“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 people choose to call the season.”
“To see your friends, of course. Age doesn’t matter when a person’s health is so good as yours.”
“If you knew what I suffer from lumbago, — though I must say coming to 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 as old as I am; but I declare I believe that those I love best would sooner 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 been very different if you could have consented to remain with me till you were married. But I didn’t mean you. I don’t know that I meant any one. 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 to Lady Midlothian that I thought I should go on the 20th; and, though I know that she knew that I really didn’t go, she has not once sent to me since. To be sure they’ve been out every night; but I thought she might have asked me to come and lunch. It’s so very lonely dining by myself 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 word more to say. Let me see. I’ve just six minutes to stay. I’ve made up my mind that I’ll never come up to town again, — except for one thing.”
“And what’s that, aunt?” Alice, as she asked the question, well knew what that one thing was.
“I’ll come for your marriage, my dear. I do hope you will not keep me long 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 girl is once engaged the sooner she’s married the better. There may be reasons 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 face assumed a look of almost tragic horror. Was there something wrong on Mr Grey’s side of which she was altogether unaware? Alice, though for a second or two she had been guilty of a slight playful deceit, was too 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 the time.”
“And why don’t you fix it?”
“It is such a serious thing! After all it is not more than four months yet since I — I accepted him. I don’t know that there has been any 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 terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn’t like any one at first; and then, when she does like some one, she must marry him 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’t wonder that I shouldn’t be in a hurry.”
“I am not advocating anything like hurry, my dear. But, goodness gracious me! I’ve been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horrid man will impose upon me. Good-bye; God bless you! Mind you write.” And Lady Macleod hurried out of the room more intent at the present moment upon saving her sixpence than she was on any other matter whatsoever.
And then John Grey came up to town, arriving a day or two after the time that he had fixed. It is not, perhaps, improbable that Alice had used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between Lady Macleod and her lover. They both were very anxious to obtain the same object, and Alice was to some extent opposed to their views. Had Lady Macleod and John Grey put their forces together she might have found herself unable to resist their joint endeavours. She was resolved that she would not at any rate name any day for her marriage before her return from Switzerland; and she may therefore have thought it wise 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 London to four days. On the occasion of that visit Mr Vavasor did a very memorable thing. He dined at home with the view of welcoming his future son-in-law. He dined at home, and asked, or rather assented to Alice’s asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party. “What an auspicious omen for the future nuptials!” said Kate, with her little sarcastic smile. “Uncle John dines at home, and Mr Grey joins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changed soon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a little cottage in the country.”
“Kate,” said Alice, angrily, “I think you are about the most unjust person I ever met. I would forgive your raillery, however painful it might 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 him for not caring for society, surely you might do so.”
“Exactly; but that’s just what you can’t do, my dear. You don’t forgive him. If you did you might be quite sure that I should say nothing. And if you choose to bid me hold my tongue I will say nothing. But when you tell me all your own thoughts about this thing you can hardly expect but that I should let you know mine in return. 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 so dishonest as you call me, but I’m not so wedded to truth but what I can look, and act, and speak a few falsehoods if you wish it. Only let 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 that for 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 suppose you wish to marry Mr Grey, but I’m by no means certain. I suppose the last 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 make me doubt whether I hate or love you most. Knowing what my feelings are about George, I cannot understand how you can bring yourself to speak of him to me with such contempt!” Kate Vavasor, as she spoke these words, left the room with a quick step, and hurried up to her own chamber. There Alice found her in tears, and was driven by her friend’s real grief into the expression of an apology, which she knew was not properly due from her. Kate was acquainted with all the circumstances of that old affair between her brother and Alice. She had given in her adhesion to the propriety of what Alice had done. She had allowed that her brother George’s behaviour had been such as to make any engagement between them impossible. The fault, therefore, had been hers in making any reference to the question of such a marriage. Nor had it been by any means her first fault of the same kind. Till Alice had become engaged to Mr Grey she had spoken of George only as her brother, or as her friend’s cousin, but now she was constantly making allusion to those past occurrences, which all of them should have striven to forget. Under these circumstances was not Lady Macleod right in saying that George Vavasor should not have been accepted as a companion for the Swiss tour?
The little dinner-party went off very quietly; and if no other ground existed for charging Mr Grey with London dissipation than what that afforded, he was accused most unjustly. The two young men had n
ever before met each other; and Vavasor had gone to his uncle’s house, prepared not only to dislike but to despise his successor in Alice’s favour. But in this he was either disappointed or gratified, as the case may be. “He has plenty to say for himself,” he said to Kate on his 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 any man.”
“I see it in every animal — in men, women, horses, dogs, and even pigs. I like to look on handsome things. I think people always do who are 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 he talks in the way I like a man to talk. How he bowled my uncle over about those actors; and yet if my uncle knows anything about anything it is about the stage twenty years ago.” There was nothing more said then about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough to be aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spoke sometimes from his heart, and did so more frequently to his sister than to any one else; but his words came generally from his head.
