Can You Forgive Her? (23 page)

I can understand accurately the sort of way in which the interview went Of course he had the best of it I can see him so plainly as he stood up in unruffled self-possession,
ignoring all that you said, suggesting that you were feverish or perhaps bilious, waving his hand over you a little, as though that might possibly do you some small good, and then taking his leave with an assurance that it would be all
right as soon as the wind changed. I suppose it’s very noble in him, not taking you at your word, and giving you, as it were, another chance; but there is a kind
of nobility which is almost too great for this world. I think very well of you, my dear, as women go, but I do not think well enough of you to believe that you are fit to be Mr John Grey’s wife.

Of course I’m very glad. You have known my mind from the first to the last, and, therefore, what would be the good of my mincing matters? No woman wishes her dearest friend to marry a man to whom she
herself is antipathetic. You would have been as much lost to me, had you become Mrs Grey of Nethercoats, Cambridgeshire, as though you had gone to heaven. I don’t say but what Nethercoats may be a kind of heaven, – but then one doesn’t wish one’s friend that distant sort of happiness. A flat Eden I can fancy it, hemmed in by broad dykes, in which cream and eggs are very plentiful, where an Adam and
an Eve might drink the choicest tea out of the finest china, with toast buttered to perfection, from year’s end to year’s end; into which no money troubles would ever find their way, nor yet any naughty novels. But such an Eden is not tempting to me, nor, as I think, to you. I can fancy you stretching your poor neck over the dyke, longing to fly away that you might cease to be at rest, but knowing
that the matrimonial dragon was too strong for any such flight. If ever bird banged his wings to pieces against gilded bars, you would have banged yours to pieces in that cage.

You say that you have failed to make him understand that the matter is settled. I need not say that of course it is settled, and that he must be made to understand it. You owe it to him now to put him out of all doubt
He is, I suppose, accessible to the words of a mortal, god though he be. But I do not fear about this, for, after all, you have as much firmness about you as most people; – perhaps as much as he has at bottom, though you may not have so many occasions to show it

As to that other matter I can only say that you shall be obliged, as far as it is in my power to obey you. For what may come out from
me by word of mouth when we are together, I will not answer with certainty. But my pen is under better control, and it shall not write the offending name.

And now I must tell you a little about myself; – or rather, I am inclined to spin a yarn, and tell you a great deal. I have got such a lover! But I did describe him before. Of course it’s Mr Cheesacre. If I were to say he hasn’t declared himself,
I should hardly give you a fair idea of my success. And yet he has not declared himself, –
and, which is worse, is very anxious to marry a rival. But it’s a strong point in my favour that my rival wants him to take me, and that he will assuredly be driven to make me an offer sooner or later, in obedience to her orders. My aunt is my rival, and I do not feel the least doubt as to his having offered
to her half a dozen times. But then she has another lover, Captain Bellfield, and I see that she prefers him. He is a penniless scamp and looks as though he drank. He paints his whiskers too, which I don’t like; and, being forty, tries to look like twenty-five. Otherwise he is agreeable enough, and I rather approve of my aunt’s taste in preferring him.

