Can You Forgive Her?

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  Mr. Tombe's Advice.

  Alice sat alone for an hour without moving when John Grey had lefther, and the last words which he had uttered were sounding in herears all the time, "My heart is still yours, as it has been since Iknew you." There had been something in his words which had soothedher spirits, and had, for the moment, almost comforted her. At anyrate, he did not despise her. He could not have spoken such words asthese to her had he not still held her high in his esteem. Nay;--hadhe not even declared that he would yet take her as his own if shewould come to him? "I cannot tell you with how much joy I would takeyou back to my bosom!" Ah! that might never be. But yet the assurancehad been sweet to her;--dangerously sweet, as she soon told herself.She knew that she had lost her Eden, but it was something to her thatthe master of the garden had not himself driven her forth. She satthere, thinking of her fate, as though it belonged to some otherone,--not to herself; as though it were a tale that she had read.Herself she had shipwrecked altogether; but though she might sink,she had not been thrust from the ship by hands which she loved.

  But would it not have been better that he should have scorned herand reviled her? Had he been able to do so, he at least would haveescaped the grief of disappointed love. Had he learned to despiseher, he would have ceased to regret her. She had no right to feelconsolation in the fact that his sufferings were equal to her own.But when she thought of this, she told herself that it could not bethat it was so. He was a man, she said, not passionate by nature.Alas! it was the mistake she had ever made when summing up the itemsof his character! He might be persistent, she thought, in stillstriving to do that upon which he had once resolved. He had saidso, and that which he said was always true to the letter. But,nevertheless, when this thing which he still chose to pursue shouldhave been put absolutely beyond his reach, he would not allow hiscalm bosom to be harassed by a vain regret. He was a man too whole atevery point,--so Alice told herself,--to allow his happiness to bemarred by such an accident.

  But must the accident occur? Was there no chance that he might besaved, even from such trouble as might follow upon such a loss?Could it not be possible that he might be gratified,--since it wouldgratify him,--and that she might be saved! Over and over again sheconsidered this,--but always as though it were another woman whom shewould fain save, and not herself.

  But she knew that her own fate was fixed. She had been mad when shehad done the thing, but the thing was not on that account the lessdone. She had been mad when she had trusted herself abroad withtwo persons, both of whom, as she had well known, were intent onwrenching her happiness from out of her grasp. She had been mad whenshe had told herself, whilst walking over the Westmoreland fells,that after all she might as well marry her cousin, since that othermarriage was then beyond her reach! Her two cousins had succeeded inblighting all the hopes of her life;--but what could she now thinkof herself in that she had been so weak as to submit to such usagefrom their hands? Alas!--she told herself, admitting in her miseryall her weakness,--alas, she had no mother. She had gloried in herindependence, and this had come of it! She had scorned the prudenceof Lady Macleod, and her scorn had brought her to this pass!

  Was she to give herself bodily,--body and soul, as she said aloud inher solitary agony,--to a man whom she did not love? Must she submitto his caresses,--lie on his bosom,--turn herself warmly to hiskisses? "No," she said, "no,"--speaking audibly, as she walked aboutthe room; "no;--it was not in my bargain; I never meant it." But ifso what had she meant;--what had been her dream? Of what marriage hadshe thought, when she was writing that letter back to George Vavasor?How am I to analyse her mind, and make her thoughts and feelingsintelligible to those who may care to trouble themselves with thestudy? Any sacrifice she would make for her cousin which one friendcould make for another. She would fight his battles with her money,with her words, with her sympathy. She would sit with him if heneeded it, and speak comfort to him by the hour. His disgrace shouldbe her disgrace;--his glory her glory;--his pursuits her pursuits.Was not that the marriage to which she had consented? But he had cometo her and asked her for a kiss, and she had shuddered before him,when he made the demand. Then that other one had come and had touchedher hand, and the fibres of her body had seemed to melt within her atthe touch, so that she could have fallen at his feet.

