Can You Forgive Her?

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXXI.

  Showing How George Vavasor Received a Visit.

  We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in Londonduring this summer, so that the reader may understand Mr. Grey'sposition when he reached Lucerne. He had undergone another quarrelwith George Vavasor, and something of the circumstances of thatquarrel must be told.

  It has been already said that George Vavasor lost his election forthe Chelsea Districts, after all the money which he had spent,--moneywhich he had been so ill able to spend, and on which he had laidhis hands in a manner so disreputable! He had received two thousandpounds from the bills which Alice had executed on his behalf,--orrather, had received the full value of three out of the four bills,and a part of the value of the fourth, on which he had been drivento raise what immediate money he had wanted by means of a Jewbill-discounter. One thousand pounds he had paid over at once intothe hands of Mr. Scruby, his Parliamentary election agent, towardsthe expenses of his election and when the day of polling arrivedhad exactly in his hands the sum of five hundred pounds. Wherehe was to get more when this was gone he did not know. If hewere successful,--if the enlightened constituents of the ChelseaDistricts, contented with his efforts on behalf of the River Bank,should again send him to Parliament, he thought that he might stillcarry on the war. A sum of ready money he would have in hand; and, asto his debts, he would be grandly indifferent to any considerationof them. Then there might be pickings in the way of a Member ofParliament of his calibre. Companies,--mercantile companies,--wouldbe glad to have him as a director, paying him a guinea a day,or perhaps more, for his hour's attendance. Railways in want ofvice-chairmen might bid for his services; and in the City he mightturn that "M.P." which belonged to him to good account in variousways. With such a knowledge of the City world as he possessed, hethought that he could pick up a living in London, if only he couldretain his seat in Parliament.

  But what was he to do if he could not retain it? No sooner had Mr.Scruby got the thousand pounds into his clutches than he pressed forstill more money. George Vavasor, with some show of justice on hisside, pointed out to this all-devouring agent that the sum demandedhad already been paid. This Mr. Scruby admitted, declaring that hewas quite prepared to go on without any further immediate remittance,although by doing so might subject himself to considerable risk. Butanother five hundred pounds, paid at once, would add greatly to thesafety of the seat; whereas eight hundred judiciously thrown in atthe present moment would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasorswore to himself that he would not part with another shilling. Neverhad he felt such love for money as he did for that five hundredpounds which he now held in his pocket. "It's no use," he said to Mr.Scruby. "I have done what you asked, and would have done more had youasked for more at that time. As it is, I cannot make another paymentbefore the election." Mr. Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and saidthat he would do his best. But George Vavasor soon knew that theman was not doing his best,--that the man had, in truth, abandonedhis cause. The landlord of the "Handsome Man" jeered him when hewent there canvassing. "Laws, Mr. Vavasor!" said the landlord ofthe "Handsome Man," "you're not at all the fellow for us chapsalong the river,--you ain't. You're afraid to come down with thestumpy,--that's what you are." George put his hand upon his purse,and acknowledged to himself that he had been afraid to come down withthe stumpy.

  For the last five days of the affair George Vavasor knew that hischance was gone. Mr. Scruby's face, manner, and words, told the resultof the election as plainly as any subsequent figures could do. Hewould be absent when Vavasor called, or the clerk would say that hewas absent. He would answer in very few words, constantly shrugginghis shoulders. He would even go away and leave the anxious candidatewhile he was in the middle of some discussion as to his plans. It waseasy to see that Mr. Scruby no longer regarded him as a successfulman, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr. Scrubyhad been.

  George Vavasor was rejected, but he still had his five hundred poundsin his pocket. Of course he was subject to that mortification which aman feels when he reflects that some little additional outlay wouldhave secured his object. Whether it might have been so, or not, whocan say? But there he was, with the gateway between the lamps barredagainst him, ex-Member of Parliament for the Chelsea Districts, withfive hundred pounds in his pocket, and little or nothing else that hecould call his own. What was he to do with himself?

  After trying to make himself heard upon the hustings when he wasrejected, and pledging himself to stand again at the next election,he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and endeavouredto consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost hisinheritance. He had abandoned one profession after another, and wasnow beyond the pale of another chance in that direction. His ambitionhad betrayed him, and there were no longer possible to him any hopesof political activity. He had estranged from himself every friendthat he had ever possessed. He had driven from him with violence thedevotion even of his sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intendedto marry of her money, and had so insulted her that no feeling ofamity between them was any longer possible. He had nothing now buthimself and that five hundred pounds, which he still held in hispocket. What should he do with himself and his money? He thoughtover it all with outer calmness for awhile, as he sat there in hisarm-chair.

