CHAPTER LXXIV.
Showing What Happened in the Churchyard.
These arrangements as to the return of Mr. Palliser's party to Londondid not, of course, include Mr. Grey. They were generally discussed inMr. Grey's absence, and communicated to him by Mr. Palliser. "I supposewe shall see you in England before long?" said Mr. Palliser. "I shallbe able to tell you that before you go," said Grey. "Not but that inany event I shall return to England before the winter."
"Then come to us at Matching," said Mr. Palliser. "We shall be mosthappy to have you. Say that you'll come for the first fortnightin December. After that we always go to the Duke, in Barsetshire.Though, by-the-by, I don't suppose we shall go anywhere this year,"Mr. Palliser added, interrupting the warmth of his invitation, andreflecting that, under the present circumstances, perhaps, it mightbe improper to have any guests at Matching in December. But he hadbecome very fond of Mr. Grey, and on this occasion, as he had done onsome others, pressed him warmly to make an attempt at Parliament. "Itisn't nearly so difficult as you think," said he, when Grey declaredthat he would not know where to look for a seat. "See the men thatget in. There was Mr. Vavasor. Even he got a seat."
"But he had to pay for it very dearly."
"You might easily find some quiet little borough."
"Quiet little boroughs have usually got their own quiet littleMembers," said Grey.
"They're fond of change; and if you like to spend a thousand pounds,the thing isn't difficult. I'll put you in the way of it." But Mr.Grey still declined. He was not a man prone to be talked out of hisown way of life, and the very fact that George Vavasor had been inParliament would of itself have gone far towards preventing anyattempt on his part in that direction. Alice had also wanted him togo into public life, but he had put aside her request as though thething were quite out of the question,--never giving a moment to itsconsideration. Had she asked him to settle himself and her in CentralAfrica, his manner and mode of refusal would have been the same. Itwas this immobility on his part,--this absolute want of any of theweakness of indecision, which had frightened her, and driven her awayfrom him. He was partly aware of this; but that which he had declinedto do at her solicitation, he certainly would not do at the adviceof any one else. So it was that he argued the matter with himself.Had he now allowed himself to be so counselled, with what terribleacknowledgements of his own faults must he not have presented himselfbefore Alice?
"I suppose books, then, will be your object in life?" said Mr.Palliser.
"I hope they will be my aids," Grey answered. "I almost doubt whetherany object such as that you mean is necessary for life, or evenexpedient. It seems to me that if a man can so train himself that hemay live honestly and die fearlessly, he has done about as much as isnecessary."
"He has done a great deal, certainly," said Mr. Palliser, who wasnot ready enough to carry on the argument as he might have done hadmore time been given to him to consider it. He knew very well thathe himself was working for others, and not for himself; and he wasaware, though he had not analysed his own convictions on the matter,that good men struggle as they do in order that others, besidesthemselves, may live honestly, and, if possible, die fearlessly. Therecluse of Nethercoats had thought much more about all this than therising star of the House of Commons; but the philosophy of the risingstar was the better philosophy of the two, though he was by far theless brilliant man. "I don't see why a man should not live honestlyand be a Member of Parliament as well," continued Mr. Palliser, whenhe had been silent for a few minutes.
"Nor I either," said Grey. "I am sure that there are such men, andthat the country is under great obligation to them. But they aresubject to temptations which a prudent man like myself may perhapsdo well to avoid." But though he spoke with an assured tone, he wasshaken, and almost regretted that he did not accept the aid which wasoffered to him. It is astonishing how strong a man may be to thosearound him,--how impregnable may be his exterior, while within hefeels himself to be as weak as water, and as unstable as chaff.
