CHAPTER LVII.
Showing How the Wild Beast Got Himself Back from the Mountains.
About eleven o'clock on that night,--the night of the day on whichKate Vavasor's arm had been broken,--there came a gentle knock atKate's bedroom door. There was nothing surprising in this, as of allthe household Kate only was in bed. Her aunt was sitting at this timeby her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned from Penrithand who had set her broken arm, was still in the house, talkingover the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before heproceeded back on his journey home.
"She will do very well," said the doctor. "It's only a simplefracture. I'll see her the day after to-morrow."
"Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilstwalking?" asked Mr. Vavasor.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "One never can say how anythingmay occur," said he. "I know a young woman who broke the os femorisby just kicking her cat;--at least, she said she did."
"Indeed! I suppose you didn't take any trouble to inquire?"
"Not much. My business was with the injury, not with the way she gotit. Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothingcame of it. Good night, Mr. Vavasor. Don't trouble her with questionstill she has had some hours' sleep, at any rate." Then the doctorwent, and John Vavasor was left alone, standing with his back to thedining-room fire.
There had been so much trouble and confusion in the house since Katehad fainted, almost immediately upon her reaching home, that Mr.Vavasor had not yet had time to make up his mind as to the nature ofthe accident which had occurred. Mrs. Greenow had at once ascertainedthat the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for. Luckilyhe had been found at home, and had reached the Hall a little beforeten o'clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate recovered her senses,she volunteered her account of what had occurred.
Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, she said, and hadleft her abruptly on the mountain. She had fallen, she went on tosay, as she turned from him, and had at once found that she had hurtherself. But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and,indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed outof her sight. This was her story; and there was nothing in it thatwas false by the letter, though there was much that was false in thespirit. It was certainly true that George had not known that she wasinjured. It was true that she had asked him for no help. It was true,in one sense, that she had fallen, and it was true that she had notherself known how severe had been the injury done to her till he hadgone beyond the reach of her voice. But she repressed all mentionof his violence, and when she was pressed as to the nature of thequarrel, she declined to speak further on that matter.
Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her. That was a matter ofcourse, and she knew that they did not believe her. George's absence,their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which herarm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more totell if she chose to tell it. But in her present condition they couldnot question her. Mrs. Greenow did ask as to the probability of hernephew's return.
"I can only tell you," said Kate, "that he went away across the Fellin the direction of Bampton. Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. Hewas very angry with us all; and as the house is not his own, he hasprobably resolved that he will not stay another night under the roof.But, who can say? He is not in his senses when he is angered."
John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor's departure,endeavoured to ascertain the truth by thinking of it. "I am sure,"he said to himself, "that the doctor suspects that there has beenviolence. I know it from his tone, and I can see it in his eye. Buthow to prove it? and would there be good in proving it? Poor girl!Will it not be better for her to let it pass as though we believedher story?" He made up his mind that it would be better. Why shouldhe take upon himself the terrible task of calling this insanerelation to account for an act which he could not prove? The willitself, without that trouble, would give him trouble enough. Then hebegan to long that he was back at his club, and to think that thesigning-room in Chancery Lane was not so bad. And so he went up tohis bed, calling at Kate's door to ask after the patient.
In the meantime there had come a messenger to Mrs. Greenow, who hadstationed herself with her niece. One of the girls of the housebrought up a scrap of paper to the door, saying that a boy hadbrought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was intended forMiss Vavasor, and it was she who knocked at the sickroom door. Thenote was open and was not addressed; indeed, the words were writtenon a scrap of paper that was crumpled up rather than folded, and wereas follows: "Send me my clothes by the bearer. I shall not return tothe house." Mrs. Greenow took it in to Kate, and then went away to seeher nephew's things duly put into his portmanteau. This was sent awayin the cart, and Mr. Vavasor, as he went up-stairs, was told what hadbeen done.
