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 ruined
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. Early in life,
before she had resided under the same roof with him in London, he
had, as it were, washed his hands of all