CHAPTER III.
John Grey, the Worthy Man.
Mr. Grey's answer to Alice Vavasor's letter, which was duly sent byreturn of post and duly received on the morning after Lady Macleod'svisit, may perhaps be taken as giving a sample of his worthiness. Itwas dated from Nethercoats, a small country-house in Cambridgeshirewhich belonged to him, at which he already spent much of his time,and at which he intended to live altogether after his marriage.
Nethercoats, June, 186--.
DEAREST ALICE,
I am glad you have settled your affairs,--foreign affairs, I mean,--so much to your mind. As to your home affairs they are not, to my thinking, quite so satisfactorily arranged. But as I am a party interested in the latter my opinion may perhaps have an undue bias. Touching the tour, I quite agree with you that you and Kate would have been uncomfortable alone. It's a very fine theory, that of women being able to get along without men as well as with them; but, like other fine theories, it will be found very troublesome by those who first put it in practice. Gloved hands, petticoats, feminine softness, and the general homage paid to beauty, all stand in the way of success. These things may perhaps some day be got rid of, and possibly with advantage; but while young ladies are still encumbered with them a male companion will always be found to be a comfort. I don't quite know whether your cousin George is the best possible knight you might have chosen. I should consider myself to be infinitely preferable, had my going been upon the cards. Were you in danger of meeting Paynim foes, he, no doubt, would kill them off much quicker than I could do, and would be much more serviceable in liberating you from the dungeons of oppressors, or even from stray tigers in the Swiss forests. But I doubt his being punctual with the luggage. He will want you or Kate to keep the accounts, if any are kept. He will be slow in getting you glasses of water at the railway stations, and will always keep you waiting at breakfast. I hold that a man with two ladies on a tour should be an absolute slave to them, or they will not fully enjoy themselves. He should simply be an upper servant, with the privilege of sitting at the same table with his mistresses. I have my doubts as to whether your cousin is fit for the place; but, as to myself, it is just the thing that I was made for. Luckily, however, neither you nor Kate are without wills of your own, and perhaps you may be able to reduce Mr. Vavasor to obedience.
As to the home affairs I have very little to say here,--in this letter. I shall of course run up and see you before you start, and shall probably stay a week in town. I know I ought not to do so, as it will be a week of idleness, and yet not a week of happiness. I'd sooner have an hour with you in the country than a whole day in London. And I always feel in town that I've too much to do to allow of my doing anything. If it were sheer idleness I could enjoy it, but it is a feverish idleness, in which one is driven here and there, expecting some gratification which not only never comes, but which never even begins to come. I will, however, undergo a week of it,--say the last seven days of this month, and shall trust to you to recompense me by as much of yourself as your town doings will permit.
And now again as to those home affairs. If I say nothing now I believe you will understand why I refrain. You have cunningly just left me to imply, from what you say, that all my arguments have been of no avail; but you do not answer them, or even tell me that you have decided. I shall therefore imply nothing, and still trust to my personal eloquence for success. Or rather not trust,--not trust, but hope.
The garden is going on very well. We are rather short of water, and therefore not quite as bright as I had hoped; but we are preparing with untiring industry for future brightness. Your commands have been obeyed in all things, and Morrison always says "The mistress didn't mean this," or "The mistress did intend that." God bless the mistress is what I now say, and send her home, to her own home, to her flowers, and her fruit, and her house, and her husband, as soon as may be, with no more of these delays which are to me so grievous, and which seem to me to be so unnecessary. That is my prayer.
Yours ever and always,
J. G.
"I didn't give commands," Alice said to herself, as she sat with theletter at her solitary breakfast-table. "He asked me how I liked thethings, and of course I was obliged to say. I was obliged to seem tocare, even if I didn't care." Such were her first thoughts as she putthe letter back into its envelope, after reading it the second time.When she opened it, which she did quickly, not pausing a momentlest she should suspect herself of fearing to see what might beits contents, her mind was full of that rebuke which her aunt hadanticipated, and which she had almost taught herself to expect. Shehad torn the letter open rapidly, and had dashed at its contents withquick eyes. In half a moment she had seen what was the nature of thereply respecting the proposed companion of her tour, and then she hadcompleted her reading slowly enough. "No; I gave no commands," sherepeated to herself, as though she might thereby absolve herself fromblame in reference to some possible future accusations, which mightperhaps be brought against her under certain circumstances which shewas contemplating.