  She had done very wrong. She knew that she had done wrong. She knewthat she had sinned with that sin which specially disgraces a woman.She had said that she would become the wife of a man to whom shecould not cleave with a wife's love; and, mad with a vile ambition,she had given up the man for whose modest love her heart was longing.She had thrown off from her that wondrous aroma of precious delicacy,which is the greatest treasure of womanhood. She had sinned againsther sex; and, in an agony of despair, as she crouched down upon thefloor with her head against her chair, she told herself that therewas no pardon for her. She understood it now, and knew that she couldnot forgive herself.

  But can you forgive her, delicate reader? Or am I asking the questiontoo early in my story? For myself, I have forgiven her. The story ofthe struggle has been present to my mind for many years,--and I havelearned to think that even this offence against womanhood may, withdeep repentance, be forgiven. And you also must forgive her before weclose the book, or else my story will have been told amiss.

  But let us own that she had sinned,--almost damnably, almost pastforgiveness. What;--think that she knew what love meant, and not knowwhich of two she loved! What;--doubt, of two men for whose arms shelonged, of which the kisses would be sweet to bear; on which side laythe modesty of her maiden love! Faugh! She had submitted to pollutionof heart and feeling before she had brought herself to such a pass asthis. Come;--let us see if it be possible that she may be cleansed bythe fire of her sorrow.

  "What am I to do?" She passed that whole day in asking herself thatquestion. She was herself astounded at the rapidity with which theconviction had forced itself upon her that a marriage with her cousinwould be to her almost impossible; and could she permit it to besaid of her that she had thrice in her career jilted a promisedsuitor,--that three times she would go back from her word becauseher fancy had changed? Where could she find the courage to tell herfather, to tell Kate, to tell even George himself, that her purposewas again altered? But she had a year at her disposal. If only duringthat year he would take her money and squander it, and then requirenothing further of her hands, might she not thus escape the doombefore her? Might it not be possible that the refusal should thistime come from him? But she succeeded in making one resolve. Shethought at least that she succeeded. Come what might, she would neverstand with him at the altar. While there was a cliff from which shemight fall, water that would cover her, a death-dealing grain thatmight be mixed in her cup, she could not submit herself to be GeorgeVavasor's wife. To no ear could she tell of this resolve. To nofriend could she hint her purpose. She owed her money to the manafter what had passed between them. It was his right to count uponsuch assistance as that would give him, and he should have it. Onlyas his betrothed she could give it him, for she understood well thatif there were any breach between them, his accepting of such aidwould be impossible. He should have her money, and then, when the daycame, some escape should be found.

  In the afternoon her father came to her, and it may be as well toexplain that Mr. Grey had seen him again that day. Mr. Grey, whenhe left Queen Anne Street, had gone to his lawyer, and from thencehad made his way to Mr. Vavasor. It was between five and six whenMr. Vavasor came back to his house, and he then found his daughtersitting over the drawing-room fire, without lights, in the gloomof the evening. Mr. Vavasor had returned with Grey to the lawyer'schambers, and had from thence come direct to his own house. He hadbeen startled at the precision with which all the circumstancesof his daughter's position had been explained to a mild-eyed oldgentleman, with a bald head, who carried on his business in a narrow,dark, clean street, behind Doctors' Commons. Mr. Tombe was his name."No;" Mr. Grey had said, when Mr. Vavasor ha
d asked as to the peculiarnature of Mr. Tombe's business; "he is not specially an ecclesiasticallawyer. He had a partner at Ely, and was always employed by myfather, and by most of the clergy there." Mr. Tombe had evinced nosurprise, no dismay, and certainly no mock delicacy, when the wholeaffair was under discussion. George Vavasor was to get presentmoneys, but,--if it could be so arranged--from John Grey's storesrather than from those belonging to Alice. Mr. Tombe could probablyarrange that with Mr. Vavasor's lawyer, who would no doubt be able tomake difficulty as to raising ready money. Mr. Tombe would be ableto raise ready money without difficulty. And then, at last, GeorgeVavasor was to be made to surrender his bride, taking or having takenthe price of his bargain. John Vavasor sat by in silence as thearrangement was being made, not knowing how to speak. He had no moneywith which to give assistance. "I wish you to understand from thelady's father," Grey said to the lawyer, "that the marriage would beregarded by him with as much dismay as by myself."

