The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  Dearest Kate, good-bye. I hope you will feel for me. If you do not answer me I shall presume that you think yourself bound to support his side, and to believe me to have been wrong. It will make me very unhappy; but I shall remember that you are his sister, and I shall not be angry with you.

  Yours always affectionately,

  Alice Vavasor.

  Kate, as she read her letter through, at first quickly, and then very slowly, came by degrees almost to forget that death was in the house. Her mind, and heart, and brain, were filled with thoughts and feelings that had exclusive reference to Alice and her brother, and at last she found herself walking the room with quick, impetuous steps, while her blood was hot with indignation.

  All her sympathies in the matter were with Alice. It never occurred to her to disbelieve a word of the statement made to her, or to suggest to herself that it had been coloured by any fears or exaggerations on the part of her correspondent. She knew that Alice was true. And, moreover, much as she loved her brother, — willing as she had been and would still be to risk all that she possessed, and herself also, on his behalf, — she knew that it would be risking and not trusting. She loved her brother, such love having come to her by nature, and having remained with her from of old; and in his intellect she still believed. But she had ceased to have belief in his conduct. She feared everything that he might do, and lived with a consciousness that though she was willing to connect all her own fortunes with his, she had much reason to expect that she might encounter ruin in doing so. Her sin had been in this, — that she had been anxious to subject Alice to the same danger, — that she had intrigued, sometimes very meanly, to bring about the object which she had at heart, — that she had used all her craft to separate Alice from Mr Grey. Perhaps it may be alleged in her excuse that she had thought, — had hoped rather than thought, — that the marriage which she contemplated would change much in her brother that was wrong, and bring him into a mode of life that would not be dangerous. Might not she and Alice together so work upon him, that he should cease to stand ever on the brink of some half-seen precipice? To risk herself for her brother was noble. But when she used her cunning in inducing her cousin to share that risk she was ignoble. Of this she had herself some consciousness, as she walked up and down the old dining-room at midnight, holding her cousin’s letter in her hand.

  Her cheeks became tinged with shame as she thought of the scene which Alice had described, — the toy thrown beneath the grate, the loud curses, the whispered threats, which had been more terrible than curses, the demand for money, made with something worse than a cut-throat’s violence, the strong man’s hand placed upon the woman’s arm in anger and in rage, those eyes glaring, and the gaping horror of that still raw cicatrice, as he pressed his face close to that of his victim! Not for a moment did she think of defending him. She accused him to herself vehemently of a sin over and above those sins which had filled Alice with dismay. He had demanded money from the girl whom he intended to marry! According to Kate’s idea, nothing could excuse or palliate this sin. Alice had accounted it as nothing, — had expressed her opinion that the demand was reasonable; — even now, after the ill-usage to which she had been subjected, she had declared that the money should be forthcoming, and given to the man who had treated her so shamefully. It might be well that Alice should so feel and so act, but it behoved Kate to feel and act very differently. She would tell her brother, even in the house of death, should he come there, that his conduct was mean and unmanly. Kate was no coward. She declared to herself that she would do this even though he should threaten her with all his fury, — though he should glare upon her with all the horrors of his countenance.

  One o’clock, and two o’clock, still found her in the dark sombre parlour, every now and then pacing the floor of the room. The fire had gone out, and, though it was now the middle of April, she began to feel the cold. But she would not go to bed before she had written a line to Alice. To her brother a message by telegraph would of course be sent the next morning; as also would she send a message to her aunt. But to Alice she would write, though it might be but a line. Cold as she was, she found her pens and paper, and wrote her letter that night. It was very short. “Dear Alice, to-day I received your letter, and to-day our poor old grandfather died. Tell my uncle John, with my love, of his father’s death. You will understand that I cannot write much now about that other matter; but I must tell you, even at such a moment as this, that there shall be no quarrel between you and me. There shall be none at least on my side. I cannot say more till a few days shall have passed by. He is lying up-stairs, a corpse. I have telegraphed to George, and I suppose he will come down. I think my aunt Greenow will come also, as I had written to her before, seeing that I wanted the comfort of having her here. Uncle John will of course come or not as he thinks fitting. I don’t know whether I am in a position to say that I shall be glad to see him; but I should be very glad. He and you will know that I can, as yet, tell you nothing further. The lawyer is to see the men about the funeral. Nothing, I suppose, will be done till George comes. Your own cousin and friend, Kate Vavasor.” And then she added a line below, “My own Alice, — If you will let me, you shall be my sister, and be the nearest to me and the dearest.”

