“You look so learned,” said Sir Roland, smiling, “with all those books which you seem to have mastered, that surely we may employ you to draw the deed for signature by Sir Remnant.”
“I have little doubt that I could do it,” replied the ancient lady, who took everything as in earnest; “but I am not so strong as I was, and therefore I wish you to push things forward. I have given up, as you know, my proper attention to many little matters (which go on very badly without me) simply that all my small abilities might be devoted to this great purpose. I hope to have still a few years left—but two things I must see accomplished before I can leave this world in peace. Alice must marry Captain Chapman, upon the conditions which I have expressed, and Hilary must marry a fortune, with special clauses enabling him to invest it in land upon proper trusts. The boy is handsome enough for anything; and his fame for courage, and his martial bearing, and above all his regimentals, will make him irresistible. But he must not stay at the wars too long. It is too great a risk to run.”
“Well, my dear mother, I must confess that your scheme is a very fine one. Supposing, I mean, that the object is worth it; of which I am by no means sure. I have not made it the purpose of my life to recover the Lorraine estates; I have not toiled and schemed for that end; although,” he added with dry irony, which quite escaped his mother’s sense, “it is of course a far less exertion to sell one’s children, with that view. But there are several hitches in your little plan: for instance, Alice hates Captain Chapman, and Hilary loves a girl without a penny—though the Grower must have had good markets lately, according to the price of vegetables.” Clever as Sir Roland was, he made the mistake of the outer world: there are no such things as “good markets.”
“Alice is a mere child,” replied her grandmother, smiling placidly; “she cannot have the smallest idea yet, as to what she likes, or dislikes. The Captain is quite as well bred as his father; and he can drive four-in-hand. I wonder that she has shown such presumption, as either to like or dislike him. It is your fault, Roland. Perpetual indulgence sets children up to such dreadful things; of which they must be broken painfully, having been encouraged so.”
“My dear mother,” Sir Roland answered, keeping his own opinions to himself, “you clearly know how to manage young girls, a great deal better than I do. Will you talk to Alice (in your own convincing and most eloquent manner) if I send her up to you?”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said Lady Valeria, having long expected this: “you may safely leave her to me, I believe. Chits of girls must be taught their place. But I mean to be very quiet with her. Let me see her to-morrow, Roland; I am tired now, and could not manage her, without more talking than I am fit for. Therefore I will say ‘good evening.’”
CHAPTER XXXVII.
ACHES v. ACRES.
Alice had “plenty of spirit of her own,” which of course she called “sense of dignity;” but in spite of it all, she was most unwilling to encounter her valiant grandmother. And she knew that this encounter was announced the moment she was sent for.
“Is my hair right? Are my bows right? Has the old dog left any paw-marks on me?” she asked herself; but would rather have died—as in her quick way she said to herself—than have confessed her fright by asking any of the maids to tell her. Betwixt herself and her grandmother there was little love lost, and still less kept; for each looked down upon the other from the heights of impartial duty. “A flighty, romantic, unfledged girl, with no deference towards her superiors”—“A cold-blooded, crafty, plotting old woman, without a bit of faith in any one;”—thus each would have seen the other’s image, if she had looked into her own mind, and faced its impressions honestly.