Can You Forgive Her?

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER II.

  Lady Macleod.

  I cannot say that the house in Queen Anne Street was a pleasanthouse. I am now speaking of the material house, made up of the wallsand furniture, and not of any pleasantness or unpleasantness suppliedby the inmates. It was a small house on the south side of the street,squeezed in between two large mansions which seemed to crush it,and by which its fair proportion of doorstep and area was in truthcurtailed. The stairs were narrow; the dining-room was dark, andpossessed none of those appearances of plenteous hospitality which adining-room should have. But all this would have been as nothing ifthe drawing-room had been pretty as it is the bounden duty of alldrawing-rooms to be. But Alice Vavasor's drawing-room was not pretty.Her father had had the care of furnishing the house, and he hadintrusted the duty to a tradesman who had chosen green paper, a greencarpet, green curtains, and green damask chairs. There was a greendamask sofa, and two green arm-chairs opposite to each other at thetwo sides of the fireplace. The room was altogether green, and wasnot enticing. In shape it was nearly square, the very small back roomon the same floor not having been, as is usual, added to it. This hadbeen fitted up as a "study" for Mr. Vavasor, and was very rarely usedfor any purpose.

  Most of us know when we enter a drawing-room whether it is a prettyroom or no; but how few of us know how to make a drawing-room pretty!There has come up in London in these latter days a form of room somonstrously ugly that I will venture to say that no other people onearth but Londoners would put up with it. Londoners, as a rule, taketheir houses as they can get them, looking only to situation, size,and price. What Grecian, what Roman, what Turk, what Italian wouldendure, or would ever have endured, to use a room with a monstrouscantle in the form of a parallelogram cut sheerly out of one cornerof it? This is the shape of room we have now adopted,--or ratherwhich the builders have adopted for us,--in order to throw the wholefirst floor into one apartment which may be presumed to have nobledimensions,--with such drawback from it as the necessities of thestaircase may require. A sharp unadorned corner projects itself intothese would-be noble dimensions, and as ugly a form of chamber isproduced as any upon which the eye can look. I would say more onthe subject if I dared to do so here, but I am bound now to confinemyself to Miss Vavasor's room. The monstrous deformity of which Ihave spoken was not known when that house in Queen Anne Street wasbuilt. There is to be found no such abomination of shape in thebuildings of our ancestors,--not even in the days of George theSecond. But yet the drawing-room of which I speak was ugly, and Aliceknew that it was so. She knew that it was ugly, and she would greatlyhave liked to banish the green sofa, to have re-papered the wall, andto have hung up curtains with a dash of pink through them. With thegreen carpet she would have been contented. But her father was anextravagant man; and from the day on which she had come of age shehad determined that it was her special duty to avoid extravagance.

  "It's the ugliest room I ever saw in my life," her father once saidto her.

  "It is not very pretty," Alice replied.

  "I'll go halves with you in the expense of redoing it," said Mr.Vavasor.

  "Wouldn't that be extravagant, papa? The things have not been herequite four years yet."

  Then Mr. Vavasor had shrugged his shoulders and said nothing moreabout it. It was little to him whether the drawing-room in QueenAnne Street was ugly or pretty. He was on the committee of his club,and he took care that the furniture there should be in all respectscomfortable.

  It was now June; and that month Lady Macleod was in the habit ofspending among her noble relatives in London when she had succeededin making both ends so far overlap each other at Cheltenham as togive her the fifty pounds necessary for this purpose. For though shespent her month in London among her noble friends, it must not besupposed that her noble friends gave her bed or board. They sometimesgave her tea, such as it was, and once or twice in the month theygave the old lady a second-rate dinner. On these occasions shehired a little parlour and bedroom behind it in King Street, SaintJames's, and lived a hot, uncomfortable life, going about at nightsto gatherings of fashionable people of which she in her heartdisapproved, seeking for smiles which seldom came to her, and whichshe excused herself for desiring because they were the smiles of herkith and her kin, telling herself always that she made this vainjourney to the modern Babylon for the good of Alice Vavasor, andtelling herself as often that she now made it for the last time. Onthe occasion of her preceding visit she had reminded herself thatshe was then seventy-five years old, and had sworn to herself thatshe would come to London no more; but here she was again in London,having justified the journey to herself on the plea that there werecircumstances in Alice's engagement which made it desirable that sheshould for a while be near her niece. Her niece, as she thought, washardly managing her own affairs discreetly.

