“And you think that she’ll still come round again?”
“I cannot say that I think so. No one can venture to say whether or not such wounds as hers may be cured. There are hearts and bodies so organized, that in them severe wounds are incurable, whereas in others no injury seems to be fatal. But I can say that if she be not cured it shall not be from want of perseverance on my part.”
“Upon my word, Grey, I don’t know how to thank you enough. I don’t, indeed.”
“It doesn’t seem to me to be a case for thanking.”
“Of course it isn’t. I know that well enough. And in the ordinary way of the world no father would think of thanking a man for wanting to marry his daughter. But things have come to such a pass with us, that, by George! I don’t feel like any other father. I don’t mind saying anything to you, you know. That claret isn’t very good, but you might as well take another glass.”
“Thank you, I will. I should have said that that was rather good wine, now.”
“It’s not just the thing. What’s the use of my having good wine here, when nobody comes to drink it? But, as I was saying about Alice, of course I’ve felt all this thing very much. I feel as though I were responsible, and yet what could I do? She’s her own mistress through it all. When she told me she was going to marry that horrible miscreant, my nephew, what could I do?”
“That’s over now, and we need not talk about it.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so, — very. I believe she’s a good girl. I do, indeed, in spite of it all.”
“I’ve no doubt of her being what you call a good girl, — none in the least. What she has done to me does not impair her goodness. I don’t think you have ever understood how much all this has been a matter of conscience with her.”
“Conscience!” said the angry father. “I hate such conscience. I like the conscience that makes a girl keep her word, and not bring disgrace upon those she belongs to.”
“I shall not think that I am disgraced,” said Grey, quietly, “if she will come and be my wife. She has meant to do right, and has endeavoured to take care of the happiness of other people rather than her own.”
“She has taken very little care of mine,” said Mr Vavasor.
“I shall not be at all afraid to trust mine to her, — if she will let me do so. But she has been wounded sorely, and it must take time.”
“And, in the meantime, what are we to do when she tells us that Mr George Vavasor wants another remittance? Two thousand pounds a quarter comes heavy, you know!”
“Let us hope that he has had enough.”
“Enough! Did such a man ever have enough?”
“Let us hope, then, that she thinks he has had enough. Come; — may I go up-stairs?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll follow you. She’ll think that I mean something if I leave you together.”
From all this it will be seen that Alice’s father and her lover still stood together on confidential terms. Not easily had Mr Vavasor brought himself to speak of his daughter to John Grey, in such language as he had now used; but he had been forced by adverse circumstances to pass the Rubicon of parental delicacy; he had been driven to tell his wished-for son-in-law that he did wish to have him as a son-in-law; he had been compelled to lay aside those little airs of reserve with which a father generally speaks of his daughter, — and now all was open between them.
“And you really start to-morrow?” said Grey, as he stood close over Alice’s work-table. Mr Vavasor had followed him into the drawing-room, but had seated himself in an easy-chair on the other side of the fire. There was no tone of whispering in Grey’s voice, but yet he spoke in a manner which showed that he did not intend to be audible on the other side of the room.
“I start for Westmoreland to-morrow. We do not leave London for the continent till the latter end of next week.”
“But you will not be here again?”
“No; I shall not come back to Queen Anne Street.”
“And you will be away for many months?”
“Mr Palliser talked of next Easter as the term of his return. He mentioned Easter to Lady Glencora. I have not seen him myself since I agreed to go with him.”
“What should you say if you met me somewhere in your travels?” He had now gently seated himself on the sofa beside her; — not so close to her as to give her just cause to move away, but yet so near as to make his conversation with her quite private.
“I don’t think that will be very likely,” she replied, not knowing what to say.
“I think it is very likely. For myself, I hate surprises. I could not bring myself to fall in upon your track unawares. I shall go abroad, but it will not be till the late autumn, when the summer heats are gone, — and I shall endeavour to find you.”
“To find me, Mr Grey!” There was a quivering in her voice, as she spoke, which she could not prevent, though she would have given worlds to prevent it. “I do not think that will be quite fair.”
“It will not be unfair, I think, if I give you notice of my approach. I will not fall upon you and your friends unawares.”
“I was not thinking of them. They would be glad to know you, of course.”
“And equally, of course! or, rather, much more of course, you will not be glad to see me? That’s what you mean?”
“I mean that we had better not meet more than we can help.”
“I think differently, Alice, — quite differently. The more we meet the better, — that is what I think. But I will not stop to trouble you now. Good night!” Then he got up and went away, and her father went with him. Mr Vavasor, as he rose from his chair, declared that he would just walk through a couple of streets; but Alice knew that he was gone to his club.
CHAPTER LXIV
The Rocks and Valleys
During these days Mrs Greenow was mistress of the old Hall down in Westmoreland, and was nursing Kate assiduously through the calamity of her broken arm. There had come to be a considerable amount of confidence between the aunt and the niece. Kate had acknowledged to her aunt that her brother had behaved badly, — very badly; and the aunt had confessed to the niece that she regarded Captain Bellfield as a fit subject for compassion.
