“That is true, papa; now, is it? I believe every word that you say; but I never believe one word of my grandmother’s.”
“You shocking child! Yes, it is true enough. But, after all, it comes to nothing. Of the law I know nothing, I am thankful to say; but from Sir Glanvil Malahide I understand, through some questions which your grandmother laid before him, that the money can only be got—either through this family arrangement, or else by waiting till you, as a spinster attain the age of twenty-one—which would be nearly two years too late.”
“But, papa, if I were to die?”
“Lallie, why are you so vexatious? If you were to die, the whole of the race might end—so far as I care.”
“My father, you say that, to make me love you more than I do already, which is a hopeless attempt on your part. Now you need not think that I am jealous. It is the last thing I could dream of. But ever since Mabel Lovejoy appeared, I have not been what I used to be; either with you, or with Hilary. In the case of poor Hilary, I must of course expect it, and put up with it. But I cannot see, for a moment, why I ought to be cut out with you, papa.”
“What foolish jealousy, Alice! Shall I tell you why I like and admire Mabel so much? But as for comparing her with you——”
“But, papa, why do you like and admire her so deeply?”
“You jealous child, I did not say ‘deeply.’ But I like her, because she is so gentle, so glad to do what she is told, so full of self-sacrifice and self-devotion.”
“While I am harsh, and disobedient, self-seeking, and devoted to self. No doubt she would marry according to order. Though I dreamed that I heard of a certain maltster, who had the paternal sanction. ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ appears to be her motto. Even grandmamma is vanquished by her, or by her legacy. She says that she curtseys much better than I do. She is welcome to that distinction. I am not at all sure that the prime end and object of woman’s life is to curtsey. But I see exactly how I am placed. I will never trouble you any more, papa.”
With these words, Alice Lorraine arose, and kissed her father’s forehead gently, and turned away, not to worry him with the long sigh of expiring hope. She had still three weeks to make up her mind, or rather to wait with her mind made up. And three weeks still is a long spell of time for the young to anticipate misery.