CHAPTER XIV.
Alice Vavasor Becomes Troubled.
Kate Vavasor had sent to her brother only the first half of hercousin's letter, that half in which Alice had attempted to describewhat had taken place between her and Mr. Grey. In doing this, Katehad been a wicked traitor,--a traitor to that feminine faith againstwhich treason on the part of one woman is always unpardonable inthe eyes of other women. But her treason would have been of a deeperdie had she sent the latter portion, for in that Alice had spokenof George Vavasor himself. But even of this treason, Kate would, Ithink, have been guilty, had the words which Alice wrote been of anature to serve her own purpose if read by her brother. But they hadnot been of this nature. They had spoken of George as a man withwhom any closer connection than that which existed at present wasimpossible, and had been written with the view of begging Kate todesist from making futile attempts in that direction. "I feel myselfdriven," Alice had said, "to write all this, as otherwise,--if I weresimply to tell you that I have resolved to part from Mr. Grey,--youwould think that the other thing might follow. The other thing cannotfollow. I should think myself untrue in my friendship to you if I didnot tell you about Mr. Grey; and you will be untrue in your friendshipto me if you take advantage of my confidence by saying more aboutyour brother." This part of Alice's letter Kate had not sent toGeorge Vavasor;--"But the other thing shall follow," Kate had said,as she read the words for the second time, and then put the papersinto her desk. "It shall follow."
To give Kate Vavasor her due, she was, at any rate, unselfish inher intrigues. She was obstinately persistent, and she was moreoverunscrupulous, but she was not selfish. Many years ago she had madeup her mind that George and Alice should be man and wife, feelingthat such a marriage would be good at any rate for her brother. Ithad been almost brought about, and had then been hindered altogetherthrough a fault on her brother's part. But she had forgiven him thissin as she had forgiven many others, and she was now at work inhis behalf again, determined that they two should be married, eventhough neither of them might be now anxious that it should be so. Theintrigue itself was dear to her, and success in it was necessary toher self-respect.
She answered Alice's letter with a pleasant, gossiping epistle, whichshall be recorded, as it will tell us something of Mrs. Greenow'sproceedings at Yarmouth. Kate had promised to stay at Yarmouth for amonth, but she had already been there six weeks, and was still underher aunt's wing.
Yarmouth, October, 186--.
DEAREST ALICE,
Of course I am delighted. It is no good saying that I am not. I know how difficult it is to deal with you, and therefore I sit down to answer your letter with fear and trembling, lest I should say a word too much, and thereby drive you back, or not say quite enough and thereby fail to encourage you on. Of course I am glad. I have long thought that Mr. Grey could not make you happy, and as I have thought so, how can I not be glad? It is no use saying that he is good and noble, and all that sort of thing. I have never denied it. But he was not suited to you, and his life would have made you wretched. Ergo, I rejoice. And as you are the dearest friend I have, of course I rejoice mightily.
I can understand accurately the sort of way in which the interview went. Of course he had the best of it. I can see him so plainly as he stood up in unruffled self-possession, ignoring all that you said, suggesting that you were feverish or perhaps bilious, waving his hand over you a little, as though that might possibly do you some small good, and then taking his leave with an assurance that it would be all right as soon as the wind changed. I suppose it's very noble in him, not taking you at your word, and giving you, as it were, another chance; but there is a kind of nobility which is almost too great for this world. I think very well of you, my dear, as women go, but I do not think well enough of you to believe that you are fit to be Mr. John Grey's wife.
Of course I'm very glad. You have known my mind from the first to the last, and, therefore, what would be the good of my mincing matters? No woman wishes her dearest friend to marry a man to whom she herself is antipathetic. You would have been as much lost to me, had you become Mrs. Grey of Nethercoats, Cambridgeshire, as though you had gone to heaven. I don't say but what Nethercoats may be a kind of heaven,--but then one doesn't wish one's friend that distant sort of happiness. A flat Eden I can fancy it, hemmed in by broad dykes, in which cream and eggs are very plentiful, where an Adam and an Eve might drink the choicest tea out of the finest china, with toast buttered to perfection, from year's end to year's end; into which no money troubles would ever find their way, nor yet any naughty novels. But such an Eden is not tempting to me, nor, as I think, to you. I can fancy you stretching your poor neck over the dyke, longing to fly away that you might cease to be at rest, but knowing that the matrimonial dragon was too strong for any such flight. If ever bird banged his wings to pieces against gilded bars, you would have banged yours to pieces in that cage.
