Can You Forgive Her?

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LIII.

  The Last Will of the Old Squire.

  In the meantime Kate Vavasor was living down in Westmoreland, with noother society than that of her grandfather, and did not altogetherhave a very pleasant life of it. George had been apt to represent theold man to himself as being as strong as an old tower, which, thoughit be but a ruin, shows no sign of falling. To his eyes the Squirehad always seemed to be full of life and power. He could be violenton occasions, and was hardly ever without violence in his eyes andvoice. But George's opinion was formed by his wish, or rather bythe reverses of his wish. For years he had been longing that hisgrandfather should die,--had been accusing Fate of gross injustice inthat she did not snap the thread; and with such thoughts in his mindhe had grudged every ounce which the Squire's vigour had been able tosustain. He had almost taught himself to believe that it would be agood deed to squeeze what remained of life out of that violent oldthroat. But, indeed, the embers of life were burning low; and hadGeorge known all the truth, he would hardly have inclined his mind tothoughts of murder.

  He was, indeed, very weak with age, and tottering with unsteady stepson the brink of his grave, though he would still come down early fromhis room, and would, if possible, creep out about the garden and intothe farmyard. He would still sit down to dinner, and would drink hisallotted portion of port wine, in the doctor's teeth. The doctor byno means desired to rob him of his last luxury, or even to stinthis quantity; but he recommended certain changes in the mode andtime of taking it. Against this, however, the old Squire indignantlyrebelled, and scolded Kate almost off her legs when she attemptedto enforce the doctor's orders. "What the mischief does it signify,"the old man said to her one evening;--"what difference will it makewhether I am dead or alive, unless it is that George would turn youout of the house directly he gets it."

  "I was not thinking of any one but yourself, sir," said Kate, with atear in her eye.

  "You won't be troubled to think of me much longer," said the Squire;and then he gulped down the remaining half of his glass of wine.

  Kate was, in truth, very good to him. Women always are good undersuch circumstances; and Kate Vavasor was one who would certainlystick to such duties as now fell to her lot. She was eminently trueand loyal to her friends, though she could be as false on theirbehalf as most false people can be on their own. She was very goodto the old man, tending all his wants, taking his violence withgood-humour rather than with submission, not opposing him with directcontradiction when he abused his grandson, but saying little wordsto mitigate his wrath, if it were possible. At such times the Squirewould tell her that she also would learn to know her brother'scharacter some day. "You'll live to be robbed by him, and turned outas naked as you were born," he said to her one day. Then Kate firedup and declared that she fully trusted her brother's love. Whateverfaults he might have, he had been staunch to her, So she said, andthe old man sneered at her for saying so.

  One morning, soon after this, when she brought him up to his bedroomsome mixture of thin porridge, which he still endeavoured to swallowfor his breakfast, he bade her sit down, and began to talk to herabout the property. "I know you are a fool," he said, "about allmatters of business;--more of a fool than even women generally are."To this Kate acceded with a little smile,--acknowledging that herunderstanding was limited. "I want to see Gogram," he said. "Do youwrite to him a line, telling him to come here to-day,--he or one ofhis men,--and send it at once by Peter." Gogram was an attorney wholived at Penrith, and who was never summoned to Vavasor Hall unlessthe Squire had something to say about his will. "Don't you thinkyou'd better put it off till you are a little stronger?" said Kate.Whereupon the Squire fired at her such a volley of oaths that shesprang off the chair on which she was sitting, and darted across to alittle table at which there was pen and ink, and wrote her note to Mr.Gogram, before she had recovered from the shaking which the batteryhad given her. She wrote the note, and ran away with it to Peter,and saw Peter on the pony on his way to Penrith, before she dared toreturn to her grandfather's bedside.

  "What should you do with the estate if I left it you?" the Squiresaid to her the first moment she was again back with him.

  This was a question she could not answer instantly. She stood byhis bedside for a while thinking,--holding her grandfather's handand looking down upon the bed. He, with his rough watery old eyes,was gazing up into her face, as though he were trying to read herthoughts. "I think I should give it to my brother," she said.

  "Then I'm d---- if I'll leave it to you," said he.