Neither on that night or on the following day did Mrs. Greenow ask anyfurther questions; but on the morning after that, when the doctor hadleft them with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity wouldbrook no further delay. And, indeed, indignation as well as curiosityurged her on. In disposition she was less easy, and, perhaps, lessselfish, than her brother. If it were the case that that man hadill-treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring himto punishment. "Kate," she said, when the doctor was gone, "I expectthat you will tell me the whole truth as to what occurred between youand your brother when you had this accident."
"I have told you the truth."
"But not the whole truth."
"All the truth I mean to tell, aunt. He has quarrelled with me, as Ithink, most unnecessarily, but you don't suppose that I am going togive an exact account of the quarrel? We were both wrong, probably,and so let there be an end of it."
"Was he violent to you when he quarrelled with you?"
"When he is angry he is always violent in his language."
"But, did he strike you?"
"Dear aunt, don't be angry with me if I say that I won't becross-examined. I would rather answer no more questions about it.I know that questioning can do no good."
Mrs. Greenow knew her niece well enough to be aware that nothingmore would be told her, but she was quite sure now that Kate had notbroken her arm by a simple fall. She was certain that the injury hadcome from positive violence. Had it not been so, Kate would not havecontented herself with refusing to answer the last question that hadbeen asked, but would also have repelled the charge made against herbrother with indignation.
"You must have it your own way," said Mrs. Greenow; "but let me justtell you this, that your brother George had better keep out of myway."
"It is probable that he will," said Kate. "Especially if you remainhere to nurse me."
Kate's conduct in answering all the questions made to her was notdifficult, but she found that there was much difficulty in planningher own future behaviour towards her own brother. Must she abandonhim altogether from henceforth; divide herself from him, as it were;have perfectly separate interests, and interests that were indeedhostile? and must she see him ruined and overwhelmed by want ofmoney, while she had been made a rich woman by her grandfather'swill? It will be remembered that her life had hitherto been devotedto him; that all her schemes and plans had had his success as theirobject; that she had taught herself to consider it to be her duty tosacrifice everything to his welfare. It is very sad to abandon theonly object of a life! It is very hard to tear out from one's heartand fling away from it the only love that one has cherished! What wasshe to say to Alice about all this--to Alice whom she had cheated ofa husband worthy of her, that she might allure her into the arms ofone so utterly unworthy? Luckily for Kate, her accident was of such anature that any writing to Alice was now out of the question.
But a blow! What woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwardsreturn to him with love? A wife may have to bear it and to return.And she may return with that sort of love which is a thing of custom.The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which theyeat a
nd which she eats. Habit and the ways of the world require thatshe should be careful in his interests, and that she should live withhim in what amity is possible to them. But as for love,--all that wemean by love when we speak of it and write of it,--a blow given bythe defender to the defenceless crushes it all! A woman may forgivedeceit, treachery, desertion,--even the preference given to a rival.She may forgive them and forget them; but I do not think that a womancan forget a blow. And as for forgiveness,--it is not the blow thatshe cannot forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.
Kate, as she thought of it, told herself that everything in life wasover for her. She had long feared her brother's nature,--had fearedthat he was hard and heartless; but still there had been some hopewith her fear. Success, if he could be made to achieve it, wouldsoften him, and then all might be right. But now all was wrong, andshe knew that it was so. When he had compelled her to write to Alicefor money, her faith in him had almost succumbed. That had been verymean, and the meanness had shocked her. But now he had asked her toperjure herself that he might have his own way, and had threatenedto murder her, and had raised his hand against her because shehad refused to obey him. And he had accused her of treachery tohimself,--had accused her of premeditated deceit in obtaining thisproperty for herself!
"But he does not believe it," said Kate to herself. "He said thatbecause he thought it would vex me; but I know he does not think it."Kate had watched her brother longing for money all his life,--hadthoroughly understood the intensity of his wish for it,--the agonyof his desire. But so far removed was she from any such longing onher own account, that she could not believe that her brother would inhis heart accuse her of it. How often had she offered to give him, onthe instant, every shilling that she had in the world! At this momentshe resolved, in her mind, that she never wished to see him more; buteven now, had it been practicable, she would have made over to him,without any drawback, all her interest in the Vavasor estate.