  "Well, aunt," said Alice, as the old lady walked into thedrawing-room one morning at eleven o'clock. Alice always called LadyMacleod her aunt, though, as has been before explained, there was nosuch close connexion between them. During Lady Macleod's sojourn inLondon these morning visits were made almost every day. Alice neverdenied herself, and even made a point of remaining at home to receivethem unless she had previously explained that she would be out; but Iam not prepared to say that they were, of their own nature, agreeableto her.

  "Would you mind shutting the window, my dear?" said Lady Macleod,seating herself stiffly on one of the small ugly green chairs. Shehad been educated at a time when easy-chairs were considered vicious,and among people who regarded all easy postures as being so; and shecould still boast, at seventy-six, that she never leaned back. "Wouldyou mind shutting the window? I'm so warm that I'm afraid of thedraught."

  "Would you mind shutting the window?"]

  "You don't mean to say that you've walked from King Street," saidAlice, doing as she was desired.

  "Indeed I do,--every step of the way. Cabs are so ruinous. It's amost unfortunate thing; they always say it's just over the two mileshere. I don't believe a word of it, because I'm only a little morethan the half-hour walking it; and those men will say anything. Buthow can I prove it, you know?"

  "I really think it's too far for you to walk when it's so warm."

  "But what can I do, my dear? I must come, when I've specially come upto London to see you. I shall have a cab back again, because it'llbe hotter then, and dear Lady Midlothian has promised to send hercarriage at three to take me to the concert. I do so wish you'd go,Alice."

  "It's out of the question, aunt. The idea of my going in that way atthe last moment, without any invitation!"

  "It wouldn't be without an invitation, Alice. The marchioness hassaid to me over and over again how glad she would be to see you, ifI would bring you."

  "Why doesn't she come and call if she is so anxious to know me?"

  "My dear, you've no right to expect it; you haven't indeed. She nevercalls even on me."

  "I know I've no right, and I don't expect it, and I don't wantit. But neither has she a right to suppose that, under suchcircumstances, I shall go to her house. You might as well give it up,aunt. Cart ropes wouldn't drag me there."

  "I think you are very wrong,--particularly under your presentcircumstances. A young woman that is going to be married, as youare--"

  "As I am,--perhaps."

  "That's nonsense, Alice. Of course you are; and for his sake you arebound to cultivate any advantages that naturally belong to you. As toLady Midlothian or the marchioness coming to call on you here in yourfather's house, after all that has passed, you really have no rightto look for it."

  "And I don't look for it."

  "That sort of people are not expected to call. If you'll think of it,how could they do it with all the demands they have on their time?"

  "My dear aunt, I wouldn't interfere with their time for worlds."

  "Nobody can say of me, I'm sure, that I run after great people orrich people. It does happen that some of the nearest relations Ihave,--indeed I may say the nearest relations,--are
people of highrank; and I do not see that I'm bound to turn away from my own fleshand blood because of that, particularly when they are always soanxious to keep up the connexion."

  "I was only speaking of myself, aunt. It is very different with you.You have known them all your life."

  "And how are you to know them if you won't begin? Lady Midlothiansaid to me only yesterday that she was glad to hear that you weregoing to be married so respectably, and then--"

  "Upon my word I'm very much obliged to her ladyship. I wonder whethershe considered that she married respectably when she took LordMidlothian?"