But the object which he had now in view was a renewal of hisengagement with Alice, and he felt that he must obtain an answer fromher before they left Lucerne. If she still persisted in refusing togive him her hand, it would not be consistent with his dignity asa man to continue his immediate pursuit of her any longer. In suchcase he must leave her, and see what future time might bring forth.He believed himself to be aware that he would never offer his loveto another woman; and if Alice were to remain single, he might tryagain, after the lapse of a year or two. But if he failed now,--then,for that year or two, he would see her no more. Having so resolved,and being averse to anything like a surprise, he asked her, ashe left her one evening, whether she would walk with him on thefollowing morning. That morning would be the morning of her last dayat Lucerne; and as she assented she knew well what was to come. Shesaid nothing to Lady Glencora on the subject, but allowed the comingprospects of the Palliser family to form the sole subject of theirconversation that night, as it had done on every night since thegreat news had become known. They were always together for an hourevery evening before Alice was allowed to go to bed, and duringthis hour the anxieties of the future father and mother were alwaysdiscussed till Alice Vavasor was almost tired of them. But she waspatient with her friend, and on this special night she was patientas ever. But when she was released and was alone, she made a greatendeavour to come to some fixed resolution as to what she would do onthe morrow,--some resolution which should be absolutely resolute, andfrom which no eloquence on the part of any one should move her. Butsuch resolutions are not easily reached, and Alice laboured throughhalf the night almost in vain. She knew that she loved the man. Sheknew that he was as true to her as the sun is true to the earth. Sheknew that she would be, in all respects, safe in his hands. She knewthat Lady Glencora would be delighted, and her father gratified. Sheknew that the countesses would open their arms to her,--though Idoubt whether this knowledge was in itself very persuasive. She knewthat by such a marriage she would gain all that women generally lookto gain when they give themselves away. But, nevertheless, as far asshe could decide at all, she decided against her lover. She had noright of her own to be taken back after the evil that she had done,and she did not choose to be taken back as an object of pity andforgiveness.
"Where are you going?" said her cousin, when she came in with her haton, soon after breakfast.
"I am going to walk,--with Mr. Grey."
"By appointment?"
"Yes, by appointment. He asked me yesterday."
"Then it's all settled, and you haven't told me!"
"All that is settled I have told you very often. He asked meyesterday to walk with him this morning, and I could not well refusehim."
"Why should you have wished to refuse him?"
"I haven't said that I did wish it. But I hate scenes, and I think itwould have been pleasanter for us to have parted without any occasionfor special words."
"Alice, you are such a fool!"
"So you tell me very often."
"Of course he is now going to say the very thing that he has comeall this way for the purpose of saying. He has been wonderfully slowabout it; but then slow as he is, you are slower. If you don't makeit up with him now, I really shall think you are very wicked. I ambecoming like Lady Midlothian;--I can't understand it. I know youwant to be his wife, and I know he wants to be your husband, and theonly thing that keeps you apart is your obstinacy,--just because youhave said you wouldn't have him. My belief is that if Lady Midlothianand the rest of us were to pat you on the back, and tell you howright you were, you'd ask him to take you, out of defiance. You maybe sure of this, Alice; if you refuse him now, it'll be for the lasttime."
This, and much more of the same kind, she bore before Mr. Grey cameto take her, and she answered to it all as little as she could. "Youare making me very unhappy, Glencora," she said once. "I wish I couldbreak you down with unhappiness," Lady Glencora answered, "so that hemight find you less stiff, and hard, and u
nmanageable." Directly uponthat he came in, looking as though he had no business on hand moreexciting than his ordinary morning's tranquil employments. Alice atonce got up to start with him. "So you and Alice are going to makeyour adieux," said Lady Glencora. "It must be done sooner or later,"said Mr. Grey; and then they went off.
Those who know Lucerne,--and almost everybody now does knowLucerne,--will remember the big hotel which has been built close tothe landing-pier of the steamers, and will remember also the churchthat stands upon a little hill or rising ground, to the left of you,as you come out of the inn upon the lake. The church is immediatelyover the lake, and round the church there is a burying-ground,and skirting the burying-ground there are cloisters, through thearches and apertures of which they who walk and sit there look downimmediately upon the blue water, and across the water upon thefrowning menaces of Mount Pilate. It is one of the prettiest spots inthat land of beauty; and its charm is to my feeling enhanced by thesepulchral monuments over which I walk, and by which I am surrounded,as I stand there. Up here, into these cloisters, Alice and John Greywent together. I doubt whether he had formed any purpose of doingso. She certainly would have gone without question in any directionthat he might have led her. The distance from the inn up to thechurch-gate did not take them ten minutes, and when they were theretheir walk was over. But the place was solitary, and they were alone;and it might be as well for Mr. Grey to speak what words he had to saythere as elsewhere. They had often been together in those cloistersbefore, but on such occasions either Mr. Palliser or Lady Glencorahad been with them. On their slow passage up the hill very little wasspoken, and that little was of no moment. "We will go in here for afew minutes," he said. "It is the prettiest spot about Lucerne, andwe don't know when we may see it again." So they went in, and satdown on one of the embrasures that open from the cloisters over thelake.