  Alice, when she received this, was at the first moment so much struck, and indeed surprised, by the tidings of her grandfather’s death, that she was forced, in spite of the still existing violence of her own feelings, to think and act chiefly with reference to that event. Her father had not then left his room. She therefore went to him, and handed him Kate’s letter. “Papa,” she said, “there is news from Westmoreland; bad news, which you hardly expected yet.” “My father is dead,” said John Vavasor. Whereupon Alice gave him Kate’s letter, that he might read it. “Of course I shall go down,” he said, as he came to that part in which Kate had spoken of him. “Does she think I shall not follow my father to the grave, because I dislike her brother? What does she mean by saying that there shall be no quarrel between you and her?” “I will explain that at another time,” said Alice. John Vavasor asked no further questions then, but declared at first that he should go to Westmoreland on the following day. Then he altered his purpose. “I’ll go by the mail train to-night,” he said. “It will be very disagreeable, but I ought to be there when the will is opened.” There was very little more said in Queen Anne Street on the subject till the evening, — till a few moments before Mr Vavasor left his house. He indeed had thought nothing more about that quarrelling, or rather that promise that there should be no quarrelling, between the girls. He still regarded his nephew George as the man who, unfortunately, was to be his son-in-law, and now, during this tedious sad day, in which he felt himself compelled to remain at home, he busied his mind in thinking of George and Alice, as living together at the old Hall. At six, the father and daughter dined, and soon after dinner Mr Vavasor went up to his own room to prepare himself for his journey. After a while Alice followed him, — but she did not do so till she knew that if anything was to be told before the journey no further time could be lost. “Papa,” she said, as soon as she had shut the door behind her, “I think I ought to tell you before you go that everything is over between me and George.”

  “Have you quarrelled with him too?” said her father, with uncontrolled surprise.

  “I should perhaps say that he has quarrelled with me. But, dear papa, pray do not question me at present. I will tell you all when you come back, but I thought it right that you should know this before you went.”

  “It has been his doing then?”

  “I cannot explain it to you in a hurry like this. Papa, you may understand something of the shame which I feel, and you should not question me now.”

  “And John Grey?”

  “There is nothing different in regard to him.”

  “I’ll be shot if I can understand you. George, you know, has had two thousand pounds of your money, — of yours or somebody else’s. Well, we can’t talk about it now, as I mus
t be off. Thinking as I do of George, I’m glad of it, — that’s all.” Then he went, and Alice was left alone, to comfort herself as best she might by her own reflections.

  George Vavasor had received the message on the day previous to that on which Alice’s letter had reached her, but it had not come to him till late in the day. He might have gone down by the mail train of that night, but there were one or two persons, his own attorney especially, whom he wished to see before the reading of his grandfather’s will. He remained in town, therefore, on the following day, and went down by the same train as that which took his uncle. Walking along the platform, looking for a seat, he peered into a carriage and met his uncle’s eye. The two saw each other, but did not speak, and George passed on to another carriage. On the following morning, before the break of day, they met again in the refreshment room, at the station at Lancaster. “So my father has gone, George,” said the uncle, speaking to the nephew. They must go to the same house, and Mr Vavasor felt that it would be better that they should be on speaking terms when they reached it. “Yes,” said George; “he has gone at last. I wonder what we shall find to have been his latest act of injustice.” The reader will remember that he had received Kate’s first letter, in which she had told him of the Squire’s altered will. John Vavasor turned away disgusted. His finer feelings were perhaps not very strong, but he had no thoughts or hopes in reference to the matter which were mean. He expected nothing himself, and did not begrudge his nephew the inheritance. At this moment he was thinking of the old Squire as a father who had ever been kind to him. It might be natural that George should have no such old affection at his heart, but it was unnatural that he should express himself as he had done at such a moment.

  The uncle turned away, but said nothing. George followed him with a little proposition of his own. “We shan’t get any conveyance at Shap,” he said. “Hadn’t we better go over in a chaise from Kendal?” To this the uncle assented, and so they finished their journey together. George smoked all the time that they were in the carriage, and very few words were spoken. As they drove up to the old house, they found that another arrival had taken place before them, — Mrs Greenow having reached the house in some vehicle from the Shap station. She had come across from Norwich to Manchester, where she had joined the train which had brought the uncle and nephew from London.

  CHAPTER LV

  The Will

  The coming of Mrs Greenow at this very moment was a great comfort to Kate. Without her she would hardly have known how to bear herself with her uncle and her brother. As it was, they were all restrained by something of the courtesy which strangers are bound to show to each other. George had never seen his aunt since he was a child, and some sort of introduction was necessary between them.

  “So you are George,” said Mrs Greenow, putting out her hand and smiling.

  “Yes; I’m George,” said he.

  “And a Member of Parliament!” said Mrs Greenow. “It’s quite an honour to the family. I felt so proud when I heard it!” She said this pleasantly, meaning it to be taken for truth, and then turned away to her brother. “Papa’s time was fully come,” she said, “though, to tell the truth, I had no idea that he was so weak as Kate describes him to have been.”

  “Nor I, either,” said John Vavasor. “He went to church with us here on Christmas-day.”

  “Did he, indeed? Dear, dear! He seems at last to have gone off just like poor Greenow.” Here she put her handkerchief up to her face. “I think you didn’t know Greenow, John?”

