He would get it. That was his resolve as he walked in by the apple-woman’s stall, under the shadow of the great policeman, and between the two august lamps. He would get it; — as long as Alice had a pound over which he could obtain mastery by any act or violence within his compass. He would get it; even though it should come through the hands of John Grey and Mr Tombe. He would get it; though in doing so he might destroy his cousin Alice and ruin his sister Kate. He had gone too far to stick at any scruples. Had he not often declared how great had been that murderer who had been able to divest himself of all such scruples, — who had scoured his bosom free from all fears of the hereafter, and, as regarded the present, had dared to trust for everything to success? He would go to Alice and demand the money from her with threats, and with that violence in his eyes which he knew so well how to assume. He believed that when he so demanded it, the money would be forthcoming so as to satisfy, at any rate, his present emergencies.
That wretched old man in Westmoreland! If he would but die, there might yet be a hope remaining of permanent success! Even though the estate might be entailed so as to give him no more than a life-interest, still money might be raised on it. His life-interest in it would be worth ten or twelve years’ purchase. He had an idea that his grandfather had not as yet made any such will when he left the place in Westmoreland. What a boon it would be if death could be made to overtake the old man before he did so! On this very night he walked about the lobbies of the House, thinking of all this. He went by himself from room to room, roaming along passages, sitting now for ten minutes in the gallery, and then again for a short space in the body of the House, — till he would get up and wander again out into the lobby, impatient of the neighbourhood of Mr Bott. Certainly just at this time he felt no desire to bring before the House the subject of the River Embankment.
Nor was Mr Grey much happier when he was left alone, than was his assailant. To give Vavasor his due, the memory of the affray itself did not long trouble him much. The success between the combatants had been nearly equal, and he had, at any rate, spoken his mind freely. His misery had come from other sources. But the reflection that he had been concerned in a row was in itself enough to make John Grey wretched for the time. Such a misfortune had never hitherto befallen him. In all his dealings with men words had been sufficient, and generally words of courtesy had sufficed. To have been personally engaged in a fighting scramble with such a man as George Vavasor was to him terrible. When ordering that his money might be expended with the possible object of saving Alice from her cousin, he had never felt a moment’s regret; he had never thought that he was doing more than circumstances fairly demanded of him. But now he was almost driven to utter reproach. “Oh, Alice! that this thing should have come upon me through thy fault!”
When Vavasor was led away down stairs by the tailor, and Grey found that no more actual fighting would be required of him, he retired into his bedroom, that he might wash his mouth and free himself from the stains of the combat. He had heard the front door closed, and knew that the miscreant was gone, — the miscreant who had disturbed his quiet. Then he began to think what was the accusation with which Vavasor had charged him. He had been told that he had advanced money on behalf of Alice, in order that he might obtain some power over Alice’s fortune, and thus revenge himself upon Alice for her treatment of him. Nothing could be more damnably false than this accusation. Of that he was well aware. But were not the circumstances of a nature to make it appear that the accusation was true? Security for the money advanced by him, of course, he had none; — of course he had desired none; — of course the money had been given out of his own pocket with the sole object of saving Alice, if that might be possible; but of all those who might hear of this affair, how many would know or even guess the truth?
While he was in this wretched state of mind, washing his mouth, and disturbing his spirit, Mr Jones, his landlord, came up to him. Mr Jones had known him for some years, and entertained a most profound respect for his character. A rather sporting man than otherwise was Mr Jones. His father had been a tradesman at Cambridge, and in this way Jones had become known to Mr Grey. But though given to sport, by which he meant modern prize-fighting and the Epsom course on the Derby day, Mr Jones was a man who dearly loved respectable customers and respectable lodgers. Mr Grey, with his property at Nethercoats, and his august manners, and his reputation at Cambridge, was a most respectable lodger, and Mr Jones could hardly understand how any one could presume to raise his hand against such a man.
“Dear, dear, sir — this is a terrible affair!” he said, as he made his way into the room.
“It was very disagreeable, certainly,” said Grey.