  She did not jump now, though he had sworn at her. She still stood,holding his hand softly, and looking down upon the bed. "If I wereyou, grandfather," she said almost in a whisper, "I would not trustmyself to alter family arrangements whilst I was ill. I'm sure youwould advise any one else against doing so."

  "And if I were to leave it to Alice, she'd give it to him too," hesaid, speaking his thoughts out loud. "What it is you see in him, Inever could even guess. He's as ugly as a baboon, with his scarredface. He has never done anything to show himself a clever fellow.Kate, give me some of that bottle the man sent." Kate handed him hismedicine, and then stood again by his bedside.

  "Where did he get the money to pay for his election?" the Squireasked, as soon as he had swallowed the draught. "They wouldn't givesuch a one as him credit a yard further than they could see him."

  "I don't know where he got it," said Kate, lying.

  "He has not had yours; has he?"

  "He would not take it, sir."

  "And you offered it to him?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And he has not had it?"

  "Not a penny of it, sir."

  "And what made you offer it to him after what I said to you?"

  "Because it was my own," said Kate, stoutly.

  "You're the biggest idiot that ever I heard of, and you'll know ityourself some day. Go away now, and let me know when Gogram comes."

  She went away, and for a time employed herself about her ordinaryhousehold work. Then she sat down alone in the dingy old dining-room,to think what had better be done in her present circumstances. Thecarpet of the room was worn out, as were also the covers of theold chairs and the horsehair sofa which was never moved from itsaccustomed place along the wall. It was not a comfortable Squire'sresidence, this old house at Vavasor. In the last twenty years nomoney had been spent on furniture or embellishments, and for the lastten years there had been no painting, either inside or out. Twentyyears ago the Squire had been an embarrassed man, and had taken aturn in his life and had lived sparingly. It could not be said thathe had become a miser. His table was kept plentifully, and there hadnever been want in his house. In some respects, too, he had behavedliberally to Kate and to others, and he had kept up the timber andfences on the property. But the house had become wretched in itsdull, sombre, dirty darkness, and the gardens round it were as bad.

  What ought she now to do? She believed that her grandfather's lastdays were coming, and she knew that others of the family should bewith him besides herself. For their sakes, for his, and for her own,it would be proper that she should not be alone there when he died.But for whom should she send? Her brother was the natural heir, andwould be the head of the family. Her duty to him was clear, and themore so as her grandfather was at this moment speaking of changes inhis will. But it was a question to her whether George's presence atVavasor, even if he would come, would not at this moment do more harmthan good to his own interests. It would make some prejudicial changein the old man's will more probable instead of less so. George wouldnot become soft and mild-spoken even by a death-bed side, and itwould be likely enough that the Squire would curse his heir with hisdying breath. She might send for her uncle John; but if she did sowithout telling George she would be treating George unfairly; and sheknew that it was improbable that her uncle and her brother should acttogether in anything. Her aunt Greenow, she thought, would come toher, and her presence would not influence the Squire in any way withreferen
ce to the property. So she made up her mind at last that shewould ask her aunt to come to Vavasor, and that she would tell herbrother accurately all that she could tell,--leaving him to come orstay, as he might think. Alice would, no doubt, learn all the factsfrom him, and her uncle John would hear them from Alice. Then theycould do as they pleased. As soon as Mr. Gogram had been there shewould write her letters, and they should be sent over to Shap earlyon the following morning.

  Mr. Gogram came and was closeted with the Squire, and the doctoralso came. The doctor saw Kate, and, shaking his head, told her thather grandfather was sinking lower and lower every hour. It would beinfinitely better for him if he would take that port wine at fourdoses in the day, or even at two, instead of taking it all together.Kate promised to try again, but stated her conviction that thetrial would be useless. The doctor, when pressed on the matter,said that his patient might probably live a week, not improbably afortnight,--perhaps a month, if he would be obedient,--and so forth.Gogram went away without seeing Kate; and Kate, who looked upon awill as an awful and somewhat tedious ceremony, was in doubt whetherher grandfather would live to complete any new operation. But, intruth, the will had been made and signed and witnessed,--the parishclerk and one of the tenants having been had up into the room aswitnesses. Kate knew that the men had been there, but still did notthink that a new will had been perfected.