You say that you have failed to make him understand that the matter is settled. I need not say that of course it is settled, and that he must be made to understand it. You owe it to him now to put him out of all doubt. He is, I suppose, accessible to the words of a mortal, god though he be. But I do not fear about this, for, after all, you have as much firmness about you as most people;--perhaps as much as he has at bottom, though you may not have so many occasions to show it.
As to that other matter I can only say that you shall be obliged, as far as it is in my power to obey you. For what may come out from me by word of mouth when we are together, I will not answer with certainty. But my pen is under better control, and it shall not write the offending name.
And now I must tell you a little about myself;--or rather, I am inclined to spin a yarn, and tell you a great deal. I have got such a lover! But I did describe him before. Of course it's Mr. Cheesacre. If I were to say he hasn't declared himself, I should hardly give you a fair idea of my success. And yet he has not declared himself,--and, which is worse, is very anxious to marry a rival. But it's a strong point in my favour that my rival wants him to take me, and that he will assuredly be driven to make me an offer sooner or later, in obedience to her orders. My aunt is my rival, and I do not feel the least doubt as to his having offered to her half a dozen times. But then she has another lover, Captain Bellfield, and I see that she prefers him. He is a penniless scamp and looks as though he drank. He paints his whiskers too, which I don't like; and, being forty, tries to look like twenty-five. Otherwise he is agreeable enough, and I rather approve of my aunt's taste in preferring him.
But my lover has solid attractions, and allures me on by a description of the fat cattle which he sends to market. He is a man of substance, and should I ever become Mrs. Cheesacre, I have reason to think that I shall not be left in want. We went up to his place on a visit the other day. Oileymead is the name of my future home;--not so pretty as Nethercoats, is it? And we had such a time there! We reached the place at ten and left it at four, and he managed to give us three meals. I'm sure we had before our eyes at different times every bit of china, delf, glass, and plate in the establishment. He made us go into the cellar, and told us how much wine he had got there, and how much beer. "It's all paid for, Mrs. Greenow, every bottle of it," he said, turning round to my aunt, with a pathetic earnestness, for which I had hardly given him credit. "Everything in this house is my own; it's all paid for. I don't call anything a man's own till it's paid for. Now that jacket that Bellfield swells about with on the sands at Yarmouth,--that's not his own,--and it's not like to be either." And then he winked his eye as though bidding my aunt to think of that before she encouraged such a lover as Bellfield. He took us into every bedroom, and disclosed to us all the glories of his upper chambers. It would have done you good to see him lifting the counterpanes, and bidding my aunt feel the texture o
f the blankets! And then to see her turn round to me and say:--"Kate, it's simply the best-furnished house I ever went over in my life!"--"It does seem very comfortable," said I. "Comfortable!" said he. "Yes, I don't think there's anybody can say that Oileymead isn't comfortable." I did so think of you and Nethercoats. The attractions are the same;--only in the one place you would have a god for your keeper, and in the other a brute. For myself, if ever I'm to have a keeper at all, I shall prefer a man. But when we got to the farmyard his eloquence reached the highest pitch. "Mrs. Greenow," said he, "look at that," and he pointed to heaps of manure raised like the streets of a little city. "Look at that!" "There's a great deal," said my aunt. "I believe you," said he. "I've more muck upon this place here than any farmer in Norfolk, gentle or simple; I don't care who the other is." Only fancy, Alice; it may all be mine; the blankets, the wine, the muck, and the rest of it. So my aunt assured me when we got home that evening. When I remarked that the wealth had been exhibited to her and not to me, she did not affect to deny it, but treated that as a matter of no moment. "He wants a wife, my dear," she said, "and you may pick him up to-morrow by putting out your hand." When I remarked that his mind seemed to be intent on low things, and specially named the muck, she only laughed at me. "Money's never dirty," she said, "nor yet what makes money." She talks of taking lodgings in Norwich for the winter, saying that in her widowed state she will be as well there as anywhere else, and she wants me to stay with her up to Christmas. Indeed she first proposed the Norwich plan on the ground that it might be useful to me,--with a view to Mr. Cheesacre, of course; but I fancy that she is unwilling to tear herself away from Captain Bellfield. At any rate to Norwich she will go, and I have promised not to leave her before the second week in November. With all her absurdities I like her. Her faults are terrible faults, but she has not the fault of hiding them by falsehood. She is never stupid, and she is very good-natured. She would have allowed me to equip myself from head to foot at her expense, if I would have accepted her liberality, and absolutely offered to give me my trousseau if I would marry Mr. Cheesacre.