  “I met him once,” said her brother.

  “Ah! he wasn’t to be known and understood in that way. I’m aware there was a little prejudice, because of his being in trade, but we won’t talk of that now. Where should I have been without him, tradesman or no tradesman?”

  “I’ve no doubt he was an excellent man.”

  “You may say that, John. Ah, well! we can’t keep everything in this life for ever.” It may, perhaps, be as well to explain now that Mrs Greenow had told Captain Bellfield at their last meeting before she left Norwich, that, under certain circumstances, if he behaved himself well, there might possibly be ground of hope. Whereupon Captain Bellfield had immediately gone to the best tailor in that city, had told the man of his coming marriage, and had given an extensive order. But the tailor had not as yet supplied the goods, waiting for more credible evidence of the Captain’s good fortune. “We’re all grass of the field,” said Mrs Greenow, lightly brushing a tear from her eye, “and must be cut down and put into the oven in our turns.” Her brother uttered a slight sympathetic groan, shaking his head in testimony of the uncertainty of human affairs, and then said that he would go out and look about the place. George, in the meantime, had asked his sister to show him his room, and the two were already together up-stairs.

  Kate had made up her mind that she would say nothing about Alice at the present moment, — nothing, if it could be avoided, till after the funeral. She led the way up-stairs, almost trembling with fear, for she knew that that other subject of the will would also give rise to trouble and sorrow, — perhaps, also, to determined quarrelling.

  “What has brought that woman here?” was the first question that George asked.

  “I asked her to come,” said Kate.

  “And why did you ask her to come here?” said George, angrily. Kate immediately felt that he was speaking as though he were master of the house, and also as though he intended to be master of her. As regarded the former idea, she had no objection to it. She thoroughly and honestly wished that he might be the master; and though she feared that he might find himself mistaken in his assumption, she herself was not disposed to deny any appearance of right that he might take upon himself in that respect. But she had already begun to tell herself that she must not submit herself to his masterdom. She had gradually so taught herself since he had compelled her to write the first letter in which Alice had been asked to give her money.

  “I asked her, George, before my poor grandfather’s death, when I thought that he would linger perhaps for weeks. My life here alone with him, without any other woman in the house beside the servants, was very melancholy.”

  “Why did you not ask Alice to come to you?”

  “Alice could not have come,” said Kate, after a short pause.

  “I don’t know why she shouldn’t have come. I won’t have that woman about the place. She disgraced herself by marrying a blacksmith — .”

  “Why, George, it was you yourself who advised me to go and stay with her.”

  “That’s a very different thing. Now that he’s dead, and she’s got his money, it’s all very well that you should go to her occasionally; but I won’t have her here.”

  “It’s natural that she should come to her father’s house at her father’s death-bed.”

  “I hate to be told that things are natural. It always means humbug. I don’t suppose she cared for the old man any more than I did, — or than she cared for the other old man who married her. People are such intense hypocrites. There’s my uncle John, pulling a long face because he has come into this house, and he will pull it as long as the body lies up there; and yet for the last twenty years there’s nothing on earth he has so much hated as going to see his father. When are they going to bury him?”

  “On Saturday, the day after to-morrow.”

  “Why couldn’t they do it to-morrow, so that we could get away before Sunday?”

  “He only died on Monday, George,” said Kate, solemnly.

  “Psha! Who has got the will?”

  “Mr Gogram. He was here yesterday, and told me to tell you and uncle John that he would have it with him when he came back from the funeral.”

  “What has my uncle John to do with it?” said George, sharply. “I shall go over to Penrith this afternoon and make Gogram give it up to me.”

  “I don’t think he’ll do that, George.”

  “What right has he to keep it? What right has he to it at all? How do I know that he has really
got the old man’s last will? Where did my grandfather keep his papers?”

  “In that old secretary, as he used to call it; the one that stands in the dining-room. It is sealed up.”

  “Who sealed it?”

  “Mr Gogram did, — Mr Gogram and I together.”

  “What the deuce made you meddle with it?”

  “I merely assisted him. But I believe he was quite right. I think it is usual in such cases.”

  “Balderdash! You are thinking of some old trumpery of former days. Till I know to the contrary, everything here belongs to me as heir-at-law, and I do not mean to allow of any interference till I know for certain that my rights have been taken from me. And I won’t accept a death-bed will. What a man chooses to write when his fingers will hardly hold the pen, goes for nothing.”

  “You can’t suppose that I wish to interfere with your rights?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Oh, George!”

  “Well; I say, I hope not. But I know there are those who would. Do you think my uncle John would not interfere with me if he could? By ––––! if he does, he shall find that he does it to his cost. I’ll lead him such a life through the courts, for the next two or three years, that he’ll wish that he had remained in Chancery Lane, and had never left it.”

  A message was now brought up by the nurse, saying that Mrs Greenow and Mr Vavasor were going into the room where the old Squire was lying, “Would Miss Kate and Mr George go with them?”