  Now Lady Midlothian had been unfortunate in her marriage, havingunited herself to a man of bad character, who had used her ill, andfrom whom she had now been for some years separated. Alice might havespared her allusion to this misfortune when speaking of the countessto the cousin who was so fond of her, but she was angered by theapplication of that odious word respectable to her own prospects;and perhaps the more angered as she was somewhat inclined to feelthat the epithet did suit her own position. Her engagement, shehad sometimes told herself, was very respectable, and had as oftentold herself that it lacked other attractions which it should havepossessed. She was not quite pleased with herself in having acceptedJohn Grey,--or rather perhaps was not satisfied with herself inhaving loved him. In her many thoughts on the subject, she alwaysadmitted to herself that she had accepted him simply because sheloved him;--that she had given her quick assent to his quick proposalsimply because he had won her heart. But she was sometimes almostangry with herself that she had permitted her heart to be thus easilytaken from her, and had rebuked herself for her girlish facility.But the marriage would be at any rate respectable. Mr. Grey was a manof high character, of good though moderate means; he was, too, welleducated, of good birth, a gentleman, and a man of talent. No onecould deny that the marriage would be highly respectable, and herfather had been more than satisfied. Why Miss Vavasor herself wasnot quite satisfied will, I hope, in time make itself appear. In themeanwhile it can be understood that Lady Midlothian's praise wouldgall her.

  "Alice, don't be uncharitable," said Lady Macleod severely. "Whatevermay have been Lady Midlothian's misfortunes no one can say they haveresulted from her own fault."

  "Yes they can, aunt, if she married a man whom she knew to be ascapegrace because he was very rich and an earl."

  "She was the daughter of a nobleman herself, and only married inher own degree. But I don't want to discuss that. She meant to begood-natured when she mentioned your marriage, and you should takeit as it was meant. After all she was only your mother's secondcousin--"

  "Dear aunt, I make no claim on her cousinship."

  "But she admits the claim, and is quite anxious that you should knowher. She has been at the trouble to find out everything about Mr.Grey, and told me that nothing could be more satisfactory."

  "Upon my word I am very much obliged to her."

  Lady Macleod was a woman of much patience, and possessed alsoof considerable perseverance. For another half-hour she went onexpatiating on the advantages which would accrue to Alice as amarried woman from an acquaintance with her noble relatives, andendeavouring to persuade her that no better opportunity than thepresent would present itself. There would be a place in LadyMidlothian's carriage, as none other of the daughters were going butLady Jane. Lady Midlothian would take it quite as a compliment, and aconcert was not like a ball or any customary party. An unmarried girlmight very properly go to a concert under such circumstances as nowexisted without any special invitation. Lady Macleod ought to haveknown her adopted niece better. Alice was immoveable. As a matterof course she was immoveable. Lady Macleod had seldom been able topersuade her to anything, and ought to have been well sure that, ofall things, she could not have persuaded her to this.

  Then, at last, they came to another subject, as to which Lady Macleoddeclared that she had specially come on this special morning,forgetting, probably, that she had already made the same assertionwith reference to the concert. But in truth the last assertion wasthe correct one, and on that other subject she had been hurriedon to say more than she meant by the eagerness of the moment. Allthe morning she had been full of the matter on which she was nowabout to speak. She had discussed it quite at length with LadyMidlothian;--though she was by no means prepared to tell AliceVavasor that any such discussion had taken place. From the concert,and the effect which Lady Midlothian's countenance might have uponMr. Grey's future welfare, she got herself by degrees round to aprojected Swiss tour which Alice was about to make. Of this Swisstour she had heard before, but had not heard who were to be MissVavasor's companions until Lady Midlothian had told her. How it hadcome to pass that Lady Midlothian had interested herself so much inthe concerns of a person whom she did not know, and on whom she inher greatness could not be expected to call, I cannot say; but fromsome quarter she had learned who were the proposed companions ofAlice Vavasor's tour, and she had told Lady Macleod that she did notat all approve of the arrangement.

  "And when do you go, Alice?" said Lady Macleod.

  "Early in July, I believe. It will be very hot, but Kate must be backby the middle of August." Kate Vavasor was Alice's first cousin.

