Can You Forgive Her?

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXX.

  Containing a Love Letter.

  Vavasor, as he sat alone in his room, after Fitzgerald had left him,began to think of the days in which he had before wished to assisthis friend in his views with reference to Lady Glencora;--or ratherhe began to think of Alice's behaviour then, and of Alice's words.Alice had steadfastly refused to give any aid. No less likelyassistant for such a purpose could have been selected. But she hadbeen very earnest in declaring that it was Glencora's duty to standby her promise to Burgo. "He is a desperate spendthrift," KateVavasor had said to her. "Then let her teach him to be otherwise,"Alice had answered. "That might have been a good reason for refusinghis offer when he first made it; but it can be no excuse for untruth,now that she has told him that she loves him!" "If a woman," she hadsaid again, "won't venture her fortune for the man she loves, herlove is not worth having." All this George Vavasor remembered now;and as he remembered it he asked himself whether the woman that hadonce loved him would venture her fortune for him still.

  Though his sister had pressed him on the subject with all thevehemence that she could use, he had hardly hitherto made up hismind that he really desired to marry Alice. There had grown uponhim lately certain Bohemian propensities,--a love of absoluteindependence in his thoughts as well as actions,--which wereantagonistic to marriage. He was almost inclined to think thatmarriage was an old-fashioned custom, fitted indeed well enough forthe usual dull life of the world at large,--as many men both inheathen and in Christian ages have taught themselves to think ofreligion,--but which was not adapted to his advanced intelligence.If he loved any woman he loved his cousin Alice. If he thoroughlyrespected any woman he respected her. But that idea of tying himselfdown to a household was in itself distasteful to him. "It is a thingterrible to think of," he once said to a congenial friend in thesedays of his life, "that a man should give permission to a priestto tie him to another human being like a Siamese twin, so that allpower of separate and solitary action should be taken from him forever! The beasts of the field do not treat each other so badly. Theyneither drink themselves drunk, nor eat themselves stupid;--nor dothey bind themselves together in a union which both would have tohate." In this way George Vavasor, trying to imitate the wisdom ofthe brutes, had taught himself some theories of a peculiar nature.But, nevertheless, as he thought of Alice Vavasor on this occasion,he began to feel that if a Siamese twin were necessary for him, sheof all others was the woman to whom he would wish to be so bound.

  And if he did it at all, he must do it now. Under the jointinstigation of himself and his sister,--as he thought, and perhapsnot altogether without reason,--she had broken her engagement with Mr.Grey. That she would renew it again if left to herself, he believedprobable. And then, despite that advanced intelligence which hadtaught him to regard all forms and ceremonies with the eye of aphilosopher, he had still enough of human frailty about him to feelkeenly alive to the pleasure of taking from John Grey the prize whichJohn Grey had so nearly taken from him. If Alice could have beentaught to think as he did as to the absurdity of those indissolubleties, that would have been better. But nothing would have been moreimpossible than the teaching of such a lesson to his cousin Alice.George Vavasor was a man of courage, and dared do most things;--buthe would not have dared to commence the teaching of such a lesson toher.

  And now, at this moment, what was his outlook into life generally? Hehad very high ambition, and a fair hope of gratifying it if he couldonly provide that things should go well with him for a year or so. Hewas still a poor man, having been once nearly a rich man; but stillso much of the result of his nearly acquired riches remained to him,that on the strength of them he might probably find his way intoParliament. He had paid the cost of the last attempt, and might,in a great degree, carry on this present attempt on credit. If hesucceeded there would be open to him a mode of life, agreeable initself, and honourable among men. But how was he to bear the costof this for the next year, or the next two years? His grandfatherwas still alive, and would probably live over that period. If hemarried Alice he would do so with no idea of cheating her out of hermoney. She should learn,--nay, she had already learned from his ownlips,--how perilous was his enterprise. But he knew her to be a womanwho would boldly risk all in money, though no consideration wouldinduce her to stir a hair's breadth towards danger in reputation.Towards teaching her that doctrine at which I have hinted, he wouldnot have dared to make an attempt; but he felt that he should have norepugnance to telling her that he wanted to spend all her money inthe first year or two of their married life!