  "Certainly;--it would be ruinous," Mr. Vavasor had answered.

  "And you see, Mr. Tombe," Mr. Grey went on, "we only wish to try theman. If he be not such as we believe him to be, he can prove it byhis conduct. If he is worthy of her, he can then take her."

  "You merely wish to open her eyes, Mr. Grey," said the mild-eyedlawyer.

  "I wish that he should have what money he wants, and then we shallfind what it is he really wishes."

  "Yes; we shall know our man," said the lawyer. "He shall have themoney, Mr. Grey," and so the interview had been ended.

  Mr. Vavasor, when he entered the drawing-room, addressed his daughterin a cheery voice. "What; all in the dark?"

  "Yes, papa. Why should I have candles when I am doing nothing? I didnot expect you."

  "No; I suppose not. I came here because I want to say a few words toyou about business."

  "What business, papa?" Alice well understood the tone of her father'svoice. He was desirous of propitiating her; but was at the same timedesirous of carrying some point in which he thought it probable thatshe would oppose him.

  "Well; my love, if I understood you rightly, your cousin George wantssome money."

  "I did not say that he wants it now; but I think he will want itbefore the time for the election comes."

  "If so, he will want it at once. He has not asked you for it yet?"

  "No; he has merely said that should he be in need he would take me atmy word."

  "I think there is no doubt that he wants it. Indeed, I believe thathe is almost entirely without present means of his own."

  "I can hardly think so; but I have no knowledge about it. I can onlysay that he has not asked me yet, and that I should wish to obligehim whenever he may do so."

  "To what extent, Alice?"

  "I don't know what I have. I get about four hundred a year, but Ido not know what it is worth, or how far it can all be turned intomoney. I should wish to keep a hundred a year and let him have therest."

  "What; eight thousand pounds!" said the father who in spite of hiswish not to oppose her, could not but express his dismay.

  "I do not imagine that he will want so much; but if he should, I wishthat he should have it."

  "Heaven and earth!" said John Vavasor. "Of course we should have togive up the house." He could not suppress his trouble, or refrainfrom bursting out in agony at the prospect of such a loss.

  "But he has asked me for nothing yet, papa."

  "No, exactly; and perhaps he may not; but I wish to know what to dowhen the demand is made. I am not going to oppose you now; your moneyis your own, and you have a right to do with it as you please;--butwould you gratify me in one thing?"

  "What is it, papa?"

  "When he does apply, let the amount be raised through me?"

  "How through you?"

  "Come to me; I mean, so that I may see the lawyer, and have thearrangements made." Then he explained to her that in dealing withlarge sums of money, it could not be right that she should do sowithout his knowledge, even though the property was her own. "I willpromise you that I will not oppose your wishes," he said. Then Aliceundertook that when such case should arise the money should be raisedthrough his means.

  The day but one following this she received a letter from LadyGlencora, who was still at Matching Priory. It was a light-spirited,chatty, amusing letter, intended to be happy in its tone,--intendedto have a flavour of happiness, but just failing through the tooapparent meaning of a word here and there. "You will see that I am atMatching," the letter said, "whereas you will remember that I was tohave been at Monkshade. I escaped at last by a violent effort, andam now passing my time innocently,--I fear not so profitably as shewould induce me to do,--with Iphy Palliser. You remember Iphy. She isa good creature, and would fain turn even me to profit, if it werepossible. I own that I am thinking of them all at Monkshade, andam in truth delighted that I am not there. My absence is entirelylaid upon your shoulders. That wicked evening amidst the ruins! Poorruins. I go there alone sometimes and fancy that I hear such voicesfrom the walls, and see such faces through the broken windows! Allthe old Pallisers come and frown at me, and tell me that I am notgood enough to belong to them. There is a particular window to whichSir Guy comes and makes faces at me. I told Iphy the other day, andshe answered me very gravely, that I might, if I chose, make myselfgood enough for the Pallisers. Even for the Pallisers! Isn't thatbeautiful?"

  Then Lady Glencora went on to say, that her husband intended to comeup to London early in the session, and that she would accompany him."That is," added Lady Glencora, "if I am still good enough for thePallisers at that time."