Can You Forgive Her? (85 page)

Dinner at the Hall had been ordered at five, the old hour; or
rather that had been assumed to be the hour for dinner without any ordering. It was just five when Kate reached the front door. This she opened with her left hand,
and turning at once into the dining-room, found her uncle and her aunt standing before the fire.

‘Dinner is ready,’ said John Vavasor; ‘where is George?’

‘You are wet, Kate,’ said aunt Greenow.

‘Yes, I am very wet,’ said Kate. ‘I must go upstairs. Perhaps you’ll come with me, aunt?’

‘Come with you, – of course I will.’ Aunt Greenow had seen at once that something was amiss.

‘Where’s George?’
said John Vavasor. ‘Has he come back with you, or are we to wait for him?’

Kate seated herself in her chair. ‘I don’t quite know where he is,’ she said. In the meantime her aunt had hastened up to her side just in time to catch her as she was falling from her chair. ‘My arm,’ said Kate, very gently; ‘my arm!’ Then she slipped down against her aunt, and had fainted.

‘He has done her a mischief,’
said Mrs Greenow, looking up at her brother. ‘This is his doing.’

John Vavasor stood confounded, wishing himself back in Queen Anne Street.

***

A
BOUT
eleven o’clock on that night, – the night of the day on which Kate Vavasor’s arm had been broken, – there came a gentle knock at Kate’s bedroom door. There was nothing surprising in this, as of all the household Kate only was in bed. Her aunt was sitting at this time by her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned
from Penrith and who had set her broken arm, was still
in the house, talking over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before he proceeded back on his journey home.

‘She will do very well,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s only a simple fracture. I’ll see her the day after tomorrow.’

‘Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilst walking?’ asked Mr Vavasor.

The doctor
shrugged his shoulders. ‘One never can say how anything may occur,’ said he. ‘I know a young woman who broke the os femoris by just kicking her cat; – at least, she said she did.’

‘Indeed! I suppose you didn’t take any trouble to inquire?’

‘Not much. My business was with the injury, not with the way she got it. Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothing came of it. Good
night, Mr Vavasor. Don’t trouble her with questions till she has had some hours’ sleep, at any rate.’ Then the doctor went, and John Vavasor was left alone, standing with his back to the dining-room fire.

There had been so much trouble and confusion in the house since Kate had fainted, almost immediately upon her reaching home, that Mr Vavasor had not yet had time to make up his mind as to the
nature of the accident which had occurred. Mrs Greenow had at once ascertained that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for. Luckily he had been found at home, and had reached the Hall a little before ten o’clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate recovered her senses, she volunteered her account of what had occurred.

Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, she said,
and had left her abruptly on the mountain. She had fallen, she went on to say, as she turned from him, and had at once found that she had hurt herself. But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and, indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed out of her sight. This was her story; and there was nothing in it that was false by the letter, though there was much that
was false in the spirit. It was certainly true that George had not known that she was injured. It was true that she had asked him for no help. It was true, in one sense, that she had fallen, and it was true that she had not herself known how severe
had been the injury done to her till he had gone beyond the reach of her voice. But she repressed all mention of his violence, and when she was pressed
as to the nature of the quarrel, she declined to speak further on that matter.

Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her. That was a matter of course, and she knew that they did not believe her. George’s absence, their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which her arm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more to tell if she chose to tell it But in her present
condition they could not question her. Mrs Greenow did ask as to the probability of her nephew’s return.

‘I can only tell you,’ said Kate, ‘that he went away across the Fell in the direction of Bampton. Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. He was very angry with us all; and as the house is not his own, he has probably resolved that he will not stay another night under the roof. But, who can say?
He is not in his senses when he is angered.’

John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor’s departure, endeavoured to ascertain the truth by thinking of it. ‘I am sure,’ he said to himself, ‘that the doctor suspects that there has been violence. I know it from his tone, and I can see it in his eye. But how to prove it? and would there be good in proving it? Poor girl! Will it not be better
for her to let it pass as though we believed her story?’ He made up his mind that it would be better. Why should he take upon himself the terrible task of calling this insane relation to account for an act which he could not prove? The will itself, without that trouble, would give him trouble enough. Then he began to long that he was back at his club, and to think that the signing-room in Chancery
Lane was not so bad. And so he went up to his bed, calling at Kate’s door to ask after the patient.