  He was still in his arm-chair, thinking of all this, with that smalluntasted modicum of brandy and water beside him, when he heard somedistant Lambeth clock strike three from over the river. Then he rosefrom his seat, and taking the candles in his hand, sat himself downat a writing-desk on the other side of the room. "I needn't send itwhen it's written," he said to himself, "and the chances are that Iwon't." Then he took his paper, and wrote as follows:--

  DEAR ALICE,

  The time was when the privilege was mine of beginning my letters to you with a warmer show of love than the above word contains,--when I might and did call you dearest; but I lost that privilege through my own folly, and since that it has been accorded to another. But you have found,--with a thorough honesty of purpose than which I know nothing greater,--that it has behoved you to withdraw that privilege also. I need hardly say that I should not have written as I now write, had you not found it expedient to do as you have done. I now once again ask you to be my wife. In spite of all that passed in those old days,--of all the selfish folly of which I was then guilty, I think you know, and at the time knew, that I ever loved you. I claim to say for myself that my love to you was true from first to last, and I claim from you belief for that statement. Indeed I do not think that you ever doubted my love.

  Nevertheless, when you told me that I might no longer hope to make you my wife, I had no word of remonstrance that I could utter. You acted as any woman would act whom love had not made a fool. Then came the episode of Mr. Grey; and bitter as have been my feelings whilst that engagement lasted, I never made any attempt to come between you and the life you had chosen. In saying this I do not forget the words which I spoke last summer at Basle, when, as far as I knew, you still intended that he should be your husband. But what I said then was nothing to that which, with much violence, I refrained from saying. Whether you remember those few words I cannot tell; but certainly you would not have remembered them,--would not even have noticed them,--had your heart been at Nethercoats.

  But all this is nothing. You are now again a free woman; and once again I ask you to be my wife. We are both older than we were when we loved before, and will both be prone to think of marriage in a somewhat different light. Then personal love for each other was most in our thoughts. God forbid that it should not be much in our thoughts now! Perhaps I am deceiving myself in saying that it is not even now stronger in mine than any other consideration. But we have both reached that time of life, when it is probable that in any proposition of marriage we should think more of our adaptability to each other than we did before. For myself I know that there is much in my character and disposition to make me unfit to marry a woman of the common stamp. You know my mode of life, and what are my hopes and my chances of success. I run great risk of failing. It may be that I shall encounter ruin where I look for reputation and a career of honour. The chances are perhaps more in favour of ruin than of success. But, whatever may be the chances, I shall go on as long as any means of carrying on the fight are at my disposal. If you were my wife to-morrow I should expect to use your money, if it were needed, in struggling to obtain a seat in Parliament and a hearing there. I will hardly stoop to tell you that I do not ask you to be my wife for the sake of this aid;--but if you were to become my wife I should expect all your cooperation--with your money, possibly, but cer
tainly with your warmest spirit.

  And now, once again, Alice,--dearest Alice, will you be my wife? I have been punished, and I have kissed the rod,--as I never kissed any other rod. You cannot accuse my love. Since the time in which I might sit with my arm round your waist, I have sat with it round no other waist. Since your lips were mine, no other lips have been dear to me. Since you were my counsellor, I have had no other counsellor,--unless it be poor Kate, whose wish that we may at length be married is second in earnestness only to my own. Nor do I think you will doubt my repentance. Such repentance indeed claims no merit, as it has been the natural result of the loss which I have suffered. Providence has hitherto been very good to me in not having made that loss irremediable by your marriage with Mr. Grey. I wish you now to consider the matter well, and to tell me whether you can pardon me and still love me. Do I flatter myself when I feel that I doubt your pardon almost more than I doubt your love?

  Think of this thing in all its bearings before you answer me. I am so anxious that you should think of it that I will not expect your reply till this day week. It can hardly be your desire to go through life unmarried. I should say that it must be essential to your ambition that you should join your lot to that of some man the nature of whose aspirations would be like to your own. It is because this was not so as regarded him whose suit you had accepted, that you found yourself at last obliged to part from him. May I not say that with us there would be no such difference? It is because I believe that in this respect we are fitted for each other, as man and woman seldom are fitted, that I once again ask you to be my wife.