But any such making over was impossible. John Vavasor remained inWestmoreland for a week, and during that time many discussions were,of course, held about the property. Mr. Round came down from London,and met Mr. Gogram at Penrith. As to the validity of the will Mr. Roundsaid that there was no shadow of a doubt. So an agent was appointedfor receiving the rents, and it was agreed that the old Hall shouldbe let in six months from that date. In the meantime Kate was toremain there till her arm should become strong, and she could makeher plans for the future. Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hallfor the present, and offered, indeed, indefinite services for thefuture, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield. OfMr. Cheesacre she was not forgetful, for she still continued to speakof that gentleman to Kate, as though he were Kate's suitor. But shedid not now press upon her niece the acceptance of Mr. Cheesacre'shand as an absolute duty. Kate was mistress of a considerablefortune, and though such a marriage might be comfortable, it was nolonger necessary. Mrs. Greenow called him poor Cheesacre, pointingout how easily he might be managed, and how indubitable were hispossessions; but she no longer spoke of Kate's chances in themarriage market as desperate, even though she should decline theCheesacre alliance.
"A young woman, with six hundred a year, my dear, may do prettynearly what she pleases," said aunt Greenow. "It's better than havingten years' grace given you."
"And will last longer, certainly," said Kate.
Kate's desire was that Alice should come down to her for a while inWestmoreland, before the six months were over, and this desire shementioned to her uncle. He promised to carry the message up to Alice,but could not be got to say more than that upon the subject. Then Mr.Vavasor went away, leaving the aunt and niece together at the Hall.
"What on earth shall we do if that wild beast shows himself suddenlyamong us women?" asked Mrs. Greenow of her brother.
The brother could only say, "that he hoped the wild beast would keephis distance."
And the wild beast did keep his distance, at any rate as long as Mrs.Greenow remained at the Hall. We will now go back to the wild beast,and tell how he walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton,a little village at the foot of Haweswater. It will be rememberedthat after he had struck his sister, he turned away from her, andwalked with quick steps down the mountain-side, never turning backto look at her. He had found himself to be without any power ofpersuasion over her, as regarded her evidence to be given, if thewill were questioned. The more he threatened her the steadier she hadbeen in asserting her belief in her grandfather's capacity. She hadlooked into his eye and defied him, and he had felt himself to beworsted. What was he to do? In truth, there was nothing for him todo. He had told her that he would murder her; and in the state ofmind to which his fury had driven him, murder had suggested itselfto him as a resource to which he might apply himself. But what couldhe gain by murdering her,--or, at any rate, by murdering her then,out on the mountain-side? Nothing but a hanging! There would beno gratification even to his revenge. If, indeed, he had murderedthat old man, who was now, unfortunately, gone beyond the reach ofmurder;--if he could have poisoned the old man's cup before that lastwill had been made--there might have been something in such a deed!But he had merely thought of it, letting "I dare not wait upon Iwould"--as he now told himself, with much self-reproach. Nothing wasto be got by killing his sister. So he restrained himself in hispassion, and walked away from her, solitary, down the mountain.
The rain soon came on, and found him exposed on the hill-side. Hethought little about it, but buttoned his coat, as I have saidbefore, and strode on. It was a storm of rain, so that he was forcedto hold his head to one side, as it hit him from the north. But withhis hand to his hat, and his head bent against the wind, he went ontill he had reached the valley at the foot, and found that the trackby which he had been led thither had become a road. He had neverknown the mountains round the Hall as Kate had known them, and wasnot aware whither he was going. On one thing only had he made up hismind since he had left his sister, and that was that he would notreturn to the house. He knew that he could do nothing there to servehis purpose; his threats would be vain impotence; he had no longerany friend in the house. He could hardly tell himself what line ofconduct he would pursue, but he thought that he would hurry backto London, and grasp at whatever money he could get from Alice. Hewas still, at this moment, a Member of Parliament; and as the raindrenched him through and through, he endeavoured to get consolationfrom the remembrance of that fact in his favour.