  From the moment in which he had first become convinced that theelection would go against him, and that he was therefore ruined onall sides, he had resolved that he would be calm amidst his ruin.Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing athis own position. Mr. Bott's day of rejection had come before his own,and he had written to Mr. Bott a drolling note of consolation and mocksympathy. He had shaken hands with Mr. Scruby, and had poked his funat the agent, bidding him be sure to send in his little bill soon. Toall who accosted him, he replied in a subrisive tone; and he banteredCalder Jones, whose seat was quite sure, till Calder Jones began tohave fears that were quite unnecessary. And now, as he sat himselfdown, intending to come to some final decision as to what he woulddo, he maintained the same calmness. He smiled in the same way,though there was no one there to see the smile. He laughed evenaudibly once or twice, as he vainly endeavoured to persuade himselfthat he was able to regard the world and all that belonged to it as abubble.

  There came to him a moment in which he laughed out very audibly. "Ha!ha!" he shouted, rising up from his chair, and he walked about theroom, holding a large paper-knife in his hand. "Ha! ha!" Then hethrew the knife away from him, and thrusting his hands into histrousers-pockets, laughed again--"Ha! ha!" He stood still in thecentre of the room, and the laughter was very plainly visible on hisface, had there been anybody there to see it.

  But suddenly there was a change upon his face, as he stood there allalone, and his eyes became fierce, and the cicatrice that marredhis countenance grew to be red and ghastly, and he grinned with histeeth, and he clenched his fists as he still held them within hispockets. "Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and forever!" He had broken down in his calmness, when he thought of thatold man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him athis death. "May all the evils which the dead can feel cling to himfor ever and ever!" His laughter was all gone, and his assumedtranquillity had deserted him. Walking across the room, he struck hisfoot against a chair; upon this, he took the chair in his hands, andthrew it across the room. But he hardly arrested the torrent of hismaledictions as he did so. What good was it that he should lie tohimself by that mock tranquillity, or that false laughter? He liedto himself no longer, but uttered a song of despair that was trueenough. What should he do? Where should he go? From what fountainshould he attempt to draw such small draughts of the water of comfortas might support him at the present moment? Unless a man have somesuch fountain to which he can turn, the burden of life cannot beborne. For the moment, Vavasor tried to find such fountain in abottle of brandy which stood near him. He half filled a tumbler, andthen, dashing some water on it, swallowed it greedily. "By ----!" hesaid, "I believe it is
the best thing a man can do."

  But where was he to go? to whom was he to turn himself? He went toa high desk which stood in one corner of the room, and unlocking it,took out a revolving pistol, and for a while carried it about withhim in his hand. He turned it up, and looked at it, and tried thelock, and snapped it without caps, to see that the barrel wentround fairly. "It's a beggarly thing to do," he said, and thenhe turned the pistol down again; "and if I do do it, I'll use itfirst for another purpose." Then he poured out for himself morebrandy-and-water, and having drunk it, he threw himself upon thesofa, and seemed to sleep.

  But he did not sleep, and by-and-by there came a slight single knockat the door, which he instantly answered. But he did not answer itin the usual way by bidding the comer to come in. "Who's there?" hesaid. Then the comer attempted to enter, turning the handle of thedoor. But the door had been locked, and the key was on Vavasor'sside. "Who's there?" he asked again, speaking out loudly, but in anangry voice. "It is I," said a woman's voice. "D----ation!" saidGeorge Vavasor.

  The woman heard him, but she made no sign of having heard him. Shesimply remained standing where she was till something further shouldbe done within. She knew the man well, and knew that she must bidehis time. She was very patient,--and for the time was meek, thoughit might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor,when he had heard her voice, and knew who was there, had again thrownhimself on the sofa. There flashed across his mind another thought ortwo as to his future career,--another idea about the pistol, whichstill lay upon the table. Why should he let the intruder in, andundergo the nuisance of a disagreeable interview, if the end of allthings might come in time to save him from such trouble? There he layfor ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heardagain. He jumped upon his feet, and his eyes were full of fire. Heknew that it was useless to bid her go and leave him. She would sitthere, if it were through the whole night. Should he open the doorand strangle her, and pass out over her with the pistol in his hand,so that he might make that other reckoning which he desired toaccomplish, and then never come back any more?