Then she considered the letter bit by bit, taking it backwards, andsipping her tea every now and then amidst her thoughts. No; she hadno home, no house, there. She had no husband;--not as yet. He spokeof their engagement as though it were a betrothal, as betrothals usedto be of yore; as though they were already in some sort married. Suchbetrothals were not made now-a-days. There still remained, both tohim and to her, a certain liberty of extricating themselves from thisengagement. Should he come to her and say that he found that theircontemplated marriage would not make him happy, would not she releasehim without a word of reproach? Would not she regard him as muchmore honourable in doing so than in adhering to a marriage which wasdistasteful to him? And if she would so judge him,--judge him andcertainly acquit him, was it not reasonable that she under similarcircumstances should expect a similar acquittal? Then she declaredto herself that she carried on this argument within her own breastsimply as an argument, induced to do so by that assertion on his partthat he was already her husband,--that his house was even now herhome. She had no intention of using that power which was still hers.She had no wish to go back from her pledged word. She thought thatshe had no such wish. She loved him much, and admired him even morethan she loved him. He was noble, generous, clever, good,--so good asto be almost perfect; nay, for aught she knew he was perfect. Wouldthat he had some faults! Would that he had! Would that he had! Howcould she, full of faults as she knew herself to be,--how could shehope to make happy a man perfect as he was! But then there wouldbe no doubt as to her present duty. She loved him, and that waseverything. Having told him that she loved him, and having on thatscore accepted his love, nothing but a change in her heart towardshim could justify her in seeking to break the bond which bound themtogether. She did love him, and she loved him only.
But she had once loved her cousin. Yes, truly it was so. In herthoughts she did not now deny it. She had loved him, and wastormented by a feeling that she had had a more full delight in thatlove than in this other that had sprung up subsequently. She had toldherself that this had come of her youth;--that love at twenty wassweeter than it could be afterwards. There had been a something ofrapture in that earlier dream which could never be repeated,--whichcould never live, indeed, except in a dream. Now, now that she wasolder and perhaps wiser, love meant a partnership, in which eachpartner would be honest to the other, in which each would wish andstrive for the other's welfare, so that thus their joint welfaremight be insured. Then, in those early girlish days, it had meanta total abnegation of self. The one was of earth, and thereforepossible. The other had been a ray from heaven,--and impossible,except in a dream.
And she had been mistaken in her first love. She admitted thatfrankly. He whom she had worshipped had been an idol of clay, and sheknew that it was well for her to have abandoned that idolatry. He hadnot only been
untrue to her, but, worse than that, had been false inexcusing his untruth. He had not only promised falsely, but had madesuch promises with a deliberate, premeditated falsehood. And he hadbeen selfish, coldly selfish, weighing the value of his own low lustsagainst that of her holy love. She had known this, and had partedfrom him with an oath to herself that no promised contrition on hispart should ever bring them again together. But she had pardoned himas a man, though never as a lover, and had bade him welcome againas a cousin and as her friend's brother. She had again become veryanxious as to his career, not hiding her regard, but professing thatanxiety aloud. She knew him to be clever, ambitious, bold,--and shebelieved even yet, in spite of her own experience, that he might notbe bad at heart. Now, as she told herself that in truth she loved theman to whom her troth was plighted, I fear that she almost thoughtmore of that other man from whom she had torn herself asunder.
"Why should he find himself unhappy in London?" she said, as she wentback to the letter. "Why should he pretend to condemn the very placewhich most men find the fittest for all their energies? Were I a man,no earthly consideration should induce me to live elsewhere. It isodd how we differ in all things. However brilliant might be his ownlight, he would be contented to hide it under a bushel!"
