. She thought at least that she succeeded. Come, what might she would never stand with him at the altar? While there was a cliff from which she might fall, water that would cover her, a death dealing grain that might be mixed in her cup, she could not submit herself to be George Vavasor's wife. To no ear could she tell of this resolve. To no friend could she hint her purpose. She owed her money to the man after what had passed between them. It was his right to count upon such assistance as that would give him and he should have it. Only as his betrothed she could give it to him for she understood well that if there were any breach between them his accepting of such aid would be impossible. He should have her money and then when the day came some escape should be found. In the afternoon her father came to her and it may be as well to explain that Mr. Gray had seen him again that day. Mr. Gray when he left Queen Anne Street had gone to his lawyer and from thence had made his way to Mr. Vavasor. It was between five and six when Mr. Vavasor came back to his house and he then found his daughter sitting over the drawing room fire without lights in the gloom of the evening. Mr. Vavasor had returned with Gray to the lawyer's chambers and had from thence come direct to his own house. He had been startled at the precision with which all the circumstances of his daughter's position had been explained to a mild-eyed old gentleman with a bald head who carried on his business in a narrow, dark, clean street behind Doctor's Commons. Mr. Tomb was his name. No, Mr. Gray had said when Mr. Vavasor had asked as to the peculiar nature of Mr. Tomb's business. He is not especially an ecclesiastical lawyer. He had a partner at Ely and was always employed by my father and by most of the clergy there. Mr. Tomb had events no surprise, no dismay and certainly no mock delicacy when the whole affair was under discussion. George Vavasor was to get present monies but if it could be so arranged from John Gray's stores rather from those belonging to Alice. Mr. Tomb could probably arrange that with Mr. Vavasor's lawyer who would no doubt be able to make difficulty as to raising ready money. Mr. Tomb would be able to raise ready money without difficulty. And then at last, George Vavasor was to be made to surrender his bride taking or having taken the price of his bargain. John Vavasor sat by in silence as the arrangement was being made not knowing how to speak. He had no money with which to give assistance. I wish you to understand from the lady's father, Gray said to the lawyer that the marriage would be regarded by him with as much dismay as by myself. Certainly it would be ruinous, Mr. Vavasor had answered. And you see Mr. Tomb, Mr. Gray went on. We only wish to try the man. If he be not such as we believe him to be he can prove it by his conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her. You merely wish to open her eyes, Mr. Gray, said the mild-eyed lawyer. I wish that he should have what money he wants and then we shall find what it is he really wishes. Yes, we shall know our man, said the lawyer. He shall have the money, Mr. Gray. And so the interview had been ended. Mr. Vavasor, when he entered the drawing room addressed his daughter in a cheery voice. What, all in the dark? Yes, papa, why should I have candles when I am doing nothing? I did not expect you. No, I suppose not. I came here because I want to say a few words to you about business. What business, papa? Alice well understood the tone of her father's voice. He was desirous of propitiating her but was at the same time desirous of carrying some point in which he thought it probable that she would oppose him. Well, my love, if I understand you rightly your cousin George wants some money. I did not say that he wants it now but I think he will want it before the time for the election comes. If so, he will want it at once. He has not asked you for it yet? No, he has merely said that should he be in need he would take me at my word. I think there is no doubt that he wants it. Indeed, I believe that he is almost entirely without present means of his own. I can hardly think so but I have no knowledge about it. I can only say that he has not asked me yet and that I should wish to oblige him whenever he may do so. To what extent, Alice? I don't know what I have. I get about 400 a year but I do not know what it is worth or how far it can all be turned into money. I should wish to keep 100 a year and let him have the rest. What? 8,000 pounds, said the father who in spite of his wish not to oppose her could not but express his dismay. I do not imagine that he will want so much but if he should, I wish that he should have it. Heaven and earth, said John Vavasor. Of course we should have to give up the house. He could not suppress his trouble or refrain from bursting out in agony at the prospect of such a loss. But he has asked me for nothing yet, papa. No, exactly, and perhaps he may not. But I wish to know what to do when the demand is made. I am not going to oppose you now. Your money is your own and you have a right to do with it as you please. But would you gratify me in one thing? What is it, papa? When he does apply, let the amount be raised through me. How through you? Come to me. I mean so that I may see the lawyer and have the arrangements made. Then he explained to her that in dealing with large sums of money, it could not be right that she should do so without his knowledge, even