CHAPTER V.
The Balcony at Basle.
I am not going to describe the Vavasors' Swiss tour. It would not befair on my readers. "Six Weeks in the Bernese Oberland, by party ofthree," would have but very small chance of success in the literaryworld at present, and I should consider myself to be dishonest ifI attempt to palm off such matter on the public in the pages of anovel. It is true that I have just returned from Switzerland, andshould find such a course of writing very convenient. But I dismissthe temptation, strong as it is. _Retro age, Satanas._ No living manor woman any longer wants to be told anything of the Grimsell orof the Gemmi. Ludgate Hill is now-a-days more interesting than theJungfrau.
The Vavasors were not very energetic on their tour. As George hadsaid, they had gone out for pleasure and not for work. They wentdirect to Interlaken and then hung about between that place andGrindelwald and Lauterbrunnen, It delighted him to sit still on someouter bench, looking at the mountains, with a cigar in his mouth,and it seemed to delight them to be with him. Much that Mr. Greyprophesied had come true. The two girls were ministers to him,instead of having him as their slave.
"What fine fellows those Alpine club men think themselves," he saidon one of these occasions, "and how thoroughly they despise the sortof enjoyment I get from mountains. But they're mistaken."
"I don't see why either need be mistaken," said Alice.
"But they are mistaken," he continued. "They rob the mountains oftheir poetry, which is or should be their greatest charm. Mont Blanccan have no mystery for a man who has been up it half a dozen times.It's like getting behind the scenes at a ballet, or making a conjurorexplain his tricks."
"But is the exercise nothing?" said Kate.
"Yes; the exercise is very fine;--but that avoids the question."
"And they all botanize," said Alice.
"I don't believe it. I believe that the most of them simply walkup the mountain and down again. But if they did, that avoids thequestion also. The poetry and mystery of the mountains are lost tothose who make themselves familiar with their details, not the lessbecause such familiarity may have useful results. In this worldthings are beautiful only because they are not quite seen, or notperfectly understood. Poetry is precious chiefly because it suggestsmore than it declares. Look in there, through that valley, where youjust see the distant little peak at the end. Are you not dreamingof the unknown beautiful world that exists up there;--beautiful, asheaven is beautiful, because you know nothing of the reality? If youmake your way up there and back to-morrow, and find out all about it,do you mean to say that it will be as beautiful to you when you comeback?"
"Yes;--I think it would," said Alice.
"Then you've no poetry in you. Now I'm made up of poetry." After thatthey began to laugh at him and were very happy.
I think that Mr. Grey was right in answering Alice's letter as he did;but I think that Lady Macleod was also right in saying that Aliceshould not have gone to Switzerland in company with George Vavasor. Apeculiar familiarity sprang up, which, had all its circumstances beenknown to Mr. Grey, would not have entirely satisfied him, even thoughno word was said which might in itself have displeased him. Duringthe first weeks of their travelling no word was said which wouldhave displeased him; but at last, when the time for their return wasdrawing nigh, when their happiness was nearly over, and that feelingof melancholy was coming on them which always pervades the last hoursof any period that has been pleasant,--then words became softer thanthey had been, and references were made to old days,--allusions whichnever should have been permitted between them.
Alice had been very happy,--more happy perhaps in that she had beena joint minister with Kate to her cousin George's idle fantasies,than she would have been hurrying about with him as her slave. Theyhad tacitly agreed to spoil him with comforts; and girls are alwayshappier in spoiling some man than in being spoiled by men. And he hadtaken it all well, doing his despotism pleasantly, exacting much,but exacting nothing that was disagreeable. And he had been amusingalways, as Alice thought without any effort. But men and women, whenthey show themselves at their best, seldom do so without an effort.If the object be near the heart the effort will be pleasant to himwho makes it, and if it be made well, it will be hidden; but, not theless, will the effort be there. George Vavasor had on the presentoccasion done his very best to please his cousin.
They were sitting at Basle one evening in the balcony of the bighotel which overlooks the Rhine. The balcony runs the length of thehouse, and is open to all the company; but it is spacious, and littleparties can be formed there with perfect privacy. The swift broadRhine runs underneath, rushing through from the bridge which herespans the river; and every now and then on summer evenings loudshouts come up from strong swimmers in the water, who are gloryingin the swiftness of the current. The three were sitting there, bythemselves, at the end of the balcony. Coffee was before them on alittle table, and George's cigar, as usual, was in his mouth.