On the day after the little dinner in Queen Anne Street, John Grey came to say good-bye to his betrothed; — for his betrothed she certainly was, in spite of those very poor arguments which she had used in trying to convince herself that she was still free if she wished to claim her freedom. Though he had been constantly with Alice during the last three days, he had not hitherto said anything as to the day of their marriage. He had been constantly with her alone, sitting for hours in that ugly green drawing-room, but he had never touched the subject. He had told her much of Switzerland, which she had never yet seen but which he knew well. He had told her much of his garden and house, whither she had once gone with her father, whilst paying a visit nominally to the colleges at Cambridge. And he had talked of various matters, matters bearing in no immediate way upon his own or her affairs; for Mr Grey was a man who knew well how to make words pleasant; but previous to this last moment he had said nothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
“Well, Alice,” he said, when the last hour had come, “and about that question 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 any reason 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 too entirely for that.”
“My darling!” And now he passed his arm round her waist as they stood near 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 to be my wife.”
“A person may wish for a thing altogether, and yet not wish for it instantly.”
“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 time for 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 have granted me everything.”
She was silent, having things to say but not knowing in what words to put them. Now that he was with her she could not say the things which she had told herself that she would utter to him. She could not bring herself 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 each could strive to lean somewhat towards the other. No man could be more gracious in word and manner than John Grey; no man more chivalrous in his carriage towards a woman; but he always spoke and acted as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a word or thought of doubting, by his wife. When two came together, why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him on this day; but now that he 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 answer in 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 her farewell.
CHAPTER IV
George Vavasor, the Wild Man
It will no doubt be understood that George Vavasor did not roam about in the woods unshorn, or wear leathern trappings and sandals, like Robinson Crusoe, instead of coats and trousers. His wildness was of another kind. Indeed, I don’t know that he was in truth at all wild, though Lady Macleod had called him so, and Alice had assented to her use of the word.
George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and now, at the time of the beginning of my story, he was a year or two over thirty. He was and ever had been the heir to his grandfather’s estate; but that estate was small, and when George first came to London his father was a strong man of forty, with as much promise of life in him as his son had. A profession had therefore been absolutely necessary to him; and he had, at his uncle John’s instance, been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent. With this parliamentary land agent he had quarrelled to the knife, but not before he had by his talents made himself so useful that he had before him the prospects of a lucrative partnership in the business. George Vavasor had many faults, but idleness — absolute idleness — was not one of them. He would occasionally postpone his work to pleasure. He would be at Newmarket when he should have been at Whitehall. But it was not usual with him to be in bed when he should be at his desk, and when he was at his desk he did not whittle his ruler, or pick his teeth, or clip his nails. Upon the whole his friends were pleased with the first five years of his life in London — in spite of his having been found to be in debt on more than one occasion. But his debts had been paid; and all was going on swimmingly, when one day he knocked down the parliamentary agent with a blow between the eyes, and then there was an end of that. He himself was wont to say that he had known very well what he was about, that it had behoved him to knock down the man who was to have been his partner, and that he regretted nothing in the matter. At any rate the deed was looked upon with approving eyes by many men of good standing, — or, at any rate, sufficient standing to help George to another position; and within six weeks of the time of his leaving the office at Whitehall, he had become a partner in an established firm of wine merchants. A great-aunt had just then left him a couple of thousand pounds, which no doubt assisted him in his views with the wine merchants.
In this employment he remained for another period of five years, and was supposed by all his friends to be doing very well. And indeed he did not do badly, only that he did not do well enough to satisfy himself. He was ambitious of making the house to which he belonged the first house in the trade in London, and scared his partners by the boldness and extent of his views. He himself declared that if they would only have gone along with him he would have made them princes in the wine market. But they were men either of more prudence or of less audacity than he, and they declined to walk in his courses. At the end of the five years Vavasor left the house, not having knocked any one down on this occasion, and taking with him a very nice sum of money.
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br /> The two last of these five years had certainly been the best period of his life, for he had really worked very hard, like a man, giving up all pleasure that took time from him, — and giving up also most pleasures which were dangerous on account of their costliness. He went to no races, played no billiards, and spoke of Cremorne as a childish thing, which he had abandoned now that he was no longer a child. It was during these two years that he had had his love passages with his cousin; and it must be presumed that he had, at any rate, intended at one time to settle himself respectably as a married man. He had, however, behaved very badly to Alice, and the match had been broken off.
He had also during the last two years quarrelled with his grandfather. He had wished to raise a sum of money on the Vavasor estate, which, as it was unentailed, he could only do with his grandfather’s concurrence. The old gentleman would not hear of it, — would listen with no patience to the proposition. It was in vain that George attempted to make the squire understand that the wine business was going on very well, that he himself owed no man anything, that everything with him was flourishing; — but that his trade might be extended indefinitely by the use of a few thousand pounds at moderate interest. Old Mr Vavasor was furious. No documents and no assurances could make him lay aside a belief that the wine merchants, and the business, and his grandson were all ruined and ruinous together. No one but a ruined man would attempt to raise money on the family estate! So they had quarrelled, and had never spoken or seen each other since. “He shall have the estate for his life,” the squire said to his son John. “I don’t think I have a right to leave it away from him. It never has been left away from the heir. But I’ll tie it up so that he shan’t cut a tree on it.” John Vavasor perhaps thought that the old rule of primogeniture might under such circumstances have been judiciously abandoned — in this one instance, in his own favour. But he did not say so. Nor would he have said it had there been a chance of his doing so with success. He was a man from whom no very noble deed could be expected; but he was also one who would do no ignoble deed.
The Palliser Novels Page 4