“And he was violent to you, and broke your arm? I always knew it was so,” Mrs Greenow had said, speaking with reference to her nephew. But this Kate had denied. “No,” said she; “that was an accident. When he went away and left me, he knew nothing about it. And if he had broken both my arms I should not have cared much. I could have forgiven him that.” But that which Kate could not forgive him was the fault which she had herself committed. For his sake she had done her best to separate Alice and John Grey, and George had shown himself to be unworthy of the kindness of her treachery. “I would give all I have in the world to bring them together again,” Kate said. “They’ll come together fast enough if they like each other,” said Mrs Greenow. “Alice is young still, and they tell me she’s as good looking as ever. A girl with her money won’t have far to seek for a husband, even if this paragon from Cambridgeshire should not turn up again.”
“You don’t know Alice, aunt.”
“No, I don’t. But I know what young women are, and I know what young men are. All this nonsense about her cousin George, — what difference will it make? A man like Mr Grey won’t care about that, — especially not if she tells him all about it. My belief is that a girl can have anything forgiven her, if she’ll only tell it herself.”
But Kate preferred the other subject, and so, I think, did Mrs Greenow herself. “Of course, my dear,” she would say, “marriage with me, if I should marry again, would be a very different thing to your marriage, or that of any other young person. As for love, that has been all over for me since poor Greenow died. I have known nothing of the softness of affection since I laid him in his cold grave, and never can again. ‘Captain Bellfield,’ I said to him, ‘if you were to kneel at my feet for years, it would not make me care for you in the way of love.’”
“And w
hat did he say to that?”
“How am I to tell you what he said? He talked nonsense about my beauty, as all the men do. If a woman were hump-backed, and had only one eye, they wouldn’t be ashamed to tell her she was a Venus.”
“But, aunt, you are a handsome woman, you know.”
“Laws, my dear, as if I didn’t understand all about it; as if I didn’t know what makes a woman run after? It isn’t beauty, — and it isn’t money altogether. I’ve seen women who had plenty of both, and not a man would come nigh them. They didn’t dare. There are some of them, a man would as soon think of putting his arm round a poplar tree, they are so hard and so stiff. You know you’re a little that way yourself, Kate, and I’ve always told you it won’t do.”
“I’m afraid I’m too old to mend, aunt.”
“Not at all, if you’ll only set your wits to work and try. You’ve plenty of money now, and you’re good-looking enough, too, when you take the trouble to get yourself up. But, as I said before, it isn’t that that’s wanted. There’s a stand-off about some women, — what the men call a ‘nollimy tangere,’ that a man must be quite a furious Orlando to attempt to get the better of it. They look as though matrimony itself were improper, and as if they believed that little babies were found about in the hedges and ditches. They talk of women being forward! There are some of them a deal too backward, according to my way of thinking.”
“Yours is a comfortable doctrine, aunt.”
“That’s just what I want it to be. I want things to be comfortable. Why shouldn’t things be nice about one when one’s got the means? Nobody can say it’s a pleasant thing to live alone. I always thought that man in the song hit it off properly. You remember what he says? ‘The poker and tongs to each other belongs.’ So they do, and that should be the way with men and women.”
“But the poker and tongs have but a bad life of it sometimes.”
“Not so often as the people say, my dear. Men and women ain’t like lumps of sugar. They don’t melt because the water is sometimes warm. Now, if I do take Bellfield, — and I really think I shall; but if I do he’ll give me a deal of trouble. I know he will. He’ll always be wanting my money, and, of course, he’ll get more than he ought. I’m not a Solomon, nor yet a Queen of Sheba, no more than anybody else. And he’ll smoke too many cigars, and perhaps drink more brandy-and-water than he ought. And he’ll be making eyes, too, at some of the girls who’ll be fools enough to let him.”
“Dear me, aunt, if I thought all that ill of him, I’m sure I wouldn’t marry him; — especially as you say you don’t love him.”
“As for love, my dear, that’s gone, — clear gone!” Whereupon Mrs Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. “Some women can love twice, but I am not one of them. I wish I could, — I wish I could!” These last words were spoken in a tone of solemn regret, which, however, she contrived to change as quickly as she had adopted it. “But my dear, marriage is a comfortable thing. And then, though the Captain may be a little free, I don’t doubt but what I shall get the upper hand with him at last. I shan’t stop his cigars and brandy-and-water you know. Why shouldn’t a man smoke and have a glass, if he don’t make a beast of himself? I like to see a man enjoy himself. And then,” she added, speaking tenderly of her absent lover, “I do think he’s fond of me, — I do, indeed.”
“So is Mr Cheesacre for the matter of that.”
“Poor Cheesy! I believe he was, though he did talk so much about money. I always like to believe the best I can of them. But then there was no poetry about Cheesy. I don’t care about saying it now, as you’ve quite made up your mind not to have him.”
“Quite, aunt.”
