The Palliser Novels (45 page)

His letter to her had been clever and very crafty. “At any rate he does me justice,” she said to herself, when she read those words about her money, and the use which he proposed to make of it. “He is welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether he has it as my friend or as my husband.” Then she thought of Kate’s promise of her little mite, and declared to herself that she would not be less noble than her cousin Kate. And would it not be well that she should be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather? George was the representative of the family, — of a family so old that no one now knew which had first taken the ancient titular name of some old Saxon landowner, — the parish, or the man. There had been in old days some worthy Vavaseurs, as Chaucer calls them, whose rank and bearing had been adopted on the moorland side. Of these things Alice thought much, and felt that it should be her duty so to act, that future Vavasors might at any rate not be less in the world than they who had passed away. In a few years at furthest, George Vavasor must be Vavasor of Vavasor. Would it not be right that she should help him to make that position honourable?

They walked on, exchanging now and again a word or two, till the distant Cumberland mountains began to form themselves in groups of beauty before their eyes. “There’s Helvellyn at last,” said Kate. “I’m always happy when I see that.” “And isn’t that Kidsty Pike?” asked Alice. “No; you don’t see Kidsty yet. But you will when you get up to the bank there. That’s Scaw Fell on the left; — the round distant top. I can distinguish it, though I doubt whether you can.” Then they went on again, and were soon at the bank from whence the sharp top of the mountain which Alice had named was visible. “And now we are on Swindale, and in five minutes we shall get to the stone.”

In less than five minutes they were there; and then, but not till then, the beauty of the little lake, lying down below them in the quiet bosom of the hills, disclosed itself. A lake should, I think, be small, and should be seen from above, to be seen in all its glory. The distance should be such that the shadows of the mountains on its surface may just be traced, and that some faint idea of the ripple on the waters may be present to the eye. And the form of the lakes should be irregular, curving round from its base among the lower hills, deeper and still deeper into some close nook up among the mountains from which its head waters spring. It is thus that a lake should be seen, and it was thus that Hawes Water was seen by them from the flat stone on the side of Swindale Fell. The basin of the lake has formed itself into the shape of the figure of 3, and the top section of the figure lies embosomed among the very wildest of the Westmoreland mountains. Altogether it is not above three miles long, and every point of it was to be seen from the spot on which the girls sat themselves down. The water beneath was still as death, and as dark, — and looked almost as cold. But the slow clouds were passing over it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed themselves with gradual changes. And though no movement was visible, there was ever and again in places a slight sheen upon the lake, which indicated the ripple made by the breeze.

“I’m so glad I’ve come here,” said Alice, seating herself. “I cannot bear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes at least.”

“We’ll get over to Windermere one day,” said Kate.

“I don’t think we shall. I don’t think it possible that I should stay long. Kate, I’ve got a letter to show you.” And there was that in the tone of her voice which instantly put Kate upon her mettle.

Kate seated herself also, and put up her hand for the letter. “Is it from Mr Grey?” she asked.

“No,” said Alice; “it is not from Mr Grey.” And she gave her companion the paper. Kate before she had touched it had seen that it was from her brother George; and as she opened it looked anxiously into Alice’s face. “Has he offended you?” Kate asked.

“Read it,” said Alice, “and then we’ll talk of it afterwards, — as we go home.” Then she got up from the stone and walked a step or two towards the brow of the fell, and stood there looking down upon the lake, while Kate read the letter. “Well!” she said, when she returned to her place.

“Well,” said Kate. “Alice, Alice, it will, indeed, be well if you listen to him. Oh, Alice, may I hope? Alice, my own Alice, my darling, my friend! Say that it shall be so.” And Kate knelt at her friend’s feet upon the heather, and looked up into her face with eyes full of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false as she had been, and yet could be so true?

Alice made no immediate answer, but still continued to gaze down over her friend upon the lake. “Alice,” continued Kate, “I did not think I should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have the heart to bring me here and show me this letter in this way, and bid me read it so calmly, and then tell me that it is all for nothing. No; you could not do that? Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this place. I hated it before.” And then she put her face down upon the boulder-stone and kissed it. Still Alice said nothing, but she began to feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It was almost impossible for her now to say that her answer to George must be a refusal.

Then Kate again went on speaking. “But is it not a beautiful letter? Say, Alice, — is it not a letter of which if you were his brother you would feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proud of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage, who will yet do manly things. Here out on the mountain, with nobody near us, with Nature all round us, I ask you on your solemn word as a woman, do you love him?”

“Love him!” said Alice.

“Yes; — love him: as a woman should love her husband. Is not your heart his? Alice, there need be no lies now. If it be so, it should be your glory to say so, here, to me, as you hold that letter in your hand.”

“I can have no such glory, Kate. I have ever loved my cousin; but not so passionately as you seem to think.”

“Then there can be no passion in you.”

“Perhaps not, Kate. I would sometimes hope that it is so. But come; we shall be late; and you will be cold sitting there.”

“I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would be as I would have it. But, Alice, at any rate you shall tell me before I move what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; but make me happy by saying so with your own lips.”

“I cannot tell you before you move, Kate.”

“And why not?”

“Because I have not as yet resolved.”

“Ah, that is impossible. That is quite impossible. On such a subject and under such circumstances a woman must resolve at the first moment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read the letter; — though, perhaps, it may not suit you to say so.”

“You are quite mistaken. Come along and let us walk, and I will tell you all.” Then Kate arose, and they turned their back to the lake, and began to make their way homewards. “I have not made up my mind as to what answer I will give him; but I have shown you his letter in order that I might have some one with whom I might speak openly. I knew well how it would be, and that you would strive to hurry me into an immediate promise.”