And at last she recurred to that matter as to which she had beenso anxious when she first opened her lover's letter. It will beremembered how assured she had expressed herself that Mr. Grey wouldnot condescend to object to her travelling with her cousin. He hadnot so condescended. He had written on the matter with a pleasantjoke, like a gentleman as he was, disdaining to allude to the pastpassages in the life of her whom he loved, abstaining even fromexpressing anything that might be taken as a permission on his part.There had been in Alice's words, as she told him of their proposedplan, a something that had betrayed a tremor in her thoughts. Shehad studiously striven so to frame her phrases that her tale mightbe told as any other simple statement,--as though there had been notrembling in her mind as she wrote. But she had failed, and she knewthat she had failed. She had failed; and he had read all her effortand all her failure. She was quite conscious of this; she felt itthoroughly; and she knew that he was noble and a gentleman to thelast drop of his blood. And yet--yet--yet there was almost a feelingof disappointment in that he had not written such a letter as LadyMacleod had anticipated.
During the next week Lady Macleod still came almost daily to QueenAnne Street, but nothing further was said between her and MissVavasor as to the Swiss tour; nor were any questions asked about Mr.Grey's opinion on the subject. The old lady of course discoveredthat there was no quarrel, or, as she believed, any probability of aquarrel; and with that she was obliged to be contented. Nor did sheagain on this occasion attempt to take Alice to Lady Midlothian's.Indeed, their usual subjects of conversation were almost abandoned,and Lady Macleod's visits, though they were as constant asheretofore, were not so long. She did not dare to talk about Mr. Grey,and because she did not so dare, was determined to regard herself asin a degree ill-used. So she was silent, reserved, and fretful. Atlength came the last day of her London season, and her last visitto her niece. "I would come because it's my last day," said LadyMacleod; "but really I'm so hurried, and have so many things to do,that I hardly know how to manage it."
"It's very kind," said Alice, giving her aunt an affectionate squeezeof the hand.
"I'm keeping the cab, so I can just stay twenty-five minutes. I'vemarked the time accurately, but I know the man will swear it's overthe half-hour."
"You'll have no more trouble about cabs, aunt, when you are back inCheltenham."
"The flies are worse, my dear. I really think they're worse. I paythe bill every month, but they've always one down that I didn't have.It's the regular practice, for I've had them from all the men in theplace."
"It's hard enough to find honest men anywhere, I suppose."
"Or honest women either. What do you think of Mrs. Green wanting tocharge me for an extra week, because she says I didn't give hernotice till Tuesday morning? I won't pay her, and she may stop mythings if she dares. However, it's the last time. I shall never comeup to London again, my dear."
"Oh, aunt, don't say that!"
"But I do say it, my dear. What should an old woman like me do,trailing up to town every year, merely because it's what peoplechoose to call the season."
"To see your friends, of course. Age doesn't matter when a person'shealth is so good as yours."
"If you knew what I suffer from lumbago,--though I must say comingto London always does cure that for the time. But as for friends--!Well, I suppose one has no right to complain when one gets to be asold as I am; but I declare I believe that those I love best wouldsooner be without me than with me."
"Do you mean me, aunt?"
"No, my dear, I don't mean you. Of course my life would have beenvery different if you could have consented to remain with me till youwere married. But I didn't mean you. I don't know that I meant anyone. You shouldn't mind what an old woman like me says."
"You're a little melancholy because you're going away."
"No, indeed. I don't know why I stayed the last week. I did say toLady Midlothian that I thought I should go on the 20th; and, though Iknow that she knew that I really didn't go, she has not once sent tome since. To be sure they've been out every night; but I thought shemight have asked me to come and lunch. It's so very lonely dining bymyself in lodgings in London."
"And yet you never will come and dine with me."
"No, my dear; no. But we won't talk about that. I've just one wordmore to say. Let me see. I've just six minutes to stay. I've madeup my mind that I'll never come up to town again,--except for onething."
"And what's that, aunt?" Alice, as she asked the question, well knewwhat that one thing was.
"I'll come for your marriage, my dear. I do hope you will not keep melong waiting."
"Ah! I can't make any promise. There's no knowing when that may be."
"And why should there be no knowing? I always think that when a girlis once engaged the sooner she's married the better. There may bereasons for delay on the gentleman's part."
"There very often are, you know,"
"But, Alice, you don't mean to say that Mr. Grey is putting it off?"
Alice was silent for a moment, during which Lady Macleod's faceassumed a look of almost tragic horror. Was there something wrong onMr. Grey's side of which she was altogether unaware? Alice, though fora second or two she had been guilty of a slight playful deceit, wastoo honest to allow the impression to remain. "No, aunt," she said;"Mr. Grey is not putting it off. It has been left to me to fix thetime."