  "Oh! Kate is to go with you?"

  "Of course she is. I could not go alone, or with no one but George.Indeed it was Kate who made up the party."

  "Of course you could not go alone with George," said Lady Macleod,very grimly. Now George Vavasor was Kate's brother, and was thereforealso first cousin to Alice. He was heir to the old squire down inWestmoreland, with whom Kate lived, their father being dead. Nothing,it would seem, could be more rational than that Alice should go toSwitzerland with her cousins; but Lady Macleod was clearly not ofthis opinion she looked very grim as she made this allusion tocousin George, and seemed to be preparing herself for a fight.

  "That is exactly what I say," answered Alice. "But, indeed, he issimply going as an escort to me and Kate, as we don't like the roleof unprotected females. It is very good-natured of him, seeing howmuch his time is taken up."

  "I thought he never did anything."

  "That's because you don't know him, aunt."

  "No; certainly I don't know him." She did not add that she had nowish to know Mr. George Vavasor, but she looked it. "And has yourfather been told that he is going?"

  "Of course he has."

  "And does--" Lady Macleod hesitated a little before she went on, andthen finished her question with a little spasmodic assumption ofcourage. "And does Mr. Grey know that he is going?"

  Alice remained silent for a full minute before she answered thisquestion, during which Lady Macleod sat watching her grimly, with hereyes very intent upon her niece's face. If she supposed such silenceto have been in any degree produced by shame in answering thequestion, she was much mistaken. But it may be doubted whether sheunderstood the character of the girl whom she thought she knew sowell, and it is probable that she did make such mistake.

  "I might tell you simply that he does," said Alice at last, "seeingthat I wrote to him yesterday, letting him know that such were ourarrangements; but I feel that I should not thus answer the questionyou mean to ask. You want to know whether Mr. Grey will approve of it.As I only wrote yesterday of course I have not heard, and thereforecannot say. But I can say this, aunt, that much as I might regret hisdisapproval, it would make no change in my plans."

  "Would it not? Then I must tell you, you are very wrong. It oughtto make a change. What! the disapproval of the man you are going tomarry make no change in your plans?"

  "Not in that matter. Come, aunt, if we must discuss this matter letus do it at any rate fairly. In an ordinary way, if Mr. Grey had askedme to give up for any reason my trip altogether, I should have givenit up certainly, as I would give up any other indifferent project atthe request of so dear a friend,--a friend with whom I am so--so--soclosely connected. But if he asked me not to travel with my cousinGeorge, I should refuse him absolutely, without a word of parleyon the subject,
simply because of the nature and closeness of myconnection with him. I suppose you understand what I mean, aunt?"

  "I suppose I do. You mean that you would refuse to obey him on thevery subject on which he has a right to claim your obedience."

  "He has no right to claim my obedience on any subject," said Alice;and as she spoke Aunt Macleod jumped up with a little start at thevehemence of the words, and of the tone in which they were expressed.She had heard that tone before, and might have been used to it; but,nevertheless, the little jump was involuntary. "At present he has noright to my obedience on any subject, but least of all on that," saidAlice. "His advice he may give me, but I am quite sure he will notask for obedience."

  "And if he advises you you will slight his advice."

  "If he tells me that I had better not travel with my cousin George Ishall certainly not take his advice. Moreover, I should be careful tolet him know how much I was offended by any such counsel from him.It would show a littleness on his part, and a suspicion of which Icannot suppose him to be capable." Alice, as she said this, got upfrom her seat and walked about the room. When she had finished shestood at one of the windows with her back to her visitor. There wassilence between them for a minute or two, during which Lady Macleodwas deeply considering how best she might speak the terrible words,which, as Alice's nearest female relative, she felt herself bound toutter. At last she collected her thoughts and her courage, and spokeout.

  "My dear Alice, I need hardly say that if you had a mother living,or any person with you filling the place of a mother, I should notinterfere in this matter."

  "Of course, Aunt Macleod, if you think I am wrong you have quite aright to say so."