though the property was her own. I will promise you that I will not oppose your wishes, he said. Then Alice undertook that when such case should arise, the money should be raised through his means. The day but one following this, she received a letter from Lady Glencora, who was still at matching priory. It was a light-spirited, chatty, amusing letter intended to be happy in its tone and tended to have a flavor of happiness, but just failing through the two apparent meaning of a word here and there. You will see that I am at matching, the letter said, whereas you will remember that I was to have been at mock shade. I escaped at last by a violent effort and am now passing my time innocently. I fear not so profitably as she would induce me to do, with Ify Palliser. You remember Ify? She is a good creature and would feign churn even me to profit if it were possible. I own that I am thinking of them all at Monkshade and am in truth delighted that I am not there. My absence is entirely laid upon your shoulders. That wicked evening amidst the ruins, poor ruins. I go there alone sometimes and fancy that I hear such voices from the walls and see such faces through the broken windows. All the old Palliser's come and frown at me and tell me that I am not good enough to belong to them. There is a particular window to which Sir Guy comes and makes faces at me. I told Ify the other day and she answered me very gravely that I might, if I chose, make myself good enough for the Palliser's. Even for the Palliser's. Isn't that beautiful? Then Lady Glyncora went on to say that her husband intended to come up to London early in the session and that she would accompany him. That is, added Lady Glyncora, if I am still good enough for the Palliser's at that time. End of Chapter 37, Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 38 of Can You Forgive Her. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Can You Forgive Her by Antony Trollop. Chapter 38, The End at Chap. When George Vavasor left Mr. Scrooby's office, the attentive reader will remember that he did call upon Mr. Scrooby, the parliamentary lawyer, and there recognized the necessity of putting himself in possession of a small sum of money with as little delay as possible. When he left the attorney's office, he was well aware that the work to be done was still before him. And he knew also that the job to be undertaken was a very disagreeable job. He did not like the task of borrowing his cousin Alice's money. We all of us know that swindlers and rogues do very dirty tricks, and we are apt to picture to ourselves a certain amount of gusto and delight on the part of the swindlers and the doing of them. In this, I think we are wrong. The poor, broken, semi-genteal beggar who borrows half sovereigns of peace from all his old acquaintances, knowing that they know he will never repay them, suffers a separate little agony with each petition that he makes. He does not enjoy pleasant sailing in this journey which he is making. To be refused as painful to him, to get his half sovereign with scorn is painful. To get it with apparent confidence in his honor is almost more painful. Damn it, he says to himself on such rare occasions, I will pay that fellow. And yet, as he says it, he knows that he will never pay even that fellow. It is a comfortless, unsatisfying trade that of living upon other people's money. How was George Vavasor to make his first step towards getting his hand into his cousin's purse? He had gone to her asking for her love and she had shuttered when he asked her. That had been the commencement of their life under their new engagement. He knew very well that the money would be forthcoming when he demanded it. But under their present joint circumstances, how was he to make the demand? If he wrote to her, should he simply ask for money and make no allusion to his love? If he went to her in person, should he make his visit a mere visit of business as he might call on his banker? He resolved at last that Kate should do the work for him. Indeed, he had felt all along that it would be well that Kate should act as ambassador between him and Alice in money matters as she had long done in other things. He could talk to Kate as he could not talk to Alice. And then between the women, those hard money necessities would be softened down by a romantic phraseology, which he would not himself know how to use with any effect. He made up his mind to see Kate and with this view he went down to Westmoreland and took himself to a small wayside inn at Shapp among the fells, which had been known to him of old. He gave his sister notice that he would be there and begged her to come over to him as early as she might find it possible on the morning after his arrival. He himself reached the place late in the evening by train from London. There is a station at Shapp by which the railway company no doubt concedes that it is conferred on that somewhat rough and remote locality, all the advantages of a refined civilization. But I doubt whether the Shappites have been thankful for the favor. The landlord at the inn for one is not thankful. Shapp had been a place owing all such life as it had possessed to coaching and posting. It had been a stage on the high road from Lancaster to Carlisle. And though it lay high and bleak among the fells and was a cold, windy, thinly populated place, filling all travelers with thankfulness that they had not been made Shappites, nevertheless it had had its