“No; — no; I want nothing of the kind.”

“But yet I could not deny myself the comfort of your friendship.”

“No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do not wish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Has it not been the longing of all my life? Have I not passed my time plotting and planning and thinking of it till I have had time to think of nothing else? Do you know what I suffered when, through George’s fault, the engagement was broken off? Was it not martyrdom to me, — that horrid time in which your Crichton from Cambridgeshire was in the ascendant? Did I not suffer the tortures of purgatory while that went on; — and yet, on the whole, did I not bear them with patience? And, now, can you be surprised that I am wild with joy when I begin to see that everything will be as I wish; — for it will be as I wish, Alice. It may be that you have not resolved to accept him. But you would have resolved to refuse him instantly had that been your destined answer to his letter.” There was but little more said between them on the subject as they were passing over the fell, but when they were going down the path through the Beacon Wood, Kate again spoke: “You will not answer him without speaking to me first?” said Kate.

“I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you,” said Alice.

“And you will let me see it?”

“Nay,” said Alice; “I will not promise that. But if it is unfavourable I will show it you.”

“Then I shall never see it,” said Kate, laughing. “But that is quite enough for me. I by no means wish to criticise the love-sweet words in which you tell him that his offences are all forgiven. I know how sweet they will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him!”

Then they were at home; and the old man met them at the front door, glowering at them angrily from out his old leonine eyes, because the roast beef was already roasted. He had his great uncouth silver watch in his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and he pointed at it fiercely, showing them the minute hand at ten minutes past the hour.

“But, grandpapa, you are always too fast,” said Kate.

“And you are always too slow, miss,” said the hungry old squire.

“Indeed, it is not five yet. Is it, Alice?”

“And how long are you going to be dressing?”

“Not ten minutes; — are we, Alice? And, grandpapa, pray don’t wait.”

“Don’t wait! That’s what they always say,” he muttered, peevishly. “As if one would be any better waiting for them after the meat is on the table.” But neither Kate nor Alice heard this, as they were already in their rooms.

Nothing more was said that evening between Alice and Kate about the letter; but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night inside her bedroom door, spoke to her just one word — “Pray for him to-night,” she said, “as you pray for those you love best.” Alice made no answer, but we may believe that she did as she was desired to do.

Alice had had a week allowed to her to write her answer; but she sent it off before the full week was past. “Why should I keep him in suspense?” she said. “If it is to be so, there can be no good in not saying so at once.” Then she thought, also, that if this were to be her destiny it might be well for Mr Grey that all his doubts on the matter should be dispelled. She had treated him badly, — very badly. She had so injured him that the remembrance of the injury must always be a source of misery to her; but she owed to him above everything to let him know what were her intentions as soon as they were settled. She tried to console herself by thinking that the wound to him would be easy to cure. “He also is not passionate,” she said. But in so saying she deceived herself. He was a man in whom Love could be very passionate; — and was, moreover, one in whom Love could hardly be renewed.

Each morning Kate asked her whether her answer was written; and on the third day after Christmas, just before dinner, Alice said that she had written it, and that it was gone.

“But it isn’t post-day,” said Kate; — for the post illuminated Vavasor but three days a week.

“I have given a boy sixpence to take it to Shap,” said Alice, blushing.

“And what have you said?” asked Kate, taking hold of the other’s arm.

“I have kept my promise,” said Alice; “and do you keep yours by asking no further questions.”

“My sister, — my own sister,” said Kate. And then, as Alice met her embrace, there was no longer any doubt as to the nature of the reply.

After this there was of course much close discussion between them as to what other steps should now be taken. Kate wanted her cousin to write immediately to Mr Grey, and was somewhat frightened when Alice declined to do so till she had received a further letter from George. “You have not proposed any horrid stipulations to him?” exclaimed Kate.

“I don’t know what you may call horrid stipulations,” said Alice, gravely. “My conditions have not been very hard, and I do not think you would have disapproved them.”

“But he! — He is so impetuous! Will he disapprove them?”

“I have told him — But, Kate, this is just what I did not mean to tell you.”

“Why should there be secrets between us?” said Kate.

“There shall be none, then. I have told him that I cannot bring myself to marry him instantly; — that he must allow me twelve months to wear off, if I can in that time, much of sadness and of self-reproach which has fallen to my lot.”

“Twelve months, Alice?”

“Listen to me. I have said so. But I have told him also that if he wishes it still, I will at once tell papa and grandpapa that I hold myself as engaged to him, so that he may know that I bind myself to him as far as it is possible that I should do so. And I have added something else, Kate,” she continued to say after a slight pause, — “something else which I can tell you, though I could tell it to no other person. I can tell you because you would do, and will do the same. I have told him that any portion of my money is at his service which may be needed for his purposes before that twelve months is over.”

“Oh, Alice! No; — no. You shall not do that. It is too generous.” And Kate perhaps felt at the moment that her brother was a man to whom such an offer could hardly be made with safety.

“But I have done it. Mercury, with sixpence in his pocket, is already posting my generosity at Shap. And, to tell the truth, Kate, it is no more than fair. He has honestly told me that while the old Squire lives he will want my money to assist him in a career of which I do much more than approve. It has been my earnest wish to see him in Parliament. It will now be the most earnest desire of my heart; — the one thing as to which I shall feel an intense anxiety. How then can I have the face to bid him wait twelve months for that which is specially needed in six months’ time? It would be like the workhouses which are so long in giving bread, that in the mean time the wretches starve.”

“But the wretch shan’t starve,” said Kate. “My money, small as it is, will carry him over this bout. I have told him that he shall have it, and that I expect him to spend it. Moreover, I have no doubt that Aunt Greenow would lend me what he wants.”