"Probably never again," said Alice. "And yet I have been here now twoyears running."
She shuddered as she remembered that in that former year GeorgeVavasor had been with her. As she thought of it all she hatedherself. Over and over again she had told herself that she had somismanaged the latter years of her life that it was impossible forher not to hate herself. No woman had a clearer idea of feminineconstancy than she had, and no woman had sinned against that ideamore deeply. He gave her time to think of all this as he sat therelooking down upon the water.
"And yet I would sooner live in Cambridgeshire," were the first wordshe spoke.
"Why so?"
"Partly because all beauty is best enjoyed when it is sought for withsome trouble and difficulty, and partly because such beauty, and theromance which is attached to it, should not make up the staple ofone's life. Romance, if it is to come at all, should always come byfits and starts."
"I should like to live in a pretty country."
"And would like to live a romantic life,--no doubt; but all thosethings lose their charm if they are made common. When a man has togo to Vienna or St. Petersburg two or three times a month, you don'tsuppose he enjoys travelling?"
"All the same, I should like to live in a pretty country," saidAlice.
"And I want you to come and live in a very ugly country." Then hepaused for a minute or two, not looking at her, but gazing still onthe mountain opposite. She did not speak a word, but looked as he waslooking. She knew that the request was coming, and had been thinkingabout it all night; but now that it had come she did not know how tobear herself. "I don't think," he went on to say, "that you would letthat consideration stand in your way, if on other grounds you werewilling to become my wife."
"What consideration?"
"Because Nethercoats is not so pretty as Lucerne."
"It would have nothing to do with it," said Alice.
"It should have nothing to do with it."
"Nothing; nothing at all," repeated Alice.
"Will you come, then? Will you come and be my wife, and help me to behappy amidst all that ugliness? Will you come and be my one beautifulthing, my treasure, my joy, my comfort, my counsellor?"
"You want no counsellor, Mr. Grey."
"No man ever wanted one more. Alice, this has been a bad year to me,and I do not think that it has been a happy one for you."
"Indeed, no."
"Let us forget it,--or rather, let us treat it as though it wereforgotten. Twelve months ago you were mine. You were, at any rate,so much mine that I had a right to boast of my possession among myfriends."
"It was a poor boast."
"They did not seem to think so. I had but one or two to whom I couldspeak of you, but they told me that I was going to be a happy man.As to myself, I was sure that I was to be so. No man was ever bettercontented with his bargain than I was with mine. Let us go back toit, and the last twelve months shall be as though they had neverbeen."
"That cannot be, Mr. Grey. If it could, I should be worse even thanI am."
"Why cannot it be?"
"Because I cannot forgive myself what I have done, and because youought not to forgive me."
"But I do. There has never been an hour with me in which there hasbeen an offence of yours rankling in my bosom unforgiven. I think youhave been foolish, misguided,--led away by a vain ambition, and thatin the difficulty to which these things brought you, you endeavouredto constrain yourself to do an act, which, when it came near toyou,--when the doing of it had to be more closely considered, youfound to be contrary to your nature." Now, as he spoke thus, sheturned her eyes upon him, and looked at him, wondering that he shouldhave had power to read her heart so accurately. "I never believedthat you would marry your cousin. When I was told of it, I knew thattrouble had blinded you for awhile. You had driven yourself to revoltagainst me, and upon that your heart misgave you, and you said toyourself that it did not matter then how you might throw away allyour sweetness. You see that I speak of your old love for me with thefrank conceit of a happy lover."
"No;--no, no!" she ejaculated.