"And why don't you fix it?"
"It is such a serious thing! After all it is not more than fourmonths yet since I--I accepted him. I don't know that there has beenany delay."
"But you might fix the time now, if he wishes it."
"Well, perhaps I shall,--some day, aunt. I'm going to think about it,and you mustn't drive me."
"But you should have some one to advise you, Alice."
"Ah! that's just it. People always do seem to think it so terriblethat a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn't like anyone at first; and then, when she does like some one, she must marryhim directly she's bidden. I haven't much of my own way at present;but you see, when I'm married I shan't have it at all. You can'twonder that I shouldn't be in a hurry."
"I am not advocating anything like hurry, my dear. But, goodnessgracious me! I've been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horridman will impose upon me. Good-bye; God bless you! Mind you write."And Lady Macleod hurried out of the room more intent at the presentmoment upon saving her sixpence than she was on any other matterwhatsoever.
And then John Grey came up to town, arriving a day or two after thetime that he had fixed. It is not, perhaps, improbable that Alicehad used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between LadyMacleod and her lover. They both were very anxious to obtain the sameobject, and Alice was to some extent
opposed to their views. Had LadyMacleod and John Grey put their forces together she might have foundherself unable to resist their joint endeavours. She was resolvedthat she would not at any rate name any day for her marriage beforeher return from Switzerland; and she may therefore have thought itwise to keep Mr. Grey in the country till after Lady Macleod had gone,even though she thereby cut down the time of his sojourn in Londonto four days. On the occasion of that visit Mr. Vavasor did a verymemorable thing. He dined at home with the view of welcoming hisfuture son-in-law. He dined at home, and asked, or rather assentedto Alice's asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party."What an auspicious omen for the future nuptials!" said Kate, withher little sarcastic smile. "Uncle John dines at home, and Mr. Greyjoins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changedsoon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a littlecottage in the country."
"Kate," said Alice, angrily, "I think you are about the most unjustperson I ever met. I would forgive your raillery, however painful itmight be, if it were only fair."
"And to whom is it unfair on the present occasion--to your father?"
"It was not intended for him."
"To yourself?"
"I care nothing as to myself; you know that very well."
"Then it must have been unfair to Mr. Grey."
"Yes; it was Mr. Grey whom you meant to attack. If I can forgive himfor not caring for society, surely you might do so."
"Exactly; but that's just what you can't do, my dear. You don'tforgive him. If you did you might be quite sure that I should saynothing. And if you choose to bid me hold my tongue I will saynothing. But when you tell me all your own thoughts about thisthing you can hardly expect but that I should let you know mine inreturn. I'm not particular; and if you are ready for a little good,wholesome, useful hypocrisy, I won't balk you. I mayn't be quite sodishonest as you call me, but I'm not so wedded to truth but what Ican look, and act, and speak a few falsehoods if you wish it. Onlylet us understand each other."
"You know I wish for no falsehood, Kate."
"I know it's very hard to understand what you do wish. I know thatfor the last year or two I have been trying to find out your wishes,and, upon my word, my success has been very indifferent. I supposeyou wish to marry Mr. Grey, but I'm by no means certain. I suppose thelast thing on earth you'd wish would be to marry George?"
"The very last. You're right there at any rate."
"Alice--! sometimes you drive me too hard; you do, indeed. You makeme doubt whether I hate or love you most. Knowing what my feelingsare about George, I cannot understand how you can bring yourself tospeak of him to me with such contempt!" Kate Vavasor, as she spokethese words, left the room with a quick step, and hurried up to herown chamber. There Alice found her in tears, and was driven by herfriend's real grief into the expression of an apology, which sheknew was not properly due from her. Kate was acquainted with all thecircumstances of that old affair between her brother and Alice. Shehad given in her adhesion to the propriety of what Alice had done.She had allowed that her brother George's behaviour had been such asto make any engagement between them impossible. The fault, therefore,had been hers in making any reference to the question of such amarriage. Nor had it been by any means her first fault of the samekind. Till Alice had become engaged to Mr. Grey she had spoken ofGeorge only as her brother, or as her friend's cousin, but now shewas constantly making allusion to those past occurrences, which allof them should have striven to forget. Under these circumstances wasnot Lady Macleod right in saying that George Vavasor should not havebeen accepted as a companion for the Swiss tour?