glory and its coaching and posting. I have no doubt that there are men and women who look back with a fond regret to the palmy days of Shapp. Vavasor reached the little inn about nine in the evening on a night that was pitchy dark and in a wind which made it necessary for him to hold his hat onto his head. What a beastly country to live in, he said to himself, resolving that he would certainly sell Vavasor Hall in spite of all family associations. If ever the power to do so should be his. What trash it is, he said, hanging on to such a place as that without the means of living like a gentleman, simply because one's ancestors have done so. And then he expressed a doubt to himself whether all the world contained a more ignorant, opinionated, useless old man than his grandfather, or in short, a greater fool. Well, Mr. George said the landlord as soon as he saw him, a sight he views good for Sarine, it's over long since you've been doing among the fells. But George did not want to converse with the innkeeper or to explain how it was that he did not visit Vavasor Hall. The innkeeper, no doubt, knew all about it, knew that the grandfather had quarreled with his grandson and knew the reason why. But George, if he suspected such knowledge, did not choose to refer to it. So he simply grunted something in reply and getting himself in before a spark of fire, which hardly was burning in a public room with a sandy floor, begged that the little sitting room upstairs might be got ready for him. There he passed the evening in solitude, giving no encouragement to the landlord, who nevertheless looked him up three or four times, till at last George said that his head ached and that he would wish to be alone. He was always one of them cankery childs as never have a kindly word for man nor beast, said the landlord. Seems as though that raw slash in his face has gone right through into his heart. After that, George was left alone and sat thinking whether it would not be better to ask Alice for 2,000 pounds at once, so as to save him from the disagreeable necessity of a second borrowing before their marriage. He was very uneasy in his mind. He had flattered himself through it all that his cousin had loved him. He had felt sure that such was the case while they were together in Switzerland. When she had determined to give up John Gray, of course he had told himself the same thing. When she had at once answered his first subsequent overture with an assent, he had of course been certain that it was so. Dark, selfish, and even dishonest as he was, he had nevertheless enjoyed something of a lover's true pleasure in believing that Alice had still loved him through all their mischances. But his joy had in a moment been turned into gall during that interview in Queen Anne Street. He had read the truth at a glance. A man must be very vain or else very little use to such matters, who at George Vavisar's age cannot understand the feelings with which a woman receives him. When Alice contrived as she had done to escape the embrace, he was so well justified in asking. He knew the whole truth. He was sore at heart and very angry with all. He could have readily spurned her from him and rejected her who had once rejected him. He would have done so had not his need for her money had restrained him. He was not a man who could deceive himself in such matters. He knew that this was so and he told himself that he was a rascal. Vavisar Hall was by the road about five miles from Shapp and it was not altogether an easy task for Kate to get over to the village without informing her grandfather that the visit was to be made and what was its purport. She could indeed walk and the walk would not be so long as that she had taken with Alice to Swindale Fell but walking to an inn on a high road was not the same thing as walking to a point on a hillside over a lake. Had she been dirty, draggled and wet through on Swindale Fell it would have simply been matter for Merth. But her brother she knew would not have liked to see her enter the loathor arms at Shapp in such a condition. It therefore became necessary that she should ask her grandfather to lend her the jaunting car. Where do you want to go? He asked sharply. In such establishments as that at Vavisar Hall the family horse is generally used for double duties. Though he draws the lady of the house one day he is not too proud to draw manure on the next. And it will always be found that the master of the house gives a great preference to the manure over the lady. The squire at Vavisar had come to do so to such an extent that he regarded any application for the animal services as an encroachment. Only to Shapp, grand papa. To Shapp, what on earth can take you to Shapp? There are no shops at Shapp. I am not going to do shopping. I want to see someone there. Whom can you want to see at Shapp? Then it occurred to Kate on the spur of the moment that she might as well tell her grandfather the fact. My brother has come down, she said, and is at the end there. I had not intended to tell you as I did not wish to mention his name till you had consented to receive him here. And he expects to come here now, does he? Said the squire. Oh, no, sir, I think he has no expectation of the kind. He has come down simply to see me about business, I believe. Business, what business? I suppose he wants to get your money from you. I think it is with reference to his marriage. I think he wants me to use my influence with Alice that it may