  He took a turn through the room, and then walked gently up to thedoor, and undid the lock. He did not open the door, nor did he bidhis visitor enter, but having made the way easy for her if she choseto come in, he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again.As he did so, he passed his hand across the table so as to bring thepistol near to himself at the place where he would be lying. Shepaused a moment after she had heard the sound of the key, and thenshe made her way into the room. He did not at first speak to her. Sheclosed the door very gently, and then, looking around, came up to thefoot of the sofa. She paused a moment, waiting for him to addressher; but as he said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she wasthe first to speak. "George," she said, "what am I to do?"

  She was a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed poorly, in oldgarments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at feminineprettiness. There were flowers in the bonnet on her head, thoughthe bonnet had that unmistakable look of age which is quite asdistressing to bonnets as it is to women, and the flowers themselveswere battered and faded. She had long black ringlets on each cheek,hanging down much below her face, and brought forward so as to hidein some degree the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiarbrightness, but now they left on those who looked at her cursorilyno special impression as to their colour. They had been blue,--thatdark violet blue, which is so rare, but is sometimes so lovely. Herforehead was narrow, her mouth was small, and her lips were thin;but her nose was perfect in its shape, and, by the delicacy of itsmodelling, had given a peculiar grace to her face in the days whenthings had gone well with her, when her cheeks had been full withyouth and good living, and had been dimpled by the softness of loveand mirth. There were no dimples there now, and all the softnesswhich still remained was that softness which sorrow and continualmelancholy give to suffering women. On her shoulders she wore a lightshawl, which was fastened to her bosom with a large clasp brooch. Herfaded dress was supported by a wide crinoline, but the under garmenthad lost all the grace of its ancient shape, and now told thatwoman's tale of poverty and taste for dress which is to be read inthe outward garb of so many of Eve's daughters. The whole story wastold so that those who ran might read it. When she had left her homethis afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so thatsomething of the charm of apparel might be left to her; but she hadknown of her own failure at every twist that she had given to hergown, and at every jerk with which she had settled her shawl. Shehad despaired at every push she had given to her old flowers, vainlystriving to bring them back to their old forms; but still she hadpersevered. With long tedious care she had mended the old gloveswhich would hardly hold her fingers. She had carefully hidden therags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, andhad smoothed it out painfully. It had been a separate grief to herthat she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists;--and yet sheknew that no cuffs could have availed her anything. Nothing couldavail her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had comeforth anxiously, and would have waited there throughout the wholenight had access to his room been debarred to her. "George," shesaid, standing at the bottom of the sofa, "what am I to do?"

  As he lay there with his face turned towards her, the windows were ather back, and he could see her very plainly. He saw and appreciatedthe little struggles she had made to create by her appearance somereminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness ofthe long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw thesixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel, theprice of which would now have been important to him. He saw it all,and lay there for a while, silently reading it.

  "Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."

  "I don't want you to stand there," he said.

  "That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to standhere. I know you don't want to see me ever again."

  "Never."

  "I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I togo for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"

  "That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should bedelighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink, andplenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for themost, after all."

  "It was only for your sake,--because you liked it."

  "Well;--I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all myother likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you.What good do you do yourself by coming here to annoy me? Have I nottold you over and over again that you were never to look for me here?Is it likely that I should give you money now, simply because youhave disobeyed me!"

  "Where else was I to find you?"

  "Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. Ishall give you nothing;--not a penny. You know very well that we'vehad all that out before. When I put you into business I told you thatwe were to see no more of each other."

  "Business!" she said. "I never could make enough out of the shop tofeed a bird."

  "That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundredpounds, and you consented to take the place."

  "I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took myother home away from me."

  "Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you;--andmore than most men would have done, when all things are considered."Then he got up from the sofa, and stood himself on the hearthrug,with his back to the fireplace. "At any rate, you may be sure ofthis, Jane;--that I shall do nothing more. You have come here totorment me, but you shall get nothing by it."

  "I have come here because I am starving."

