herself as in a degree illused. So she was silent, reserved, and fretful. At length came the last day of her London season, and her last visit to her niece. “I would come because it’s my last day,” said Lady Macleod; “but really I’m so hurried, and have so many things to do, that I hardly know how to manage it.”
“It’s very kind,” said Alice, giving her aunt an affectionate squeeze of the hand.
“I’m keeping the cab, so I can just stay twenty-five minutes. I’ve marked the time accurately, but I know the man will swear it’s over the half-hour.”
“You’ll have no more trouble about cabs, aunt, when you are back in Cheltenham.”
“The flies are worse, my dear. I really think they’re worse. I pay the bill every month, but they’ve always one down that I didn’t have. It’s the regular practice, for I’ve had them from all the men in the place.”
“It’s hard enough to find honest men anywhere, I suppose.”
“Or honest women either. What do you think of Mrs Green wanting to charge me for an extra week, because she says I didn’t give her notice till Tuesday morning? I won’t pay her, and she may stop my things if she dares. However, it’s the last time. I shall never come up to London again, my dear.”
“Oh, aunt, don’t say that!”
“But I do say it, my dear. What should an old woman like me do, trailing up to town every year, merely because it’s what people choose to call the season.”
“To see your friends, of course. Age doesn’t matter when a person’s health is so good as yours.”
“If you knew what I suffer from lumbago,—though I must say coming to London always does cure that for the time. But as for friends—! Well, I suppose one has no right to complain when one gets to be as old as I am; but I declare I believe that those I love best would sooner be without me than with me.”
“Do you mean me, aunt?”
“No, my dear, I don’t mean you. Of course my life would have been very different if you could have consented to remain with me till you were married. But I didn’t mean you. I don’t know that I meant any one. You shouldn’t mind what an old woman like me says.”
“You’re a little melancholy because you’re going away.”
“No, indeed. I don’t know why I stayed the last week. I did say to Lady Midlothian that I thought I should go on the 20th; and, though I know that she knew that I really didn’t go, she has not once sent to me since. To be sure they’ve been out every night; but I thought she might have asked me to come and lunch. It’s so very lonely dining by myself in lodgings in London.”
“And yet you never will come and dine with me.”
“No, my dear; no. But we won’t talk about that. I’ve just one word more to say. Let me see. I’ve just six minutes to stay. I’ve made up my mind that I’ll never come up to town again,—except for one thing.”
“And what’s that, aunt?” Alice, as she asked the question, well knew what that one thing was.
“I’ll come for your marriage, my dear. I do hope you will not keep me long waiting.”
“Ah! I can’t make any promise. There’s no knowing when that may be.”
“And why should there be no knowing? I always think that when a girl is once engaged the sooner she’s married the better. There may be reasons for delay on the gentleman’s part.”
“There very often are, you know,”
“But, Alice, you don’t mean to say that Mr Grey is putting it off?”
Alice was silent for a moment, during which Lady Macleod’s face assumed a look of almost tragic horror. Was there something wrong on Mr Grey’s side of which she was altogether unaware? Alice, though for a second or two she had been guilty of a slight playful deceit, was too honest to allow the impression to remain. “No, aunt,” she said; “Mr Grey is not putting it off. It has been left to me to fix the time.”
“And why don’t you fix it?”
“It is such a serious thing! After all it is not more than four months yet since I—I accepted him. I don’t know that there has been any delay.”
“But you might fix the time now, if he wishes it.”
“Well, perhaps I shall,—some day, aunt. I’m going to think about it, and you mustn’t drive me.”
“But you should have some one to advise you, Alice.”
“Ah! that’s just it. People always do seem to think it so terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn’t like any one at first; and then, when she does like some one, she must marry him directly she’s bidden. I haven’t much of my own way at present; but you see, when I’m married I shan’t have it at all. You can’t wonder that I shouldn’t be in a hurry.”
“I am not advocating anything like hurry, my dear. But, goodness gracious me! I’ve been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horrid man will impose upon me. Goodbye; God bless you! Mind you write.” And Lady Macleod hurried out of the room more intent at the present moment upon saving her sixpence than she was on any other matter whatsoever.
And then John Grey came up to town, arriving a day or two after the time that he had fixed. It is not, perhaps, improbable that Alice had used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between Lady Macleod and her lover. They both were very anxious to obtain the same object, and Alice was to some extent opposed to their views. Had Lady Macleod and John Grey put their forces together she might have found herself unable to resist their joint endeavours. She was resolved that she would not at any rate name any day for her marriage before her return from Switzerland; and she may therefore have thought it wise to keep Mr Grey in the country till after Lady Macleod had gone, even though she thereby cut down the time of his sojourn in London to four days. On the occasion of that visit Mr Vavasor did a very memorable thing. He dined at home with the view of welcoming his future son-in-law. He dined at home, and asked, or rather assented to Alice’s asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party. “What an auspicious omen for the future nuptials!” said Kate, with her little sarcastic smile. “Uncle John dines at home, and Mr Grey joins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changed soon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a little cottage in the country.”
“Kate,” said Alice, angrily, “I think you are about the most unjust person I ever met. I would forgive your raillery, however painful it might be, if it were only fair.”
“And to whom is it unfair on the present occasion;—to your father?”
“It was not intended for him.”
“To yourself?”
“I care nothing as to myself; you know that very well.”
“Then it must have been unfair to Mr Grey.”
“Yes; it was Mr Grey whom you meant to attack. If I can forgive him for not caring for society, surely you might do so.”
“Exactly;