not be delayed. Look here, Kate, if ever you lend him your money or any of it, that is of the principle I mean, I will never speak to him again under any circumstance. And more than that, look here, Kate, in spite of all that is past and gone, the property will become his for his life when I die unless I change my will. If he gets your money from you, I will change it and he shall not be a shilling richer at my death than he is now. You can have the horse to go to Shapp. What unlucky chance had it been when you put this idea into the old squire's head on this special morning? Kate had resolved that she would entreat her brother to make use of her little fortune. She feared that he was now coming with some reference to his cousin's money, that something was to be done to enable him to avail himself of his cousin's offer. And Kate, almost blushing in the solitude of her chamber at the thought, was determined that her brother must be saved from such temptation. She knew that money was necessary to him. She knew that he could not stand a second contest without assistance. With all their confidences, he had never told her much of his pecuniary circumstances in the world, but she was almost sure that he was a poor man. He had said as much as that to her, and in his letter desiring her to come to him at Shapp, he had inserted a word or two purposely intended to prepare her mind for monetary considerations. As she was jogged along over the rough road to Shapp, she made up her mind that Aunt Grinnell would be the proper person to defray the expense of the coming election. To give Kate her due, she would have given up every shilling of her own money without a moment's hesitation or any feeling that her brother would be wrong to accept it. Nor would she, perhaps, have been unalterably opposed to his taking Alice's money, had Alice simply been his cousin. She felt that as avasores, they were bound to stand by the future head of the family in an attempt which was to be made as she felt for the general avasore interest. But she could not endure to think that her brother should take the money of the girl whom he was engaged to marry. Aunt Grinnell's money, she thought was fair game. Aunt Grinnell herself had made various liberal offers to herself which Kate had declined, not caring to be under pecuniary obligations even to Aunt Grinnell without necessity. But she felt that for such a purpose as her brother's contest, she need not hesitate to ask for assistance. And she thought also that such assistance would be forthcoming. Grand Papa knows that you are here, George, said Kate, when their first greeting was over. The douce he does, and why did you tell him? I could not get the car to come in without letting him know why I wanted it. What nonsense, as if you couldn't have made any excuse. I was particularly anxious that he should not guess that I am here. I don't see that it can make any difference, George. But I see that it can, a very great difference. It may prevent my ever being able to get near him again before he dies. What did he say about my coming? He didn't say much. He made no offer as to my going there. No, I should not have gone if he had. I don't know now that I ever shall go. To be there to do any good so as to make him alter his will and leave me in the position which I have a right to expect would take more time than the whole property is worth. And he would endeavor to tie me down in some way I could not stand. Perhaps ask me to give up my notion for going into Parliament. He might ask you, but he would not make it ground for another quarrel if you refused. He is so unreasonable and ignorant that I am better away from him. But Kate, you have not congratulated me on my matrimonial prospects. Indeed, I did, George, when I wrote to you. Did you? Well, I'd forgotten. I don't know that any very strong congratulatory tone is necessary. As things go, perhaps it may be as well for all of us. And that's about the best that can be said for it. Oh, George. You see, I'm not romantic, Kate, as you are. Half a dozen children with a small income do not generally present themselves as being desirable to men who wish to push their way in the world. You know, you have always longed to make her your wife. I don't know anything of the kind. You have always been under a matchmaking hallucination on that point. But in this case, you have been so far successful and are entitled to your triumph. I don't want any triumph. You ought to know that. But I'll tell you what I do want, Kate. I want some money. Then he paused. But as she did not answer immediately, he was obliged to go on speaking. I'm not at all sure that I have not been wrong in making this attempt to get into Parliament, that I'm not struggling to pick fruit which is above my reach. Don't say that, George. Ah, but I can't help feeling it. I need hardly tell you that I am ready to risk anything of my own. If I know myself, I would toss up tomorrow, or for the matter of that today, between the gallows and a seat in the house. But I cannot go on with this contest by risking what is merely my own. Money for immediate use. I have none left, and my neck, though I were ever so willing to risk it, is of no service. Whatever I have can be yours tomorrow, said Kate, in a hesitating voice which too plainly pronounced her misery as she made the offer. She could not refrain herself from making it. Though her grandfather's threat was ringing in her ears, though she knew that she might be