"It's nearly all over," said he, after they had remained silent forsome minutes.
"And I do think it has been a success," said Kate. "Always exceptingabout the money. I'm ruined for ever."
"I'll make your money all straight," said George.
"Indeed you'll do nothing of the kind," said Kate. "I'm ruined, butyou are ruineder. But what signifies? It is such a great thing everto have had six weeks' happiness, that the ruin is, in point of fact,a good speculation. What do you say, Alice? Won't you vote, too, thatwe've done it well?"
"I think we've done it very well. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly."
"And now you've got to go home to John Grey and Cambridgeshire! It'sno wonder you should be melancholy." That was the thought in Kate'smind, but she did not speak it out on this occasion.
"That's good of you, Alice," said Kate. "Is it not, George? I like aperson who will give a hearty meed of approbation."
"But I am giving the meed of approbation to myself."
"I like a person even to do that heartily," said Kate. "Not thatGeorge and I are thankful for the compliment. We are prepared toadmit that we owe almost everything to you,--are we not, George?"
"I'm not; by any means," said George.
"Well, I am, and I expect to have something pretty said to me inreturn. Have I been cross once, Alice?"
"No; I don't think you have. You are never cross, though you areoften ferocious."
"But I haven't been once ferocious,--nor has George."
"He would have been the most ungrateful man alive if he had," saidAlice. "We've done nothing since we've started but realize from himthat picture in 'Punch' of the young gentleman at Jeddo who had adozen ladies to wait upon him."
"And now he has got to go home to his lodgings, and wait upon himselfagain. Poor fellow! I do pity you, George."
"No, you don't;--nor does Alice. I believe girls always think thata bachelor in London has the happiest of all lives. It's becausethey think so that they generally want to put an end to the man'scondition."
"It's envy that makes us want to get married,--not love," said Kate.
"It's the devil in some shape, as often as not," said he. "With aman, marriage always seems to him to be an evil at the instant."
"Not always," said Alice.
"Almost always;--but he does it, as he takes physic, becausesomething worse will come if he don't. A man never likes having histooth pulled out, but all men do have their teeth pulled out,--andthey who delay it too long suffer the very mischief."
"I do like George's philosophy," said Kate, getting up from her chairas she spoke; "it is so sharp, and has such a pleasant acid tasteabout it; and then we all know that it means nothing. Alice, I'mgoing up-stairs to begin the final packing."
"I'll come with you, dear."
"No, don't. To tell the truth I'm only going into that man's roombecause he won't put up a single thing of his own decently. We'lldo ours, of course, when we go up to bed. Whatever you disarrangeto-night, Master George, you must rearrange for yourself to-morrowmorni
ng, for I promise I won't go into your room at five o'clock."
"How I do hate that early work," said George.
"I'll be down again very soon," said Kate. "Then we'll take one turnon the bridge and go to bed."
Alice and George were left together sitting in the balcony. Theyhad been alone together before many times since their travels hadcommenced; but they both of them felt that there was something tothem in the present moment different from any other period of theirjourney. There was something that each felt to be sweet, undefinable,and dangerous. Alice had known that it would be better for her to goup-stairs with Kate; but Kate's answer had been of such a nature thathad she gone she would have shown that she had some special reasonfor going. Why should she show such a need? Or why, indeed, shouldshe entertain it?