  That evening when it was dusk the Squire came into the dining-room,having been shuffling about the grand sweep before the house for aquarter of an hour. The day was cold and the wind bleak, but stillhe would go out, and Kate had wrapped him up carefully in mufflersand great-coats. Now he came in to what he called dinner, and Katesat down with him. He had drank no wine that day, although she hadbrought it to him twice during the morning. Now he attempted toswallow a little soup, but failed; and after that, while Kate waseating her bit of chicken, had the decanter put before him. "I can'teat, and I suppose it won't hurt you if I take my wine at once," hesaid. It went against the grain with him, even yet, that he could notwait till the cloth was gone from the table, but his impatience forthe only sustenance that he could take was too much for him.

  "But you should eat something, sir; will you have a bit of toast tosop in your wine?"

  The word "sop" was badly chosen, and made the old Squire angry."Sopped toast! why am I to spoil the only thing I can enjoy?"

  "But the wine would do you more good if you would take something withit."

  "Good! Nothing will do me any good any more. As for eating, you knowI can't eat. What's the use of bothering me?" Then he filled hissecond glass, and paused awhile before he put it to his lips. Henever exceeded four glasses, but the four he was determined that hewould have, as long as he could lift them to his mouth.

  Kate finished, or pretended to finish, her dinner within fiveminutes, in order that the table might be made to look comfortablefor him. Then she poked the fire, and brushed up the hearth, andclosed the old curtains with her own hands, moving about silently. Asshe moved his eye followed her, and when she came behind his chair,and pushed the decanter a little more within his reach, he put outhis rough, hairy hand, and laid it upon one of hers which she hadrested on the table, with a tenderness that was unusual with him."You are a good girl, Kate. I wish you had been a boy, that's all."

  "If I had, I shouldn't, perhaps, have been here to take care of you,"she said, smiling.

  "No; you'd have been like your brother, no doubt. Not that I thinkthere could have been two so bad as he is."

  "Oh, grandfather, if he has offended you, you should try to forgivehim."

  "Try to forgive him! How often have I forgiven him without anytrying? Why did he come down here the other day, and insult me forthe last time? Why didn't he keep away, as I had bidden him?"

  "But you gave him leave to see you, sir."

  "I didn't give him leave to treat me like that. Never mind; he willfind that, old as I am, I can punish an insult."

  "You haven't done anything, sir, to injure him?" said Kate.

  "I have made another will, that's all. Do you suppose I had that manhere all the way from Penrith for nothing?"

  "But it isn't done yet?"

  "I tell you it is done. If I left him the whole property it would begone in two years' time. What's the use of doing it?"

  "But for his life, sir! You had promised him that he should have itfor his life."

  "How dare you tell me that? I never promised him. As my heir, hewould have had it all, if he would have behaved himself with commondecency. Even though I disliked him, as I always have done, he shouldhave had it."

  "And you have taken it from him altogether?"

  "I shall answer no questions about it, Kate." Then a fit of coughingcame upon him, his four glasses of wine having been all taken, andthere was no further talk about business. During the evening Kateread a chapter of the Bible out loud. But the Squire was veryimpatient under the reading, and positively refused permission fora second. "There isn't any good in so much of it, all at once," hesaid, using almost exactly the same words which Kate had used to himabout the port wine. There may have been good produced by the smallquantity to which he listened, as there is good from the physic whichchildren take with wry faces, most unwillingly. Who can say?

  For many weeks past Kate had begged her uncle to allow the clergymanof Vavasor to come to him; but he had positively declined. The vicarwas a young man to whom the living had lately been given by theChancellor, and he had commenced his career by giving instant offenceto the Squire. This vicar's predecessor had been an old man, almostas old as the Squire himself, and had held the living for fortyyears. He had been a Westmoreland man, had read the prayers andpreached his one Sunday sermon in a Westmoreland dialect, gettingthrough the whole operation rather within an hour and a quarter. Hehad troubled none of his parishioners by much advice, and had beenmeek and obedient to the Squire. Knowing the country well, and beingused to its habits, he had lived, and been charitable too, on theproceeds of his living, which had never reached two hundred a year.But the new comer was a close-fisted man, with higher ideas ofpersonal comfort, who found it necessary to make every penny go asfar as possible, who made up in preaching for what he could notgive away in charity; who established an afternoon service, and whohad rebuked the Squire for saying that the doing so was trash andnonsense. Since that the Squire had never been inside the church,except on the occasion of Christmas-day. For this, indeed, the stateof his health gave ample excuse; but he had positively refused tosee the vicar, though that gentleman had assiduously called, and hadat last desired the servant to tell the clergyman not to come againunless he were sent for. Kate's task was, therefore, difficult, bothas regarded the temporal and spiritual wants of her grandfather.