But my lover has solid attractions, and
allures me on by a description of the fat cattle which he sends to market. He is a man of substance, and should I ever become Mrs Cheesacre, I have reason to think that I shall not be left in want We went up to his place on a visit the other day. Oileymead is the name of my future home; – not so pretty as Nethercoats, is it? And we had such a time there! We reached the place at ten and left it at
four, and he managed to give us three meals. I’m sure we had before our eyes at different times every bit of china, delf, glass, and plate in the establishment. He made us go into the cellar, and and told us how much wine he had got there, and how much beer. ‘It’s all paid for, Mrs Greenow, every bottle of it,’ he said, turning round to my aunt, with a pathetic earnestness, for which I had hardly
given him credit. ‘Everything in this house is my own; it’s all paid for. I don’t call anything a man’s own till it’s paid for. Now that jacket that Bellfield swells about with on the sands at Yarmouth, – that’s not his own, – and it’s not like to be either.’ And then he winked his eye as though bidding my aunt to think of that before she encouraged such a lover as Bellfield. He took us into every
bedroom, and disclosed to us all the glories of his upper chambers. It would have done you good to see him lifting the counterpanes, and bidding my aunt feel the texture of the blankets! And then to see her turn round to me and say: – ‘Kate, it’s simply the best-furnished house I ever went over in my life!’ – ‘It does seem very comfortable,’ said I. ‘Comfortable!’ said he. ‘Yes, I don’t think there’s
anybody can say that Oileymead isn’t comfortable.’ I did so think of you and Nethercoats. The attractions are the same; – only in the one place you would have a god for your keeper, and in the other a brute. For myself, if ever I’m to have a keeper at all, I shall prefer a man. But when we got to the farmyard his eloquence reached the highest pitch. ‘Mrs Greenow,’ said he, ‘look at that’ and
he pointed to heaps of manure raised like the streets of a little city. ‘Look at that!’ There’s a
great deal,’ said my aunt ‘I believe you,’ said he. ‘I’ve more muck upon this place here than any farmer in Norfolk, gentle or simple; I don’t care who the other is.’ Only fancy, Alice; it may all be mine; the blankets, the wine, the muck, and the rest of it So my aunt assured me when we got home
that evening. When I remarked that the wealth had been exhibited to her and not to me, she did not affect to deny it, but treated that as a matter of no moment ‘He wants a wife, my dear,’ she said, ‘and you may pick him up tomorrow by putting out your hand.’ When I remarked that his mind seemed to be intent on low things, and specially named the muck, she only laughed at me. ‘Money’s never dirty,’
she said, ‘nor yet what makes money,’ She talks of taking lodgings in Norwich for the winter, saying that in her widowed state she will be as well there as anywhere else, and she wants me to stay with her up to Christmas. Indeed she first proposed the Norwich plan on the ground that it might be useful to me, – with a view to Mr Cheesacre, of course; but I fancy that she is unwilling to tear herself
away from Captain Bellfield. At any rate to Norwich she will go, and I nave promised not to leave her before the second week in November. With all her absurdities I like her. Her faults are terrible faults, but she has not the fault of hiding them by falsehood. She is never stupid, and she is very good-natured. She would have allowed me to equip myself from head to foot at her expense, if I would
have accepted her liberality, and absolutely offered to give me my trousseau if I would marry Mr Cheesacre.

I live in the hope that you will come down to the old place at Christmas. I won’t offend you more than I can help. At any rate he won’t be there. And if I don’t see you there, where am I to see you? If I were you I would certainly not go to Cheltenham. You are never happy there.

Do you
ever dream of the river at Basle? I do; – so often.

Most affectionately yours,

                  K
ATE
V
AVASOR.

Alice had almost lost the sensation created by the former portion of Kate’s letter by the fun of the latter, before she had quite made that sensation her own. The picture of the Cambridgeshire Eden would have displeased her had she dwelt upon it, and the allusion to the cream and toast
would have had the very opposite effect to that which Kate had intended. Perhaps Kate had felt this, and had therefore merged it all in her stories about Mr
Cheesacre. ‘I will go to Cheltenham,’ she said to herself. ‘He has recommended it I shall never be his wife; – but, till we have parted altogether, I will show him that I think well of his advice.’ That same afternoon she told her father that
she would go to Lady Macleod’s at Cheltenham before the end of the month. She was, in truth, prompted to this by a resolution, of which she was herself hardly conscious, that she would not at this period of her life be in any way guided by her cousin. Having made up her mind about Mr Grey, it was right that she should let her cousin know her purpose; but she would never be driven to confess to
herself that Kate had influenced her in the matter. She would go to Cheltenham. Lady Macleod would no doubt vex her by hourly solicitations that the match might be renewed; but, if she knew herself, she had strength to withstand Lady Macleod.

She received one letter from Mr Grey before the time came for her departure, and she answered it, telling him of her intention; – telling him also that
she now felt herself bound to explain to her father her present position. ‘I tell you this,’ she said, ‘in consequence of what you said to me on the matter. My father will know it tomorrow, and on the following morning I shall start for Cheltenham. I have heard from Lady Macleod and she expects me,’

On the following morning she did tell her father, standing by him as he sat at his breakfast.
‘What!’ said he, putting down his tea-cup and looking up into her face; ‘What! not marry John Grey!’

‘No, papa; I know how strange you must think it.’

‘And you say that there has been no quarrel.’

‘No; – there has been no quarrel By degrees I have learned to feel that I should not make him happy as his wife.’