Alice was seated quite at the end of the gallery, and Kate's chairwas at her feet in the corner. When Alice and Kate had seatedthemselves, the waiter had brought a small table for the coffee-cups,and George had placed his chair on the other side of that. So thatAlice was, as it were, a prisoner. She could not slip away withoutsome special preparation for going, and Kate had so placed her chairin leaving, that she must actually have asked George to move itbefore she could escape. But why should she wish to escape? Nothingcould be more lovely and enticing than the scene before her. Thenight had come on, with quick but still unperceived approach, as itdoes in those parts; for the twilight there is not prolonged as it iswith us more northern folk. The night had come on, but there was arising moon, which just sufficed to give a sheen to the water beneathher. The air was deliciously soft;--of that softness which producesno sensation either of warmth or cold, but which just seems to touchone with loving tenderness, as though the unseen spirits of the airkissed one's forehead as they passed on their wings. The Rhine wasrunning at her feet, so near, that in the soft half light it seemedas though she might step into its ripple. The Rhine was runningby with that delicious sound of rapidly moving waters, that freshrefreshing gurgle of the river, which is so delicious to the ear atall times. If you be talking, it wraps up your speech, keeping it foryourselves, making it difficult neither to her who listens nor to himwho speaks. If you would sleep, it is of all lullabies the sweetest.If you are alone and would think, it aids all your thoughts. Ifyou are alone, and, alas! would not think,--if thinking be toopainful,--it will dispel your sorrow, and give the comfort whichmusic alone can give. Alice felt that the air kissed her, thatthe river sang for her its sweetest song, that the moon shone forher with its softest light,--that light which lends the poetry ofhalf-developed beauty to everything that it touches. Why should sheleave it?
Nothing was said for some minutes after Kate's departure, and Alicewas beginning to shake from her that half feeling of danger which hadcome over her. Vavasor had sat back in his chair, leaning againstthe house, with his feet raised upon a stool; his arms were foldedacross his breast, and he seemed to have divided himself betweenhis thoughts and his cigar. Alice was looking full upon the river,and her thoughts had strayed away to her future home among JohnGrey's flower-beds and shrubs; but the river, though it sang to herpleasantly, seemed to sing a song of other things than such a home asthat,--a song full of mystery, as are all river songs when one triesto understand their words.
"When are you to be married, Alice?" said George at last.
"Oh, George!" said she. "You ask me a question as though you wereputting a pistol to my ear."
"I'm sorry the question was so unpleasant."
"I didn't say that it was unpleasant; but you asked it so suddenly!The truth is, I didn't expect you to speak at all just then. Isuppose I was thinking of something."
"But if it be not unpleasant,--when are you to be married?"
"I do not know. It is not fixed."
"But about when, I mean? This summer?"
"Certainly not this summer, for the summer will be over when we reachhome."
"This winter? Next spring? Next year?--or in ten years' time?"
"Before the expiration of the ten years, I suppose. Anything moreexact than that I can't say."
"I suppose you like it?" he then said.
"What, being married? You see I've never tried yet."
"The idea of it,--the anticipation, You look forward withsatisfaction to the kind of life you will lead at Nethercoats? Don'tsuppose I am saying anything against it, for I have no conceptionwhat sort of a place Nethercoats is. On the whole I don't know thatthere is any kind of life better than that of an English countrygentleman in his own place;--that is, if he can keep it up, and notlive as the old squire does, in a state of chronic poverty."
"Mr. Grey's place doesn't entitle him to be called a countrygentleman."
"But you like the prospect of it?"
"Oh, George, how you do cross-question one! Of course I like it, orI shouldn't have accepted it."
"That does not follow. But I quite acknowledge that I have no rightto cross-question you. If I ever had such right on the score ofcousinship, I have lost it on the score of--; but we won't mind that,will we, Alice?" To this she at first made no answer, but he repeatedthe question. "Will we, Alice?"
"Will we what?"
"Recur to the old days."
"Why should we recur to them? They are passed, and as we are againfriends and dear cousins the sting of them is gone."
"Ah, yes! The sting of them is gone. It is for that reason, becauseit is so, that we may at last recur to them without danger. If weregret nothing,--if neither of us has anything to regret, why notrecur to them, and talk of them freely?"
"No, George; that would not do."
"By heavens, no! It would drive me mad; and if I know aught of you,it would hardly leave you as calm as you are at present."
"As I would wish to be left calm--"
"Would you? Then I suppose I ought to hold my tongue. But, Alice, Ishall never have the power of speaking to you again as I speak now.Since we have been out together, we have been dear friends; is it notso?"
"And shall we not always be dear friends?"
"No, certainly not. How will it be possible? Think of it. How can Ireally be your friend when you are the mistress of that man's housein Cambridgeshire?"