“Was the gentleman known to you?” asked the tailor.
“Yes; I know who he is.”
“Any quarrel, sir?”
“Well, yes. I should not have pushed him down stairs had he not quarrelled with me.”
“We can have the police after him if you wish it, sir?”
“I don’t wish it at all.”
“Or we might manage to polish him off in any other way, you know.”
It was some time before Mr Grey could get rid of the tailor, but he did so at last without having told any part of the story to that warlike, worthy, and very anxious individual.
CHAPTER LIII
The Last Will of the Old Squire
In the meantime Kate Vavasor was living down in Westmoreland, with no other society than that of her grandfather, and did not altogether have a very pleasant life of it. George had been apt to represent the old man to himself as being as strong as an old tower, which, though it be but a ruin, shows no sign of falling. To his eyes the Squire had always seemed to be full of life and power. He could be violent on occasions, and was hardly ever without violence in his eyes and voice. But George’s opinion was formed by his wish, or rather by the reverses of his wish. For years he had been longing that his grandfather should die, — had been accusing Fate of gross injustice in that she did not snap the thread; and with such thoughts in his mind he had grudged every ounce which the Squire’s vigour had been able to sustain. He had almost taught himself to believe that it would be a good deed to squeeze what remained of life out of that violent old throat. But, indeed, the embers of life were burning low; and had George known all the truth, he would hardly have inclined his mind to thoughts of murder.
He was, indeed, very weak with age, and tottering with unsteady steps on the brink of his grave, though he would still come down early from his room, and would, if possible, creep out about the garden and into the farmyard. He would still sit down to dinner, and would drink his allotted portion of port wine, in the doctor’s teeth. The doctor by no means desired to rob him of his last luxury, or even to stint his quantity; but he recommended certain changes in the mode and time of taking it. Against this, however, the old Squire indignantly rebelled, and scolded Kate almost off her legs when she attempted to enforce the doctor’s orders. “What the mischief does it signify,” the old man said to her one evening; — “what difference will it make whether I am dead or alive, unless it is that George would turn you out of the house directly he gets it.”
“I was not thinking of any one but yourself, sir,” said Kate, with a tear 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 under such circumstances; and Kate Vavasor was one who would certainly stick to such duties as now fell to her lot. She was eminently true and loyal to her friends, though she could be as false on their behalf as most false people can be on their own. She was very good to the old man, tending all his wants, taking his violence with good-humour rather than with submission, not opposing him with direct contradiction when he abused his grandson, but saying little words to mitigate his wrath, if it were possible. At such times the Squire would tell her that she also would learn to kn
ow her brother’s character some day. “You’ll live to be robbed by him, and turned out as naked as you were born,” he said to her one day. Then Kate fired up and declared that she fully trusted her brother’s love. Whatever faults he might have, he had been staunch to her, So she said, and the old man sneered at her for saying so.
One morning, soon after this, when she brought him up to his bedroom some mixture of thin porridge, which he still endeavoured to swallow for his breakfast, he bade her sit down, and began to talk to her about the property. “I know you are a fool,” he said, “about all matters of business; — more of a fool than even women generally are.” To this Kate acceded with a little smile, — acknowledging that her understanding was limited. “I want to see Gogram,” he said. “Do you write to him a line, telling him to come here to-day, — he or one of his men, — and send it at once by Peter.” Gogram was an attorney who lived at Penrith, and who was never summoned to Vavasor Hall unless the Squire had something to say about his will. “Don’t you think you’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 she sprang off the chair on which she was sitting, and darted across to a little table at which there was pen and ink, and wrote her note to Mr Gogram, before she had recovered from the shaking which the battery had 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 to return to her grandfather’s bedside.
“What should you do with the estate if I left it you?” the Squire said to her the first moment she was again back with him.
This was a question she could not answer instantly. She stood by his bedside for a while thinking, — holding her grandfather’s hand and 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 her thoughts. “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 were you, grandfather,” she said almost in a whisper, “I would not trust myself to alter family arrangements whilst I was ill. I’m sure you would advise any one else against doing so.”