In the meantime there had come a messenger to Mrs Greenow, who had stationed herself with her niece. One of the girls of the house brought up a scrap of paper to the door, saying that a boy had brought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was intended for Miss Vavasor, and it was she who
knocked at the sickroom door. The note was open and was not addressed; indeed, the
words were written on a scrap of paper that was crumpled up rather than folded, and were as follows: ‘Send me my clothes by the bearer. I shall not return to the house.’ Mrs Greenow took it into Kate, and then went away to see her nephew’s things duly put into his portmanteau. This was sent away in the cart, and
Mr Vavasor, as he went upstairs, was told what had been done.

Neither on that night or on the following day did Mrs Greenow ask any further questions; but on the morning after that, when the doctor had left them with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity would brook no further delay. And, indeed, indignation as well as curiosity urged her on.’ In disposition she was less easy, and,
perhaps, less selfish, than her brother.’ If it were the case that that man had ill-treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring him to punishment. ‘Kate,’ she said, when the doctor was gone, ‘I expect that you will tell me the whole truth as to what occurred between you and your brother when you had this accident.’

‘I have told you the truth.’

‘But not the whole truth.’

‘All
the truth I mean to tell, aunt. He has quarrelled with me, as I think, most unnecessarily; but you don’t suppose that I am going to give an exact account of the quarrel? We were both wrong, probably, and so let there be an end of it.’

‘Was he violent to you when he quarrelled with you?’

‘When he is angry he is always violent in his language.’

‘But, did he strike you?’

‘Dear aunt, don’t be
angry with me if I say that I won’t be cross-examined. I would rather answer no more questions about it. I know that questioning can do no good.’

Mrs Greenow knew her niece well enough to be aware that nothing more would be told her, but she was quite sure now that Kate had not broken her arm by a simple fall. She was certain that the injury had come from positive violence. Had it not been so,
Kate would not have contented herself with refusing to answer the last question that had been asked, but would also have repelled the charge made against her brother with indignation.

‘You must have it your own way,’ said Mrs Greenow; ‘but let
me just tell you this, that your brother George had better keep out of my way.’

‘It is probable that he will,’ said Kate. Especially if you remain here
to nurse me.’

Kate’s conduct in answering all the questions made to her was not difficult, but she found that there was much difficulty in planning her own future behaviour towards her own brother. Must she abandon him altogether from henceforth; divide herself from him, as it were; have perfectly separate interests, and interests that were indeed hostile? and must she see him ruined and overwhelmed
by want of money, while she had been made a rich woman by her grandfather’s will? It will be remembered that her life had hitherto been devoted to him; that all her schemes and plans had had his success as their object; that she had taught herself to consider it to be her duty to sacrifice everything to his welfare. It is very sad to abandon the only object of a life! It is very hard to tear
out from one’s heart and fling away from it the only love that one has cherished! What was she to say to Alice about all this – to Alice whom she had cheated of a husband worthy of her, that she might allure her into the arms of one so utterly unworthy? Luckily for Kate, her accident was of such a nature that any writing to Alice was now out of the question.

But a blow! What woman can bear a
blow from a man, and afterwards return to him with love? A wife may have to bear it and to return. And she may return with that sort of love which is a thing of custom. The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which they eat and which she eats. Habit and the ways of the world require that she should be careful in his interests, and that she should live with him in what amity is possible
to them. But as for love, – all that we mean by love when we speak of it and write of it, – a blow given by the defender to the defenceless crushes it all! A woman may forgive deceit, treachery, desertion, –even the preference given to a rival. She may forgive them and forget them; but I do not think that a woman can forget a blow. And as for forgiveness, – it is not the blow that she cannot
forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.