"George!"
"I mean nothing disrespectful. I truly beg your pardon if ithas seemed so. Let me say that gentleman's house;--for he is agentleman."
"That he certainly is."
"You could not have accepted him were he not so. But how can I beyour friend when you are his wife? I may still call you cousin Alice,and pat your children on the head if I chance to see them; and shallstop in the streets and shake hands with him if I meet him;--that isif my untoward fate does not induce him to cut my acquaintance;--butas for friendship, that will be over when you and I shall have partednext Thursday evening at London Bridge."
"Oh, George, don't say so!"
"But I do."
"And why on Thursday? Do you mean that you won't come to Queen AnneStreet any more?"
"Yes, that is what I do mean. This trip of ours has been verysuccessful, Kate says. Perhaps Kate knows nothing about it."
"It has been very pleasant,--at least to me."
"And the pleasure has had no drawback?"
"None to me."
"It has been very pleasant to me, also;--but the pleasure has had itsalloy. Alice, I have nothing to ask from you,--nothing."
"Anything that you should ask, I would do for you."
"I have nothing to ask;--nothing. But I have one word to say."
"George, do not say it. Let me go up-stairs. Let me go to Kate."
"Certainly; if you wish it you shall go." He still held his footagainst the chair which barred her passage, and did not attempt torise as he must have done to make way for her passage out. "Certainlyyou shall go to Kate, if you refuse to hear me. But after allthat has passed between us, after these six weeks of intimatecompanionship, I think you ought to listen to me. I tell you that Ihave nothing to ask. I am not going to make love to you."
Alice had co
mmenced some attempt to rise, but she had again settledherself in her chair. And now, when he paused for a moment, she madeno further sign that she wished to escape, nor did she say a word tointimate her further wish that he should be silent.
"I am not going to make love to you," he said again. "As for makinglove, as the word goes, that must be over between you and me. It hasbeen made and marred, and cannot be remade. It may exist, or it mayhave been expelled; but where it does not exist, it will never bebrought back again."
"It should not be spoken of between you and me."
"So, no doubt, any proper-going duenna would say, and so, too, littlechildren should be told; but between you and me there can be nonecessity for falsehood. We have grown beyond our sugar-toothed ages,and are now men and women. I perfectly understood your breaking awayfrom me. I understood you, and in spite of my sorrow knew that youwere right. I am not going to accuse or to defend myself; but I knewthat you were right."
"Then let there be no more about it."
"Yes; there must be more about it. I did not understand you when youaccepted Mr. Grey. Against him I have not a whisper to make. He maybe perfect for aught I know. But, knowing you as I thought I did, Icould not understand your loving such a man as him. It was as thoughone who had lived on brandy should take himself suddenly to a milkdiet,--and enjoy the change! A milk diet is no doubt the best. Butmen who have lived on brandy can't make those changes very suddenly.They perish in the attempt."
"Not always, George."
"It may be done with months of agony;--but there was no such agonywith you."
"Who can tell?"
"But you will tell me the cure was made. I thought so, and thereforethought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who hadbeen all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milkand honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. Withsuch a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta withoutdanger. The woman fit to be John Grey's wife would certainly dome no harm,--could not touch my happiness. I might have loved heronce,--might still love the memory of what she had been; but her, inher new form, after her new birth,--such a one as that, Alice, couldbe nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me toknow how much better, ay, and happier a woman she might be. It wasnot that I thought you had descended in the scale; but I gave youcredit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesomediet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it, andperish."
He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, havingturned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and hisface stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him;and, as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thickeyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar hadnever been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lovershe had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, butthough he paused she did not speak. The music of the river was stillin her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she werestriving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her ofthe mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Grey as her husband? Whather cousin was now telling her,--was it not a repetition of wordswhich she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the lasttwo months? Was she not telling herself daily,--hourly,--always,--inevery thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Grey she had assumedherself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Hadshe not, in truth, rioted upon brandy, till the innocence of milkwas unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her allthis,--but did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent andconvicted; only gazing into his face when his speech was done.
"I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice; andfinding you, not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the samewoman I had once loved,--the safety that I anticipated has not fallento my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk."
Can You Forgive Her? Page 7