As he got near the village he overtook a shepherd boy coming downfrom the hills, and learned his whereabouts from him. "Baampton,"said the boy, with an accent that was almost Scotch, when he wasasked the name of the place. When Vavasor further asked whether agig were kept there, the boy simply stared at him, not knowing agig by that name. At last, however, he was made to understand thenature of his companion's want, and expressed his belief that "JohnApplethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a mickle cart." But theCraigs was a farm-house, which now came in view about a mile off, upacross the valley; and Vavasor, hoping that he might still find aspeedier conveyance than John Applethwaite's mickle cart, went on tothe public-house in the village. But, in truth, neither there, noryet from John Applethwaite, to whom at last an application was sent,could he get any vehicle; and between six and seven he started offagain, through the rain, to make his weary way on foot to Shap. Thedistance was about five miles, and the little byways, lying betweenwalls, were sticky, and almost glutinous with light-coloured, chalkymud. Before he started he took a glass of hot rum-and-water, but theeffect of that soon passed away from him, and then he became colderand weaker than he had been before.
Wearily and wretchedly he plodded on. A man may be very weary in sucha walk as that, and yet be by no means wretched. Tired, hungry, cold,wet, and nearly penniless, I have sat me down and slept among thosemountain tracks,--have slept because nature refused to allow longerwakefulness. But my heart has been as light as my purse, and therehas been something in the air of the hills that made me buoyant a
ndhappy in the midst of my weariness. But George Vavasor was wretchedas well as weary, and every step that he took, plodding through themud, was a new misfortune to him. What are five miles of a walk toa young man, even though the rain be falling and the ways be dirty?what, though they may come after some other ten that he has alreadytraversed on his feet? His sister Kate would have thought nothingof the distance. But George stopped on his way from time to time,leaning on the loose walls, and cursing the misfortune that hadbrought him to such a pass. He cursed his grandfather, his uncle, hissister, his cousin, and himself. He cursed the place in which hisforefathers had lived, and he cursed the whole county. He cursed therain, and the wind, and his town-made boots, which would not keepout the wet slush. He cursed the light as it faded, and the darknessas it came. Over and over again he cursed the will that had robbedhim, and the attorney that had made it. He cursed the mother thathad borne him and the father that had left him poor. He thoughtof Scruby, and cursed him, thinking how that money would be againrequired of him by that stern agent. He cursed the House of Commons,which had cost him so much, and the greedy electors who would notsend him there without his paying for it. He cursed John Grey, as hethought of those two thousand pounds, with double curses. He cursedthis world, and all worlds beyond; and thus, cursing everything, hemade his way at last up to the inn at Shap.
It was nearly nine when he got there. He had wasted over an hour atBampton in his endeavour to get John Applethwaite's cart to carry himon, and he had been two hours on his walk from Bampton to Shap,--twohours amidst his cursing. He ordered supper and brandy-and-water,and, as we know, sent off a Mercury for his clothes. But theMercuries of Westmoreland do not move on quick wings, and it was pastmidnight before he got his possessions. During all this time he had,by no means, ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiledham and while he swallowed his brandy-and-water. He swore aloud, sothat the red-armed servant at the inn could not but hear him, thatthose thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes;--thatthey would not send him his property. He could not restrain himself,though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause, asregarded the property in Westmoreland, if ever he could make a cause.He knew that he had been mad to strike his sister, and cursed himselffor his madness. Yet he could not restrain himself. He told himselfthat the battle for him was over, and he thought of poison forhimself. He thought of poison, and a pistol,--of the pistols he hadever loaded at home, each with six shots, good for a life apiece. Hethought of an express train, rushing along at its full career, and ofthe instant annihilation which it would produce. But if that was tobe the end of him, he would not go alone. No, indeed! why should hego alone, leaving those pistols ready loaded in his desk? Among themthey had brought him to ruin and to death. Was he a man to pardon hisenemies when it was within his power to take them with him, down,down, down--? What were the last words upon his impious lips, as withbloodshot eyes, half drunk, and driven by the Fury, he took himselfoff to the bed prepared for him, cursing aloud the poor red-hairedgirl as he went, I may not utter here.
Can You Forgive Her? Page 59