  This will reach you at Vavasor, where you will now be with the old squire and Kate. I have told her nothing of my purpose in writing this letter. If it should be that your answer is such as I desire, I should use the opportunity of our re-engagement to endeavour to be reconciled to my grandfather. He has misunderstood me and has ill-used me. But I am ready to forgive that, if he will allow me to do so. In such case you and Kate would arrange that, and I would, if possible, go down to Vavasor while you are there. But I am galloping on a-head foolishly in thinking of this, and am counting up my wealth while the crockery in my basket is so very fragile. One word from you will decide whether or no I shall ever bring it into market.

  If that word is to be adverse do not say anything of a meeting between me and the Squire. Under such circumstances it would be impossible. But, oh, Alice! do not let it be adverse. I think you love me. Your woman's pride towards me has been great and good and womanly; but it has had its way; and, if you love me, might now be taught to succumb.

  Dear Alice, will you be my wife?

  Yours, in any event, most affectionately,

  GEORGE VAVASOR.

  Vavasor, when he had finished his letter, went back to his seat overthe fire, and there he sat with it close at his hand for nearly anhour. Once or twice he took it up with fingers almost itching tothrow it into the fire. He took it up and held the corners betweenhis forefinger and thumb, throwing forward his hand towards theflame, as though willing that the letter should escape from him andperish if chance should so decide. But chance did not so decide, andthe letter was put back upon the table at his elbow. Then when thehour was nearly over he read it again. "I'll bet two to one that shegives way," he said to himself, as he put the sheet of paper backinto the envelope. "Women are such out-and-out fools." Then he tookhis candle, and carrying his letter with him, went into his bedroom.

  The next morning was the morning of Christmas Eve. At about nineo'clock a boy came into his room who was accustomed to call fororders for the day. "Jem," he said to the boy, "there's half a crownlying there on the looking-glass." Jem looked and acknowledged thepresence of the half-crown. "Is it a head or a tail, Jem?" askedthe boy's master. Jem scrutinized the coin, and declared that theuppermost surface showed a tail. "Then take that letter and post it,"said George Vavasor. Whereupon Jem, asking no question and thinkingbut little of the circumstances under which the command was given,did take the letter and did post it. In due accordance with postalregulations it reached Vavasor Hall and was delivered to Alice on theChristmas morning.

  A merry Christmas did not fall to the lot of George Vavasor on thepresent occasion. An early Christmas-box he did receive in the shapeof a very hurried note from his friend Burgo. "This will be broughtto you by Stickling," the note said; but who Stickling was Vavasordid not know. "I send the bill. Couldn't you get the money and sendit me, as I don't want to go up to town again before the thing comesoff? You're a trump; and will do the best you can. Don't let thatrogue off for less than a hundred and twenty.--Yours, B. F." Vavasor,therefore, having nothing better to do, spent his Christmas morningin calling on Mr. Magruin.

  "Oh, Mr. Vavasor," said Magruin; "really this is no morning forbusiness!"

  "Time and tide wait for no man, Mr. Magruin, and my friend wants hismoney to-morrow."

  "Oh, Mr. Vavasor,--to-morrow!"

  "Yes, to-morrow. If time and tide won't wait, neither will love.Come, Mr. Magruin, out with your cheque-book, and don't let's have anynonsense."

  "But is the lady sure, Mr. Vavasor?" asked Mr. Magruin, anxiously.

  "Ladies never are sure," said Vavasor; "hardly more sure than billsmade over to money-lenders. I'm not going to wait here all day. Areyou going to give him the money?"

  "Christmas-day, Mr. Vavasor! There's no getting money in the cityto-day."

  But Vavasor before he left did get the money from Mr. Magruin,--L12210s.--for which an acceptance at two months for L500 was givenin exchange,--and carried it off in triumph. "Do tell him to bepunctual," said Mr. Magruin, when Vavasor took his leave. "I do solike young men to be punctual. But I really think Mr. Fitzgerald isthe most unpunctual young man I ever did know yet."

  "I think he is," said George Vavasor, as he went away.

  He ate his Christmas dinner in absolute solitude at an eating-housenear his lodgings. It may be supposed that no man dares to dine athis club on a Christmas Day. He at any rate did not so dare;--andafter dinner he wandered about through the streets, wondering withinhis mind how he would endure the restraints of married life. And thesame dull monotony of his days was continued for a week, during whichhe waited, not impatiently, for an answer to his letter. And beforethe end of the week the answer came.