“Your grandfather’s will does make a difference, you know. But, as I was saying, I do like a little romance about them, — just a sniff, as I call it, of the rocks and valleys. One knows that it doesn’t mean much; but it’s like artificial flowers, — it gives a little colour, and takes off the dowdiness. Of course, bread-and-cheese is the real thing. The rocks and valleys are no good at all, if you haven’t got that, But enough is as good as a feast. Thanks to dear Greenow,” — here the handkerchief was again used — “Thanks to dear Greenow, I shall never want. Of course I shan’t let any of the money go into his hands, — the Captain’s, I mean. I know a trick worth two of that, my dear. But, lord love you! I’ve enough for him and me. What’s the good of a woman’s wanting to keep it all to herself?”
“And you think you’ll really take him, aunt, and pay his washerwoman’s bills for him? You remember what you told me when I first saw him?”
“Oh, yes; I remember. And if he can’t pay his own washerwoman, isn’t that so much more of a reason that I should do it for him? Well; yes; I think I will take him. That is, if he lets me take him just as I choose. Beggars mustn’t be choosers, my dear.”
In this way the aunt and niece became very confidential, and Mrs Greenow whispered into Kate’s ears her belief that Captain Bellfield might possibly make his way across the country to Westmoreland. “There would be no harm in offering him a bed, would there?” Mrs Greenow asked. “You see the inn at Shap is a long way off for morning calls.” Kate could not take upon herself to say that there would be any harm, but she did not like the idea of having Captain Bellfield as a visitor. “After all, perhaps he mayn’t come,” said the widow. “I don’t see where he is to raise the money for such a journey, now that he has quarrelled with Mr Cheesacre.”
“If Captain Bellfield must come to Vavasor Hall, at any rate let him not come till Alice’s visit had been completed.” That was Kate’s present wish, and so much she ventured to confide to her aunt. But there seemed to be no way of stopping him. “I don’t in the least know where he is, my dear, and as for writing to him, I never did such a thing in my life, and I shouldn’t know how to begin.” Mrs Greenow declared that she had not positively invited the Captain; but on this point Kate hardly gave full credit to her aunt’s statement.
Alice arrived, and, for a day or two, the three ladies lived very pleasantly together. Kate still wore her arm in a sling; but she was able to walk out, and would take long walks in spite of the doctor’s prohibition. Of course, they went up on the mountains. Indeed, all the walks from Vavasor Hall led to the mountains, unless one chose to take the road to Shap. But they went up, across the beacon hill, as though by mutual consent. There were no questions asked between them as to the route to be taken; and though they did not reach the stone on which they had once sat looking over upon Haweswater, they did reach the spot upon which Kate had encountered her accident. “It was here I fell,” she said; “and the last I saw of him was his back, as he made his way down into the valley, there. When I got upon my legs I could still see him. It was one of those evenings when the clouds are dark, but you can see all objects with a peculiar clearness through the air. I stood here ever so long, holding my arm, and watching him; but he never once turned to look back at me. Do you know, Alice, I fancy that I shall never see him again.”
“Do you suppose that he means to quarrel with you altogether?”
“I can hardly tell you what I mean! He seemed to me to be going away from me, as though he went into another world. His figure against the light was quite clear, and he walked quickly, and on he went, till the slope of the hill hid him from me. Of course, I thought that he would return to the Hall. At one time I almost feared that he would come upon me through the woods, as I went back myself. But yet, I had a feeling, — what people call a presentiment, that I should never see him again.”
“He has never written?”
“No; not a word. You must remember that he did not know that I had hurt myself. I am sure he will not write, and I am sure, also, that I shall not. If he wanted money I would send it to him, but I would not write to him.”
“I fear he will always want money, Kate.”
“I fear he will. If you could know what I suffered when he made me write that letter to you! But, of course, I was a beast. Of course, I ought not to have written it.
”
“I thought it a very proper letter.”
“It was a mean letter. The whole thing was mean! He should have starved in the street before he had taken your money. He should have given up Parliament, and everything else! I had doubted much about him before, but it was that which first turned my heart against him. I had begun to fear that he was not such a man as I had always thought him, — as I had spoken of him to you.”
“I had judged of him for myself,” said Alice.
“Of course you did. But I had endeavoured to make you judge kindly. Alice, dear! we have both suffered for him; you more than I, perhaps; but I, too, have given up everything for him. My whole life has been at his service. I have been his creature, to do his bidding, just as he might tell me. He made me do things that I knew to be wrong, — things that were foreign to my own nature; and yet I almost worshipped him. Even now, if he were to come back, I believe that I should forgive him everything.”
“I should forgive him, but I could never do more.”
“But he will never come back. He will never ask us to forgive him, or even wish it. He has no heart.”
“He has longed for money till the Devil has hardened his heart,” said Alice.
“And yet how tender he could be in his manner when he chose it; — how soft he could make his words and his looks! Do you remember how he behaved to us in Switzerland? Do you remember that balcony at Basle, and the night we sat there, when the boys were swimming down the river?”
“Yes; — I remember.”
“So do I! So do I! Alice, I would give all I have in the world, if I could recall that journey to Switzerland.”
“If you mean for my sake, Kate — “
“I do mean for your sake. It made no difference to me. Whether I stayed in Westmoreland or went abroad, I must have found out that my god was made of bricks and clay instead of gold. But there was no need for you to be crushed in the ruins.”
The Palliser Novels Page 72