ruining her brother by proposing such a loan, she had no alternative. When her brother told her of his want of money, she could not abstain from tendering to him the use of what was her own. No, said he, I shall not take your money. You would not scruple if you knew how welcome you are. At any rate, I shall not take it. I should not think it right. All that you have would only just suffice for my present once, and I should not choose to make you a beggar. There would, moreover, be a difficulty about readjusting the payment. There would be no difficulty, because no one need be consulted but us too. I should not think it right, and therefore let there be an end of it, said George in a tone of voice, which had in it something of magniliquence. What is it you wished then, said Kate, who knew too well what he did wish? I will explain to you. When Alice and I are married, of course there will be a settlement made on her, and as we are both the grandchildren of the old squire, I shall propose that the Vavasore property shall be hers for life in the event of her outliving me. Well, said Kate. And if this be done, there can be no harm in my forestalling some of her property, which under the circumstances of such a settlement, would, of course, become mine when we are married. But the squire might leave the property to whom he pleases. We know very well that he won't, at any rate, leave it out of the family. In fact, he would only be too glad to consent to such an agreement as that I have proposed because he would thereby rob me of all power in the matter. But that could not be done till you are married. Look here, Kate, don't you make difficulties? And now, as he looked at her, the sickature on his face seemed to open and yawn at her. If you mean to say that you won't help me, do say so, and I will go back to London. I would do anything in my power to help you. That was not wrong. Yes, anybody could say as much as that. That is not much of an offer if you are to keep to yourself the power of deciding what is wrong. Will you write to Alice, or better, still go to her and explain that I want the money? How can I go to London now? You can do it very well if you choose. But if that be too much, then write to her. It will come much better from you than from me. Write to her and explain that I must pay in advance the expenses of this contest, and that I cannot look for success unless I do so. I did not think that the demand would come so quick on me, but they know that I am not a man of capital, and therefore I cannot expect them to carry on the fight for me unless they know that the money is sure. Scrooby has been bitten two or three times by these Metropolitan Fellows, and he is determined that he will not be bitten again. Then he paused for Kate to speak. George, she said slowly. Well, I wish you would try any other scheme but that. There is no other scheme that's so like a woman to quarrel with the only plan that is practicable. I do not think you ought to take Alice's money. My dear Kate, you must allow me to be the best judge of what I ought to do and what I ought not to do. Alice herself understands the matter perfectly. She knows that I cannot obtain this position, which is as desirable for her as it is for me. And for me as much as for either, said Kate, interrupting him. Very well. Alice, I say, knows that I cannot do this without money and has offered the assistance which I want. I would rather that you should tell her how much I want and that I want it now than that I should do so. That is all. If you are half the woman that I take you to be, you will understand this well enough. Kate did understand it well enough. She was quite awake to the fact that her brother was ashamed of the thing he was about to do, so much ashamed of it that he was desirous of using her voice instead of his own. I want you to write to her quite at once, he continued, since you seem to think that it is not worthwhile to take the trouble of a journey to London. There is no question about the trouble, said Kate. I would walk to London to get the money for you if that were all. Do you think that Alice will refuse to lend at me? Said he, looking into her face. I am sure that she would not, but I think that you ought not to take it from her. There seems to be something sacred about property that belongs to the girl you're going to marry. If there is anything on earth I hate, said George walking about the room, it is romance. If you keep it for reading in your bedroom, it's all very well for those who like it. But when it comes to be mixed up with one's business, it plays the devil. If you would only sift what you have said, you would see what nonsense it is. Alice and I are to be man and wife. All our interests and all our money and our station in life, whatever it may be, are to be joint property. And yet she is the last person in the world to whom I ought to go for money to improve her prospects as well as my own. That's what you call delicacy. I call it infernal nonsense. I tell you what I'll do, George. I'll ask Aunt Grinnell to lend you the money or to lend it to me. I don't believe she'd give me a shilling. Moreover, I want it quite immediately and the time taken up in letter writing and negotiations would be fatal to me. If you won't apply to Alice, I must. I want you to tell me whether you will oblige me in this matter. Kate was still hesitating as to her answer when there came a knock at the door and a little crumpled note was brought up