  "I do think you are wrong,--very wrong, indeed; and if you persist inthis I am afraid I must say that I shall think you wicked. Of courseMr. Grey cannot like you to travel with George Vavasor."

  "And why not, aunt?" Alice, as she asked this question, turned roundand confronted Lady Macleod boldly. She spoke with a steady voice,and fixed her eyes upon the old lady's face, as though determined toshow that she had no fear of what might be said to her.

  "Why not, Alice? Surely you do not wish me to say why not."

  "But I do wish you to say why not. How can I defend myself till theaccusation is made?"

  "You are now engaged to marry Mr. Grey, with the consent andapprobation of all your friends. Two years ago you had--had--"

  "Had what, aunt? If you mean to say that two years ago I was engagedto my cousin George you are mistaken. Three years ago I told himthat under certain conditions I would become engaged to him. But myconditions did not suit him, nor his me, and no engagement was evermade. Mr. Grey knows the history of the whole thing. As far as it waspossible I have told him everything that took place."

  "The fact was, Alice, that George Vavasor's mode of life was suchthat an engagement with him would have been absolute madness."

  "Dear aunt, you must excuse me if I say that I cannot discuss GeorgeVavasor's mode of life. If I were thinking of becoming his wife youwould have a perfect right to discuss it, because of your constantkindness to me. But as matters are he is simply a cousin; and as Ilike him and you do not, we had better say nothing about him."

  "I must say this--that after what has passed, and at the presentcrisis of your life--"

  "Dear aunt, I'm not in any crisis."

  "Yes you are, Alice; in the most special crisis of a girl's life. Youare still a girl, but you are the promised wife of a very worthy man,who will look to you for all his domestic happiness. George Vavasorhas the name, at least, of being very wild."

  "The worthy man and the wild man must fight it out between them. If Iwere going away with George by himself, there might be something inwhat you say."

  "That would be monstrous."

  "Monstrous or not, it isn't what I'm about to do. Kate and I have putour purses together, and are going to have an outing for our specialfun and gratification. As we should be poor travellers alone, Georgehas promised to go with his sister. Papa knows all about it, andnever thought of making any objection."

  Lady Macleod shook her head. She did not like to say anything againstMr. Vavasor before his daughter; but the shaking of her head wasintended to signify that Mr. Vavasor's assent in such a matter wasworth nothing.

  "I can only say again," said Lady Macleod, "that I think Mr. Greywill be displeased,--and that he will have very great cause fordispleasure. And I think, moreover, that his approbation ought to beyour chief study. I believe, my dear, I'll ask you to let Jane get mea cab. I shan't have a bit too much time to dress for the concert."

  Alice simply rang the bell, and said no further word on the subjectwhich they had been discussing. When Lady Macleod got up to go away,Alice kissed her, as was customary with them, and the old lady asshe went uttered her customary valediction. "God bless you, my dear.Good-bye! I'll come to-morrow if I can." There was therefore noquarrel between them. But both of them felt that words had beenspoken which must probably lead to some diminution of their pastintimacy.

  When Lady Macleod had gone Alice sat alone for an hour thinking ofwhat had passed between them,--thinking rather of those two men, theworthy man and the wild man, whose names had been mentioned in closeconnection with herself. John Grey was a worthy man, a man worthy atall points, as far as she knew him. She told herself it was so. Andshe told herself, also, that her cousin George was wild,--very wild.And yet her thoughts were, I fear, on the whole more kindly towardsher cousin than towards her lover. She had declared to her aunt thatJohn Grey would be incapable of such suspicion as would be shown byany objection on his part to the arrangements made for the tour. Shehad said so, and had so believed; and yet she continued to broodover the position which her affairs would take, if he did make theobjection which Lady Macleod anticipated. She told herself over andover again, that under such circumstances she would not give way aninch. "He is free to go," she said to herself. "If he does not trustme he is quite free to go." It may almost be said that she came atlast to anticipate from her lover that very answer to her own letterwhich she had declared him to be incapable of making.