I live in the hope that you will come down to the old place at Christmas. I won't offend you more than I can help. At any rate he won't be there. And if I don't see you there, where am I to see you? If I were you I would certainly not go to Cheltenham. You are never happy there.
Do you ever dream of the river at Basle? I do;--so often.
Most affectionately yours,
KATE VAVASOR.
"Mrs. Greenow, look at that."]
Alice had almost lost the sensation created by the former portion ofKate's letter by the fun of the latter, before she had quite madethat sensation her own. The picture of the Cambridgeshire Eden wouldhave displeased her had she dwelt upon it, and the allusion to thecream and toast would have had the very opposite effect to that whichKate had intended. Perhaps Kate had felt this, and had thereforemerged it all in her stories about Mr. Cheesacre. "I will go toCheltenham," she said to herself. "He has recommended it. I shallnever be his wife;--but, till we have parted altogether, I will showhim that I think well of his advice." That same afternoon she toldher father that she would go to Lady Macleod's at Cheltenham beforethe end of the month. She was, in truth, prompted to this by aresolution, of which she was herself hardly conscious, that she wouldnot at this period of her life be in any way guided by her cousin.Having made up her mind about Mr. Grey, it was right that she shouldlet her cousin know her purpose; but she would never be driven toconfess to herself that Kate had influenced her in the matter. Shewould go to Cheltenham. Lady Macleod would no doubt vex her by hourlysolicitations that the match might be renewed; but, if she knewherself, she had strength to withstand Lady Macleod.
She received one letter from Mr. Grey before the time camefor her departure, and she answered it, telling him of herintention--telling him also that she now felt herself bound toexplain to her father her present position. "I tell you this," shesaid, "in consequence of what you said to me on the matter. My fatherwill know it to-morrow, and on the following morning I shall startfor Cheltenham. I have heard from Lady Macleod and she expects me."
On the following morning she did tell her father, standing by him ashe sat at his breakfast. "What!" said he, putting down his tea-cupand looking up into her face; "What! not marry John Grey!"
"No, papa; I know how strange you must think it."
"And you say that there has been no quarrel."
"No;--there has been no quarrel. By degrees I have learned to feelthat I should not make him happy as his wife."
"It's d----d nonsense," said Mr. Vavasor. Now such an expression asthis from him, addressed to his daughter, showed that he was verydeeply moved.
"Oh, papa! don't talk to me in that way."
"But it is. I never heard such trash in my life. If he comes to me Ishall tell him so. Not make him happy! Why can't you make him happy?"
"We are not suited to each other."
"But what's the matter with him? He's a gentleman."
"Yes; he's a gentleman."
"And a man of honour, and with good means, and with all thatknowledge and reading which you profess to like. Look here, Alice;I am not going to interfere, nor shall I attempt to make you marryanyone. You are your own mistress as far as that is concerned. But Ido hope, for your sake and for mine,--I do hope that there is nothingagain between you and your cousin."
"There is nothing, papa."
"I did not like your going abroad with him, though I didn't chooseto interrupt your plan by saying so. But if there were anything ofthat kind going on, I should be bound to tell you that your cousin'sposition at present is not a good one. Men do not speak well of him."
"There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speakingill of him would not deter me."
"And men speaking well of Mr. Grey will not do the other thing. I knowvery well that women can be obstinate."
"I haven't come to this resolution without thinking much about it,papa."