“And if I were to leave it to Alice, she’d give it to him too,” he said, speaking his thoughts out loud. “What it is you see in him, I never could even guess. He’s as ugly as a baboon, with his scarred face. He has never done anything to show himself a clever fellow. Kate, give me some of that bottle the man sent.” Kate handed him his medicine, and then stood again by his bedside.
“Where did he get the money to pay for his election?” the Squire asked, as soon as he had swallowed the draught. “They wouldn’t give such 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 it yourself some day. Go away now, and let me know when Gogram comes.”
She went away, and for a time employed herself about her ordinary household work. Then she sat down alone in the dingy old dining-room, to think what had better be done in her present circumstances. The carpet of the room was worn out, as were also the covers of the old chairs and the horsehair sofa which was never moved from its accustomed place along the wall. It was not a comfortable Squire’s residence, this old house at Vavasor. In the last twenty years no money had been spent on furniture or embellishments, and for the last ten years there had been no painting, either inside or out. Twenty years ago the Squire had been an embarrassed man, and had taken a turn in his life and had lived sparingly. It could not be said that he had become a miser. His table was kept plentifully, and there had never been want in his house. In some respects, too, he had behaved liberally to Kate and to others, and he had kept up the timber and fences on the property. But the house had become wretched in its dull, sombre, dirty darkness, and the gardens round it were as bad.
What ought she now to do? She believed that her grandfather’s last days were coming, and she knew that others of the family should be with 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, and would be the head of the family. Her duty to him was clear, and the more so as her grandfather was at this moment speaking of changes in his will. But it was a question to her whether George’s presence at Vavasor, even if he would come, would not at this moment do more harm than good to his own interests. It would make some prejudicial change in the old man’s will more probable instead of less so. George would not become soft and mild-spoken even by a death-bed side, and it would be likely enough that the Squire would curse his heir with his dying breath. She might send for her uncle John; but if she did so without telling George she would be treating George unfairly; and she knew that it was improbable that her uncle and her brother should act together in anything. Her aunt Greenow, she thought, would come to her, and her presence would not influence the Squire in any way with reference to the property. So she made up her mind at last that she would ask her aunt to come to Vavasor, and that she would tell her brother accurately all that she could tell, — leaving him to come or stay, as he might think. Alice would, no doubt, learn all the facts from him, and her uncle John would hear them from Alice. Then they could do as they pleased. As soon as Mr Gogram had been there she would write her letters, and they should be sent over to Shap early on the following morning.
Mr Gogram came and was closeted with the Squire, and the doctor also came. The doctor saw Kate, and, shaking his head, told her that her grandfather was sinking lower and lower every hour. It would be infinitely better for him if he would take that port wine at four doses in the day, or even at two, instead of taking it all together. Kate promised to try again, but stated her conviction that the trial would be useless. The doctor, when pressed on the matter, said that his patient might probably live a week, not improbably a fortnight, — perhaps a month, if he would be obedient, — and so forth. Gogram went away without seeing Kate; and Kate, who looked upon a will as an awful and somewhat tedious ceremony, was in doubt whether her grandfather would live to complete any new operation. But, in truth, the will had been made and signed and witnessed, — the parish clerk and one of the tenants having been had up into the room as witnesses. Kate knew that the men had been there, but still did not think 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 a quarter of an hour. The day was cold and the wind bleak, but still he would go out, and Kate had wrapped him up carefully in mufflers and great-coats. Now he came in to what he called dinner, and Kate sat down with him. He had drank no wine that day, although she had brought it to him twice during the morning. Now he attempted to swallow a little soup, but failed; and after that, while Kate was eating her bit of chicken, had the decanter put before him. “I can’t eat, and I suppose it won’t hurt you if I take my wine at once,” he said. It went against the grain with him, even yet, that he could not wait till the cloth was gone from the table, but his impatience for the only sustenance that he could take was too much for him.
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