"But the storm passes over the tree and does not tear it up bythe roots or spoil it of all its symmetry. When we hear the windsblowing, and see how the poor thing is shaken, we think that itsdays are numbered and its destruction at hand. Alice, when thewinds were shaking you, and you were torn and buffeted, I neverthought so. There may be some who will forgive you slowly. Your ownself-forgiveness will be slow. But I, who have known you better thanany one,--yes, better than any one,--I have forgiven you everything,have forgiven you instantly. Come to me, Alice, and comfort me. Cometo me, for I want you sorely." She sat quite still, looking at thelake and the mountain beyond, but she said nothing. What could shesay to him? "My need of you is much greater now," he went on to say,"than when I first asked you to share the world with me. Then I couldhave borne to lose you, as I had never boasted to myself that youwere my own,--had never pictured to myself the life that might bemine if you were always to be with me. But since that day I have hadno other hope,--no other hope but this for which I plead now. Am I toplead in vain?"
"You do not know me," she said; "how vile I have been! You do notthink what it is,--for a woman to have promised herself to one manwhile she loved another."
"But it was me you loved. Ah! Alice, I can forgive that. Do I nottell you that I did forgive it the moment that I heard it? Do you nothear me say that I never for a moment thought that you would marryhim? Alice, you should scold me for my vanity, for I have believedall through that you loved me, and me only. Come to me, dear, andtell me that it is so, and the past shall be only as a dream."
"I am dreaming it always," said Alice.
"They will cease to be bitter dreams if your head be upon myshoulder. You will cease to reproach yourself when you know that youhave made me happy."
"I shall never cease to reproach myself. I have done that which nowoman can do and honour herself afterwards. I have been--a jilt."
"The noblest jilt that ever yet halted between two minds! There hasbeen no touch of selfishness in your fickleness. I think I could behard enough upon a woman who had
left me for greater wealth, for ahigher rank,--who had left me even that she might be gay and merry.It has not been so with you."
"Yes, it has. I thought you were too firm in your own will, and--"
"And you think so still. Is that it?"
"It does not matter what I think now. I am a fallen creature, andhave no longer a right to such thoughts. It will be better for usboth that you should leave me,--and forget me. There are thingswhich, if a woman does them, should never be forgotten;--which sheshould never permit herself to forget."
"And am I to be punished, then, because of your fault? Is that yoursense of justice?" He got up, and standing before her, looked downupon her. "Alice, if you will tell me that you do not love me, I willbelieve you, and will trouble you no more. I know that you will saynothing to me that is false. Through it all you have spoken no wordof falsehood. If you love me, after what has passed, I have a rightto demand your hand. My happiness requires it, and I have a rightto expect your compliance. I do demand it. If you love me, Alice,I tell you that you dare not refuse me. If you do so, you will failhereafter to reconcile it to your conscience before God."
Then he stopped his speech, and waited for a reply; but Alice satsilent beneath his gaze, with her eyes turned upon the tombstonesbeneath her feet. Of course she had no choice but to yield. He,possessed of power and force infinitely greater than hers, had lefther no alternative but to be happy. But there still clung to her whatI fear we must call a perverseness of obstinacy, a desire to maintainthe resolution she had made,--a wish that she might be allowed toundergo the punishment she had deserved. She was as a prisoner whowould fain cling to his prison after pardon has reached him, becausehe is conscious that the pardon is undeserved. And it may be thatthere was still left within her bosom some remnant of that feelingof rebellion which his masterful spirit had ever produced in her. Hewas so imperious in his tranquillity, he argued his question of lovewith such a manifest preponderance of right on his side, that she hadalways felt that to yield to him would be to confess the omnipotenceof his power. She knew now that she must yield to him,--that hispower over her was omnipotent. She was pressed by him as in somecountries the prisoner is pressed by the judge,--so pressed that sheacknowledged to herself silently that any further antagonism to himwas impossible. Nevertheless, the word which she had to speak stillremained unspoken, and he stood over her, waiting for her answer.Then slowly he sat down beside her, and gradually he put his armround her waist. She shrank from him, back against the stonework ofthe embrasure, but she could not shrink away from his grasp. She putup her hand to impede his, but his hand, like his character and hiswords, was full of power. It would not be impeded. "Alice," he said,as he pressed her close with his arm, "the battle is over now, and Ihave won it."
"You win everything,--always," she said, whispering to him, as shestill shrank from his embrace.
"In winning you I have won everything." Then he put his face over herand pressed his lips to hers. I wonder whether he was made happierwhen he knew that no other touch had profaned those lips since lasthe had pressed them?
Can You Forgive Her? Page 76