"I suppose not. Well;--I can't say anything more. You are your ownmistress, and your fortune is in your own keeping. I can't make youmarry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me Ishall tell him so. You are going down to Cheltenham, are you?"
"Yes, papa; I have promised Lady Macleod."
"Very well. I'd sooner it should be you than me; that's all I cansay." Then he took up his newspaper, thereby showing that he hadnothing further to say on the matter, and Alice left him alone.
The whole thing was so vexatious that even Mr. Vavasor was disturbedby it. As it was not term time he had no signing to do in ChanceryLane, and could not, therefore, bury his unhappiness in his dailylabour,--or rather in his labour that was by no means daily. So hesat at home till four o'clock, expressing to himself in variousphrases his wonder that "any man alive should ever rear a daughter."And when he got to his club the waiters found him quite unmanageableabout his dinner, which he ate alone, rejecting all proposition ofcompanionship. But later in the evening he regained his composureover a glass of whiskey-toddy and a cigar. "She's got her own money,"he said to himself, "and what does it matter? I don't suppose she'llmarry her cousin. I don't think she's fool enough for that. And afterall she'll probably make it up again with John Grey." And in this wayhe determined that he might let this annoyance run off him, and thathe need not as a father take the trouble of any interference.
But while he was at his club there came a visitor to Queen AnneStreet, and that visitor was the dangerous cousin of whom, accordingto his uncle's testimony, men at present did not speak well. Alicehad not seen him since they had parted on the day of their arrivalin London,--nor, indeed, had heard of his whereabouts. In theconsternation of her mind at this step which she was taking,--a stepwhich she had taught herself to regard as essentially her duty beforeit was taken, but which seemed to herself to be false and treacherousthe moment she had taken it,--she had become
aware that she had beenwrong to travel with her cousin. She felt sure,--she thought thatshe was sure,--that her doing so had in nowise affected her dealingswith Mr. Grey. She was very certain,--she thought that she wascertain,--that she would have rejected him just the same had shenever gone to Switzerland. But every one would say of her that herjourney to Switzerland with such companions had produced that result.It had been unlucky and she was sorry for it, and she now wished toavoid all communication with her cousin till this affair should bealtogether over. She was especially unwilling to see him; but shehad not felt it necessary to give any special injunctions as to hisadmittance; and now, before she had time to think of it,--on the eveof her departure for Cheltenham,--he was in the room with her, justas the dusk of the October evening was coming on. She was sittingaway from the fire, almost behind the window-curtains, thinking ofJohn Grey and very unhappy in her thoughts, when George Vavasor wasannounced. It will of course be understood that Vavasor had at thistime received his sister's letter. He had received it, and had hadtime to consider the matter since the Sunday morning on which wesaw him in his own rooms in Cecil Street. "She can turn it all intocapital to-morrow, if she pleases," he had said to himself whenthinking of her income. But he had also reminded himself that hergrandfather would probably enable him to settle an income out of theproperty upon Alice, in the event of their being married. And thenhe had also felt that he could have no greater triumph than "walkingatop of John Grey," as he called it. His return for the ChelseaDistricts would hardly be sweeter to him than that.
"You must have thought I had vanished out of the world," said George,coming up to her with his extended hand.
Alice was confused, and hardly knew how to address him. "Somebodytold me that you were shooting," she said after a pause.
"So I was, but my shooting is not like the shooting of your greatNimrods,--men who are hunters upon the earth. Two days among thegrouse and two more among the partridges are about the extent of it.Capel Court is the preserve in which I am usually to be found."
Alice knew nothing of Capel Court, and said, "Oh, indeed."
"Have you heard from Kate?" George asked.
"Yes, once or twice; she is still at Yarmouth with Aunt Greenow."
"And is going to Norwich, as she says. Kate seems to have madea league with Aunt Greenow. I, who don't pretend to be verydisinterested in money matters, think that she is quite right. Nodoubt Aunt Greenow may marry again, but friends with forty thousandpounds are always agreeable."
"I don't believe that Kate thinks much of that," said Alice.
"Not so much as she ought, I dare say. Poor Kate is not a rich woman,or, I fear, likely to become one. She doesn't seem to dream ofgetting married, and her own fortune is less than a hundred a year."