to her. A boy had just come with it across the fell from Vavasor Hall. And Kate, as soon as she saw her name on the outside, knew that it was from her grandfather. It was as follows. If George wishes to come to the hall, let him come. If he chooses to tell me that he regrets his conduct to me, I will see him. What is it, said George? Then Kate put the note into her brother's hand. I'll do nothing of the kind, he said. What good should I get by going to the old man's house? Every good, said Kate. If you don't go now, you never can do so. Never till it's my own, said George. If you show him that you're determined to be at variance with him, it never will be your own. Unless indeed it should someday come to you as part of Alice's fortune. Think of it, George. You would not like to receive everything from her. He walked about the room, muttering maledictions between his teeth and balancing as best he was able at such a moment, his pride against his profit. You haven't answered my question, said he. If I go to the hall, will you write to Alice? No, George. I cannot write to Alice asking her for the money. You won't. I could not bring myself to do it. Then Kate, you and my grandfather may work together for the future. You may get him to leave you the place if you have skill enough. That is his undeserved reproach as any woman ever encountered, said Kate, standing her ground boldly before him. If you have either heart or conscience, you will feel that it is so. I'm not much troubled with either one or the other, I fancy. Things are being brought to such a pass with me that I am better without them. Will you take my money, George, just for the present? No, I have it much conscience, but I have a little left. Will you let me write to Mrs. Greenow? I have not the slightest objection, but it will be of no use whatsoever. I will do so at any rate, and now will you come to the hall? To beg that old fool's pardon? No, I won't. In the mood I am in at present, I couldn't do it. I should only anger him worse than ever. Tell him that I have business, which calls me back to London at once. It is a thousand pitties. It can't be helped. It may make so great a difference to you for your whole life, urged Kate. I'll tell you what I'll do, said George. I'll go to Vavasor and put up with the old squire's insolence, if you'll make this application for me to Alice. I wonder whether it occurred to him that his sister desired his presence at the hall solely on his own behalf. The same idea certainly did not occur to Kate. She hesitated, feeling that she would almost do anything to achieve a reconciliation between her grandfather and her brother. But you'll let me write to Aunt Greenow first, said she. It will take only two days, or at the most three. To this George consented as though he were yielding a great deal. And Kate, with a sore conscience, with a full knowledge that she was undertaking to do wrong, promised that she would apply to Alice for her money, if sufficient funds should not be forthcoming for Mrs. Greenow. Thereupon, George graciously consented to proceed to his bedroom and put together his clothes with a view to his visit to the hall. I thank Providence, Kate, that circumstances make it impossible for me to stay above two days. I have not linen to last me longer. We'll manage that for you at the hall. Indeed, you won't do anything of the kind. And look, Kate, when I make that excuse, don't you offer to do so. I will stay there over tomorrow night and she'll go into Kendall early so as to catch the express train up on Thursday morning. Don't you throw me over by any counter proposition. Then they started together in the car and very few words were said till they reached the old lodge which stood at the entrance to the place. Hey, Mr. George, be that you, said the old woman who came out to swing back for them the broken gate. A sight of you is good for Sarah Ein. It was the same welcome that the innkeeper had given him and equally sincere. George had never made himself popular about the place, but he was the heir. I suppose you had better go into the drawing room, said Kate, while I go to my grandfather. You won't find a fire there. Manage it how you please, but don't keep me in the cold very long. Heaven's what a country house. The middle of January and no fires in the room. And remember, George, when you see him, you must say that you regret that you ever displeased him. Now that you are here, don't let there be any further misunderstanding. I think it very probable that there will be, said George. I only hope he'll let me have the old horse to take me back to Shapp if there is. There he is at the front door so I shan't have to go into the room without a fire. The old man was standing at the hall steps when the car drove up as though to welcome his grandson. He put out his hand to help Kate down the steps, keeping his eye all the time on George's face. So you've come back, the squire said to him. Yes, sir, I've come back like the prodigal son in the parable. The prodigal son was contrite. I hope you are so. Pretty well for that, sir. I'm sorry there has been any quarrel and all that you know. Go in, said the squire very angrily. Go in. To expect anything gracious from you would be to expect pearls from swine. Go in. George went in shrugging his shoulders as his eyes met his sisters. It was in this fashion that the reconciliation took place between Squire Vavasor and his heir. End of chapter 38, recording by Leanne Howlett.