  "I have nothing for you. Now go;" and he pointed to the door.Nevertheless, for more than three years of his life this woman hadbeen his closest companion, his nearest friend, the being with whomhe was most familiar. He had loved her according to his fashion ofloving, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he said repeat
ing theword very angrily. "Do as I bid you, or it will be the worse foryou."

  "Will you give me a sovereign?"

  "No;--I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to mehere, and I will not pay for you coming."

  "Then I will not go;" and the woman sat down upon a chair at the footof the table. "I will not go till you have given me something to buyfood. You may put me out of the room if you can, but I will lie atthe door of the stairs. And if you get me out of the house, I willsit upon the door-step."

  "If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you."

  "Let them. It has come to that with me, that I care for nothing. Outof this I will not go till you give me money--unless I am put out."

  And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending hergloves, and darning her little fragments of finery! He stood lookingat her, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets,--looking at herand thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence. Ifhe even quite resolved to take that little final journey of which wehave spoken, with the pistol in his hand, why should he not go andleave her there? Or, for the matter of that, why should he not makeher his heir to all remainder of his wealth? What he still had leftwas sufficient to place her in a seventh heaven of the earth. Hecared but little for her, and was at this moment angry with her; butthere was no one for whom he cared more, and no friend with whom hewas less angry. But then his mind was not quite made up as to thatfinal journey. Therefore he desired to rid himself and his room ofthe nuisance of her presence.

  "Jane," he said, looking at her again with that assumed tranquillityof which I have spoken, "you talk of starving and of being ruined,--"

  "I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world."

  "Perhaps it may be a comfort to you in your troubles to know thatI am, at any rate, as badly off as you are? I won't say that I amstarving, because I could get food to eat at this moment if I wantedit; but I am utterly ruined. My property,--what should have beenmine,--has been left away from me. I have lost the trumpery seatin Parliament for which I have paid so much. All my relations haveturned their backs upon me--"

  "Are you not going to be married?" she said, rising quickly from herchair and coming close to him.

  "Married! No;--but I am going to blow my brains out. Look at thatpistol, my girl. Of course you won't think that I am in earnest,--butI am."

  She looked up into his face piteously. "Oh! George," she said, "youwon't do that?"

  "Oh! George," she said, "you won't do that?"]

  "But I shall do that. There is nothing else left for me to do. Youtalk to me about starving. I tell you that I should have no objectionto be starved, and so be put an end to in that way. It's not so badas some other ways when it comes gradually. You and I, Jane, have notplayed our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we'vebeen beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd bettergo somewhere else and begin a new game."

  "Go where?" said she.

  "Ah!--that's just what I can't tell you."

  "George," she said, "I'll go anywhere with you. If what you say istrue,--if you're not going to be married, and will let me come toyou, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I'mpoorly looking now--"

  "My girl, where I'm going, I shall not want any slave; and as foryour looks--when you go there too,--they'll be of no matter, as faras I am able to judge."

  "But, George, where are you going?"

  "Wherever people do go when their brains are knocked out of them; or,rather, when they have knocked out their own brains,--if that makesany difference."

  "George,"--she came up to him now, and took hold of him by the frontof his coat, and for the moment he allowed her to do so,--"George,you frighten me. Do not do that. Say that you will not do that!"

  "But I am just saying that I shall."

  "Are you not afraid of God's anger? You and I have been very wicked."

  "I have, my poor girl. I don't know much about your wickedness. I'vebeen like Topsy;--indeed I am a kind of second Topsy myself. Butwhat's the good of whimpering when it's over?"

  "It isn't over; it isn't over,--at any rate for you."

  "I wish I knew how I could begin again. But all this is nonsense,Jane, and you must go."

  "You must tell me, first, that you are not going to--kill yourself."

  "I don't suppose I shall do it to-night,--or, perhaps, not to-morrow.Very probably I may allow myself a week, so that your staying herecan do no good. I merely wanted to make you understand that you arenot the only person who has come to grief."

  "And you are not going to be married?"

  "No; I'm not going to be married, certainly."

  "And I must go now?"

  "Yes; I think you'd better go now." Then she rose and went, and helet her leave the room without giving her a shilling! His banteringtone, in speaking of his own position, had been successful. It hadcaused her to take herself off quietly. She knew enough of his usualmanner to be aware that his threats of self destruction were probablyunreal; but, nevertheless, what he had said had created some feelingin her heart which had induced her to yield to him, and go away inpeace.