  When the reading was finished, the old man dozed in his chair forhalf an hour. He would not go up to bed before the enjoyment of thatluxury. He was daily implored to do so, because that sleep in thechair interfered so fatally with his chance of sleeping in bed. Butsleep in his chair he would and did. Then he woke, and after a fitof coughing, was induced, with much ill-humour, to go up to his room.Kate had never seen him so weak. He was hardly able, even with herassistance and that of the old servant, to get up the broad stairs.But there was still some power left to him for violence of languageafter he got to his room, and he rated Kate and the old woman loudly,because his slippers were not in the proper place. "Grandfather,"said Kate, "would you like me to stay in the room with you to-night?"He rated her again for this proposition, and then, with assistancefrom the nurse, he was gotten into bed and was left alone.

  The last of the old squire.]

  After that Kate went to her own room and wrote her letters. The firstshe wrote was to her aunt Greenow. That was easily enough written. ToMrs. Greenow it was not necessary that she should say anything aboutmoney. She simply stated her belief that her grandfather's last daywas near at hand, and begged her aunt to come and pay a last visit tothe old man. "It will be a great comfort to me in my distress," shesaid; "a
nd it will be a satisfaction to you to have seen your fatheragain." She knew that her aunt would come, and that task was soondone.

  But her letter to her brother was much more difficult. What shouldshe tell him, and what should she not tell him? She began bydescribing her grandfather's state, and by saying to him, as shehad done to Mrs. Greenow, that she believed the old man's hours werewell-nigh come to a close. She told him that she had asked her auntto come to her; "not," she said, "that I think her coming will beof material service, but I feel the loneliness of the house will betoo much for me at such a time. I must leave it for you to decide,"she said, "whether you had better be here. If anything shouldhappen,"--people when writing such letters are always afraid to speakof death by its proper name,--"I will send you a message, and nodoubt you would come at once." Then came the question of the will.Had it not occurred to her that her own interests were involvedshe would have said nothing on the subject; but she feared herbrother,--feared even his misconstruction of her motives, even thoughshe was willing to sacrifice so much on his behalf,--and thereforeshe resolved to tell him all that she knew. He might turn upon herhereafter if she did not do so, and accuse her of a silence which hadbeen prejudicial to him.

  So she told it all, and the letter became long in the telling. "Iwrite with a heavy heart," she said, "because I know it will be agreat blow to you. He gave me to understand that in this will he lefteverything away from you. I cannot declare that he said so directly.Indeed I cannot remember his words; but that was the impression heleft on me. The day before he had asked me what I should do if hegave me the estate; but of course I treated that as a joke. I have noidea what he put into his will. I have not even attempted to guess.But now I have told you all that I know." The letter was a very longone, and was not finished till late; but when it was completed shehad the two taken out into the kitchen, as the boy was to start withthem before daylight.

  Early on the next morning she crept silently into her grandfather'sroom, as was her habit; but he was apparently sleeping, and then shecrept back again. The old servant told her that the Squire had beenawake at four, and at five, and at six, and had called for her. Thenhe had seemed to go to sleep. Four or five times in the course of themorning Kate went into the room, but her grandfather did not noticeher. At last she feared he might already have passed away, and sheput her hand upon his shoulder, and down his arm. He then gentlytouched her hand with his, showing her plainly that he was notonly alive, but conscious. She then offered him food,--the thinporridge,--which he was wont to take, and the medicine. She offeredhim some wine too, but he would take nothing.

  At twelve o'clock a letter was brought to her, which had come by thepost. She saw that it was from Alice, and opening it found that itwas very long. At that moment she could not read it, but she sawwords in it that made her wish to know its contents as quickly aspossible. But she could not leave her grandfather then. At twoo'clock the doctor came to him, and remained there till the dusk ofthe evening had commenced. At eight o'clock the old man was dead.