"Sometimes you drive me too hard."]
The little dinner-party went off very quietly; and if no other groundexisted for charging Mr. Grey with London dissipation than what thatafforded, he was accused most unjustly. The two young men had neverbefore met each other; and Vavasor had gone to his uncle's house,prepared not only to dislike but to despise his successor in Alice'sfavour. But in this he was either disappointed or gratified, as thecase may be. "He has plenty to say for himself," he said to Kate onhis way home.
"Oh yes; he can talk."
"And he doesn't talk like a prig either, which was what I expected.He's uncommonly handsome."
"I thought men never saw that in each other. I never see it in anyman."
"I see it in every animal--in men, women, horses, dogs, and evenpigs. I like to look on handsome things. I think people always do whoare ugly themselves."
"And so you're going into raptures in favour of John Grey."
"No, I'm not. I very seldom go into raptures about anything. But hetalks in the way I like a man to talk. How he bowled my uncle overabout those actors; and yet if my uncle knows anything about anythingit is about the stage twenty years ago." There was nothing more saidthen about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough tobe aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spokesometimes from his heart, and did so more frequently to his sisterthan to any one else; but his words came generally from his head.
On the day after the little dinner in Queen Anne Street, John Greycame to say good-bye to his betrothed;--for his betrothed shecertainly was, in spite of those very poor arguments which she hadused in trying to convince herself that she was still free if shewished to claim her freedom. Though he had been constantly with Aliceduring the last three days, he had not hitherto said anything as tothe day of their marriage. He had been constantly with her alone,sitting for hours in that ugly green drawing-room, but he had nevertouched the subject. He had told her much of Switzerland, which shehad never yet seen but which he knew well. He had told her much ofhis garden and house, whither she had once gone with her father,whilst paying a visit nominally to the colleges at Cambridge. And hehad talked of various matters, matters bearing in no immediate wayupon his own or her affairs; for Mr. Grey was a man who knew well howto make words pleasant; but previous to this last moment he had saidnothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
"Well, Alice," he said, when the last hour had come, "and about thatquestion of home affairs?"
"Let us finish off the foreign affairs first."
"We have finished them; haven't we?"
"Finished them! why we haven't started yet."
"No; you haven't started. But we've had the discussion. Is there anyreason why you'd rather not have this thing settled."
"No; no special reason."
"Then why not let it be fixed? Do you fear coming to me as my wife?"
"No."
"I cannot think that you repent your goodness to me."
"No; I don't repent it;--what you call my goodness? I love you tooentirely for that."
"My darling!" And now he passed his arm round her waist as they stoodnear the empty fireplace. "And if you love me--"
"I do love you."
"Then why should you not wish to come to me?"
"I do wish it. I think I wish it."
"But, Alice, you must have wished it altogether when you consented tobe my wife."
"A person may wish for a thing altogether, and yet not wish for itinstantly."
"Instantly! Come; I have not been hard on you. This is still June.Will you say the middle of September, and we shall still be in timefor warm pleasant days among the lakes? Is that asking for too much?"
"It is not asking for anything."
"Nay, but it is, love. Grant it, and I will swear that you havegranted me everything."
She was silent, having things to say but not knowing in what words toput them. Now that he was with her she could not say the things whichshe had told herself that she would utter to him. She could not bringherself to hint to him that his views of life were so unlike her own,that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless eachcould strive to lean somewhat towards the other. No man could be moregracious in word and manner than John Grey; no man more chivalrous inhis carriage towards a woman; but he always spoke and acted as thoughthere could be no question that his mann
er of life was to be adopted,without a word or thought of doubting, by his wife. When two cametogether, why should not each yield something, and each claimsomething? This she had meant to say to him on this day; but now thathe was with her she could not say it.
"John," she said at last, "do not press me about this till I return."
"But then you will say the time is short. It would be short then."
"I cannot answer you now;--indeed, I cannot. That is I cannot answerin the affirmative. It is such a solemn thing."
"Will it ever be less solemn, dearest?"
"Never, I hope never."
He did not press her further then, but kissed her and bade herfarewell.
Can You Forgive Her? Page 5