Kate, as she thought of it, told herself that everything in life
was over for her. She had long feared her brother’s nature, – had feared that he was hard and heartless; but still there had been some hope with her fear. Success, if he could be made to achieve it, would soften him, and then all might be right. But now all was wrong, and
she knew that it was so. When he had compelled her to write to Alice for money, her faith in him had almost succumbed. That had been very mean, and the meanness had shocked her. But now he had asked her to perjure herself that he might have his own way, and had threatened to murder her, and had raised his hand against her because she had refused to obey him. And he had accused her of treachery to
himself, – had accused her of premeditated deceit in obtaining this property for herself!

‘But he does not believe it,’ said Kate to herself. ‘He said that because he thought it would vex me; but I know he does not think it.’ Kate had watched her brother longing for money all his life, –had thoroughly understood the intensity of his wish for it, – the agony of his desire. But so far removed was
she from any such longing on her own account, that she could not believe that her brother would in his heart accuse her of it. How often had she offered to give him, on the instant, every shilling that she had in the world! At this moment she resolved, in her mind, that she never wished to see him more; but even now, had it been practicable, she would have made over to him, without any drawback,
all her interest in the Vavasor estate.

But any such making over was impossible. John Vavasor remained in Westmoreland for a week, and during that time many discussions were, of course, held about the property. Mr Round came down from London, and met Mr Gogram at Penrith. As to the validity of the will Mr Round said that there was no shadow of a doubt. So an agent was appointed for receiving
the rents, and it was agreed that the old Hall should be let in six months from that date. In the meantime Kate was to remain there till her arm should become strong, and she could make her plans for the future. Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hall for the present, and offered, indeed, indefinite services for the future, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield. Of Mr Cheesacre
she was not forgetful, for she still continued to speak of
that gentleman to Kate, as though he were Kate’s suitor. But she did not now press upon her niece the acceptance of Mr Cheesacre’s hand as an absolute duty. Kate was mistress of a considerable fortune, and though such a marriage might be comfortable, it was no longer necessary. Mrs Greenow called him poor Cheesacre, pointing out how easily
he might be managed, and how indubitable were his possessions; but she no longer spoke of Kate’s chances in the marriage market as desperate, even though she should decline the Cheesacre alliance.

‘A young woman, with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty nearly what she pleases’ said aunt Greenow. ‘It’s better than having ten years’ grace given you.’

‘And will last longer, certainly,’
said Kate.

Kate’s desire was that Alice should come down to her for a while in Westmoreland, before the six months were over, and this desire she mentioned to her uncle. He promised to carry the message up to Alice, but could not be got to say more than that upon the subject. Then Mr Vavasor went away, leaving the aunt and niece together at the Hall.

‘What on earth shall we do if that wild beast
shows himself suddenly among us women?’ asked Mrs Greenow of her brother.

The brother could only say, ‘that he hoped the wild beast would keep his distance.’

And the wild beast did keep his distance, at any rate as long as Mrs Greenow remained at the Hall. We will now go back to the wild beast, and tell how he walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton, a little village at the foot
of Haweswater. It will be remembered that after he had struck his sister, he turned away from her, and walked with quick steps down the mountain-side, never turning back to look at her. He had found himself to be without any power of persuasion over her, as regarded her evidence to be given, if the will were questioned. The more he threatened her the steadier she had been in asserting her belief
in her grandfather’s capacity. She had looked into his eye and defied him, and he had felt himself to be worsted. What was he to do? In truth, there was nothing for him to do. He had told her that he would murder her; and in the state of mind to which his fury had
driven him, murder had suggested itself to him as a resource to which he might apply himself. But what could he gain by murdering her,
– or, at any rate, by murdering her then, out on the mountain-side? Nothing but a hanging! There would be no gratification even to his revenge. If, indeed, he had murdered that old man, who was now, unfortunately, gone beyond the reach of murder; – if he could have poisoned the old man’s cup before that last will had been made – there might have been something in such a deed! But he had merely
thought of it, letting ‘I dare not wait upon I would
¹
’ – as he now told himself, with much self-reproach. Nothing was to be got by killing his sister. So he restrained himself in his passion, and walked away from her, solitary, down the mountain.