‘It’s d—’d nonsense,’ said Mr Vavasor. Now such an expression as this from him, addressed
to his daughter, showed that he was very deeply moved.

‘Oh, papa! don’t talk to me in that way.’

‘But it is. I never heard such trash in my life. If he comes to me I shall tell him so. Not make him happy! Why can’t you make him happy?’

‘We are not suited to each other.’

‘But what’s the matter with him? He’s a gentleman.’

‘Yes; he’s a gentleman.’

‘And a man of honour, and with good means,
and with all that knowledge and reading which you profess to like. Look here, Alice; I am not going to interfere, nor shall I attempt to make you marry anyone. You are your own mistress as far as that is concerned. But I do hope, for your sake and for mine, – I do hope that there is nothing again between you and your cousin.’

‘There is nothing, papa.’

‘I did not like your going abroad with him,
though I didn’t choose to interrupt your plan by saying so. But if there were anything of that kind going on, I should be bound to tell you that your cousin’s position at present is not a good one. Men do not speak well of him.’

‘There is nothing between us, papa; but if there were, men speaking ill of him would not deter me.’

‘And men speaking well of Mr Grey will not do the other thing. I
know very well that women can be obstinate.’

‘I haven’t come to this resolution without thinking much about it, papa.’

‘I suppose not. Well; – I can’t say anything more. You are your own mistress, and your fortune is in your own keeping. I can’t make you marry John Grey. I think you very foolish, and if he comes to me I shall tell him so. You are going down to Cheltenham, are you?’

‘Yes, papa;
I have promised Lady Macleod.’

‘Very well. I’d sooner it should be you than me; that’s all I can say.’ Then he took up his newspaper, thereby showing that he had nothing further to say on the matter, and Alice left him alone.

The whole thing was so vexatious that even Mr Vavasor was disturbed by it. As it was not term time he had no signing to do in Chancery Lane, and could not, therefore, bury
his unhappiness in his daily labour, – or rather in his labour that was by no means daily. So he sat at home till four o’clock, expressing to himself in various phrases his wonder that ‘any man alive should ever rear a daughter’. And when he got to his club the waiters found him
quite unmanageable about his dinner, which he ate alone, rejecting all proposition of companionship. But later in the
evening he regained his composure over a glass of whiskey-toddy and a cigar’ ‘She’s got her own money,’ he said to himself, ‘and what does it matter? I don’t suppose she’ll marry her cousin. I don’t think she’s fool enough for that. And after all she’ll probably make it up again with John Grey.’ And in this way he determined that he might let this annoyance run off him, and that he need not as a
father take the trouble of any interference.

But while he was at his club there came a visitor to Queen Anne Street, and that visitor was the dangerous cousin of whom, according to his uncle’s testimony, men at present did not speak well. Alice had not seen him since they had parted on the day of their arrival in London, – nor, indeed, had heard of his whereabouts. In the consternation of her
mind at this step which she was taking, – a step which she had taught herself to regard as essentially her duty before it was taken, but which seemed to herself to be false and treacherous the moment she had taken it, – she had become aware that she had been wrong to travel with her cousin. She felt sure, – she thought that she was sure, – that her doing so had in nowise affected her dealings with
Mr Grey. She was very certain, – she thought that she was certain, – that she would have rejected him just the same had she never gone to Switzerland. But every one would say of her that her journey to Switzerland with such companions had produced that result. It had been unlucky and she was sorry for it, and she now wished to avoid all communication with her cousin till this affair should be altogether
over. She was especially unwilling to see him; but she had not felt it necessary to give any special injunctions as to his admittance; and now, before she had time to think of it, – on the eve of her departure for Cheltenham, – he was in the room with her, just as the dusk of the October evening was coming on. She was sitting away from the fire, almost behind the window-curtains, thinking
of John Grey and very unhappy in her thoughts, when George Vavasor was announced. It will of course be understood that Vavasor had at this time received his sister’s letter. He had received it, and had had time to consider the matter since the
Sunday morning on which we saw him in his own rooms in Cecil Street. ‘She can turn it all into capital tomorrow, if she pleases,’ he had said to himself
when thinking of her income. But he had also reminded himself that her grandfather would probably enable him to settle an income out of the property upon Alice, in the event of their being married. And then he had also felt that he could have no greater triumph than ‘walking atop of John Grey’, as he called it His return for the Chelsea Districts would hardly be sweeter to him than that.