"Girls who never dream of getting married are just those who make thebest marriages at last," said Alice.
"Perhaps so, but I wish I was easier about Kate. She is the bestsister a man ever had."
"Indeed she is."
"And I have done nothing for her as yet. I did think, while I was inthat wine business, that I could have done anything I pleased forher. But my grandfather's obstinacy put me out of that; and now I'mbeginning the world again,--that is, comparatively. I wonder whetheryou think I'm wrong in trying to get into Parliament?"
"No; quite right. I admire you for it. It is just what I would do inyour place. You are unmarried, and have a right to run the risk."
"I am so glad to hear you speak like that," said he. He had nowmanaged to take up that friendly, confidential, almost affectionatetone of talking which he had so often used when abroad with her, andwhich he had failed to assume when first entering the room.
"I have always thought so."
"But you have never said it."
"Haven't I? I thought I had."
"Not heartily like that. I know that people abuse me;--my own people,my grandfather, and probably your father,--saying that I am recklessand the rest of it. I do risk everything for my object; but I do notknow that any one can blame me,--unless it be Kate. To whom else do Iowe anything?"
"Kate does not blame you."
"No; she sympathizes with me; she, and she only, unless it be you."Then he paused for an answer, but she made him none. "She is braveenough to give me her hearty sympathy. But perhaps for that veryreason I ought to be the more chary in endangering the only supportthat she is like to have. What is ninety pounds a year for themaintenance of a single lady?"
"I hope that Kate will always live with me," said Alice; "that is, assoon as she has lost her home at Vavasor Hall."
He had been very crafty and had laid a trap for her. He had laid atrap for her, and she had fallen into it. She had determined not tobe induced to talk of herself; but he had brought the thing round socunningly that the words were out of her mouth before she rememberedwhither they would lead her. She did remember this as she wasspeaking them, but then it was too late.
"What;--at Nethercoats?" said he. "Neither she nor I doubt your love,but few men would like such an intruder as that into their household,and of all men Mr. Grey, whose nature is retiring, would like it theleast."
"I was not thinking of Nethercoats," said Alice.
"Ah, no; that is it, you see. Kate says so often to me that when youare married she will be alone in the world."
"I don't think she will ever find that I shall separate myself fromher."
"No; not by any will of your own. Poor Kate! You cannot be surprisedthat she should think of your marriage with dread. How much of herlife has been made up of her companionship with you;--and all thebest of it too! You ought not to be angry with her for regarding yourwithdrawal into Cambridgeshire with dismay."
Alice could not act the lie which now seemed to be incumbent on her.She could not let him talk of Nethercoats as though it were to be herfuture home. She made the struggle, and she found that she could notdo it. She was unable to find the words which should tell no lie tothe ear, and which should yet deceive him. "Kate may still live withme," she said slowly. "Everything is over between me and Mr. Grey."
"Alice!--is that true?"
"Yes, George; it is true. If you will allow me to say so, I wouldrather not talk about it;--not just at present."
"And does Kate know it?"
"Yes, Kate knows it."
"And my uncle?"
"Yes, papa knows it also."
"Alice, how can I help speaking of it? How can I not tell you that Iam rejoiced that you are saved from a thraldom which I have long feltsure would break your heart?"
"Pray do not talk of it further."
"Well; if I am forbidden I shall of course obey. But I own it is hardto me. How can I not congratulate you?" To this she answered nothing,but beat with her foot upon the floor as though she were impatientof his words. "Yes, Alice, I understand. You are angry with me,"he continued. "And yet you have no right to be surprised that whenyou tell me this I should think of all that passed between us inSwitzerland. Surely the cousin who was with you then has a right tosay what he thinks of this change in your life; at any rate he may doso, if as in this case he approves altogether of what you are doing."
"I am glad of your approval, George; but pray let that be an end toit."
After that the two sat silent for a minute or two. She was waitingfor him to go, but she could not bid him leave the house. She wasangry with herself, in that she had allowed herself to tell himof her altered plans, and she was angry with him because he wouldnot understand that she ought to be spared all conversation onthe subject. So she sat looking through the window at the row ofgaslights as they were being lit, and he remained in his chair withhis elbow on the table and his head resting on his hand.
"Do you remember asking me whether I ever shivered," he said at last;"--whether I ever thought of things that made me shiver? Don't youremember; on the bridge at Basle?"
"Yes; I remember."
"Well, Alice;--one cause for my shivering is over. I won't say morethan that now. Shall you remain long at
Cheltenham?"
"Just a month."
"And then you come back here?"
"I suppose so. Papa and I will probably go down to Vavasor Hallbefore Christmas. How much before I cannot say."
"I shall see you at any rate after your return from Cheltenham? Ofcourse Kate will know, and she will tell me."
"Yes; Kate will know. I suppose she will stay here when she comes upfrom Norfolk. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Alice. I shall have fewer fits of that inward shiveringthat you spoke of,--many less, on account of what I have now heard.God bless you, Alice; good-bye."
"Good-bye, George."
As he went he took her hand and pressed it closely between his own.In those days when they were lovers,--engaged lovers, a close,long-continued pressure of her hand had been his most eloquent speechof love. He had not been given to many kisses,--not even to manywords of love. But he would take her hand and hold it, even as helooked away from her, and she remembered well the touch of his palm.It was ever cool,--cool, and with a surface smooth as a woman's,--asmall hand that had a firm grip. There had been days when she hadloved to feel that her own was within it, when she trusted in it, andintended that it should be her staff through life. Now she distrustedit; and as the thoughts of the old days came upon her, and theremembrance of that touch was recalled, she drew her hand awayrapidly. Not for that had she driven from her as honest a man as hadever wished to mate with a woman. He, George Vavasor, had never soheld her hand since the day when they had parted, and now on thisfirst occasion of her freedom she felt it again. What did he think ofher? Did he suppose that she could transfer her love in that way, asa flower may be taken from one buttonhole and placed in another? Heread it all, and knew that he was hurrying on too quickly. "I canunderstand well," he said in a whisper, "what your present feelingsare; but I do not think you will be really angry with me because Ihave been unable to repress my joy at what I cannot but regard asyour release from a great misfortune." Then he went.
"My release!" she said, seating herself on the chair from which hehad risen. "My release from a misfortune! No;--but my fall fromheaven! Oh, what a man he is! That he should have loved me, and thatI should have driven him away from me!" Her thoughts travelled off tothe sweetness of that home at Nethercoats, to the excellence of thatmaster who might have been hers; and then in an agony of despairshe told herself that she had been an idiot and a fool, as well asa traitor. What had she wanted in life that she should have thusquarrelled with as happy a lot as ever had been offered to a woman?Had she not been mad, when she sent from her side the only man thatshe loved,--the only man that she had ever truly respected? For hoursshe sat there, all alone, putting out the candles which the servanthad lighted for her, and leaving untasted the tea that was brought toher.
Poor Alice! I hope that she may be forgiven. It was her specialfault, that when at Rome she longed for Tibur, and when at Tiburshe regretted Rome. Not that her cousin George is to be taken asrepresenting the joys of the great capital, though Mr. Grey may bepresumed to form no inconsiderable part of the promised delightsof the country. Now that she had sacrificed her Tibur, because ithad seemed to her that the sunny quiet of its pastures lacked theexcitement necessary for the happiness of life, she was againprepared to quarrel with the heartlessness of Rome, and already wasagain sighing for the tranquillity of the country.
Sitting there, full of these regrets, she declared to herself thatshe would wait for her father's return, and then, throwing herselfupon his love and upon his mercy, would beg him to go to Mr. Grey andask for pardon for her. "I should be very humble to him," she said;"but he is so good, that I may dare to be humble before him." Soshe waited for her father. She waited till twelve, till one, tilltwo;--but still he did not come. Later than that she did not dare towait for him. She feared to trust him on such business returning solate as that,--after so many cigars; after, perhaps, some superfluousbeakers of club nectar. His temper at such a moment would not be fitfor such work as hers. But if he was late in coming home, who hadsent him away from his home in unhappiness? Between two and three shewent to bed, and on the following morning she left Queen Anne Streetfor the Great Western Station before her father was up.
Can You Forgive Her? Page 16
