Burgo Fitzgerald remained for a minute or two leaning where we last saw him — against the dining-room wall at the bottom of the staircase; and as he did so some thoughts that were almost solemn passed across his mind. This thing that he was about to do, or to attempt — was it in itself a good thing, and would it be good for her whom he pretended to love? What would be her future if she consented now to go with him, and to divide herself from her husband? Of his own future he thought not at all. He had never done so. Even when he had first found himself attracted by the reputation of her wealth, he cannot be said to have looked forward in any prudential way to coming years. His desire to put himself in possession of so magnificent a fortune had simply prompted him, as he might have been prompted to play for a high stake at a gaming-table. But now, during these moments, he did think a little of her. Would she be happy, simply because he loved her, when all women should cease to acknowledge her; when men would regard her as one degraded and dishonoured; when society should be closed against her; when she would be driven to live loudly because the softness and graces of quiet life would be denied to her? Burgo knew well what must be the nature of such a woman’s life in such circumstances. Would Glencora be happy with him while living such a life simply because he loved her? And, under such circumstances, was it likely that he would continue to love her? Did he not know himself to be the most inconstant of men, and the least trustworthy? Leaning thus against the wall at the bottom of the stairs he did ask himself all these questions with something of true feeling about his heart, and almost persuaded himself that he had better take his hat and wander forth anywhere into the streets. It mattered little what might become of himself. If he could drink himself out of the world, it might be an end of things that would be not altogether undesirable.
But then the remembrance of his aunt’s two hundred pounds came upon him, which money he even now had about him on his person, and a certain idea of honour told him that he was bound to do that for which the money had been given to him. As to telling his aunt that he had changed his mind, and, therefore, refunding the money — no such thought as that was possible to him! To give back two hundred pounds entire — two hundred pounds which were already within his clutches, was not within the compass of Burgo’s generosity. Remembering the cash, he told himself that hesitation was no longer possible to him. So he gathered himself up, stretched his hands over his head, uttered a sigh that was audible to all around him, and took himself upstairs.
He looked in at his aunt’s room, and then he saw her and was seen by her. “Well, Burgo,” she said, with her sweetest smile, “have you been dancing?” He turned away from her without answering her, muttering something between his teeth about a cold-blooded Jezebel — which, if she had heard it, would have made her think him the most ungrateful of men. But she did not hear him, and smiled still as he went away, saying something to Mrs Conway Sparkes as to the great change for the better which had taken place in her nephew’s conduct.
“There’s no knowing who may not reform,” said Mrs Sparkes, with an emphasis which seemed to Lady Monk to be almost uncourteous.
Burgo made his way first into the front room and then into the larger room where the dancing was in progress, and there he saw Lady Glencora standing up in a quadrille with the Marquis of Hartletop. Lord Hartletop was a man not much more given to conversation than his wife, and Lady Glencora seemed to go through her work with very little gratification either in the dancing or in the society of her partner. She was simply standing up to dance, because, as she had told Mr Palliser, ladies of her age generally do stand up on such occasions. Burgo watched her as she crossed and re-crossed the room, and at last she was aware of his presence. It made no change in her, except that she became even somewhat less animated than she had been before. She would not seem to see him, nor would she allow herself to be driven into a pretence of a conversation with her partner because he was there. “I will go up to her at once, and ask her to waltz,” Burgo said to himself, as soon as the last figure of the quadrille was in action. “Why should I not ask her as well as any other woman?” Then the music ceased, and after a minute’s interval Lord Hartletop took away his partner on his arm into another room. Burgo, who had been standing near the door, followed them at once. The crowd was great, so that he could not get near them or even keep them in sight, but he was aware of the way in which they were going.
It was five minutes after this when he again saw her, and then she was seated on a cane bench in the gallery, and an old woman was standing close to her, talking to her. It was Mrs Marsham cautioning her against some petty imprudence, and Lady Glencora was telling that lady that she needed no such advice, in words almost as curt as those I have used. Lord Hartletop had left her, feeling that, as far as that was concerned, he had done his duty for the night. Burgo knew nothing of Mrs Marsham — had never seen her before, and was quite unaware that she had any special connection with Mr Palliser. It was impossible, he thought, to find Lady Glencora in a better position for his purpose, so he made his way up to her through the crowd, and muttering some slight inaudible word, offered her his hand.
“That will do very well, thank you, Mrs Marsham,” Lady Glencora said at this moment. “Pray, do not trouble yourself,” and then she gave her hand to Fitzgerald. Mrs Marsham, though unknown to him, knew with quite sufficient accuracy who he was, and all his history, as far as it concerned her friend’s wife. She had learned the whole story of the loves of Burgo and Lady Glencora. Though Mr Palliser had never mentioned that man’s name to her, she was well aware that her duty as a duenna would make it expedient that she should keep a doubly wary eye upon him should he come near the sheepfold. And there he was, close to them, almost leaning over them, with the hand of his late lady love — the hand of Mr Palliser’s wife — within his own! How Lady Glencora might have carried herself at this moment had Mrs Marsham not been there, it is bootless now to surmise; but it may be well understood that under Mrs Marsham’s immediate eye all her resolution would be in Burgo’s favour. She looked at him softly and kindly, and though she uttered no articulate word, her countenance seemed to show that the meeting was not unpleasant to her.
“Will you waltz?” said Burgo — asking it not at all as though it were a special favour — asking it exactly as he might have done had they been in the habit of dancing with each other every other night for the last three months.
“I don’t think Lady Glencora will waltz tonight,” said Mrs Marsham, very stiffly. She certainly did not know her business as a duenna, or else the enormity of Burgo’s proposition had struck her so forcibly as to take away from her all her presence of mind. Otherwise, she must have been aware that such an answer from her would surely drive her friend’s wife into open hostility.
“And why not, Mrs Marsham?” said Lady Glencora rising from her seat. “Why shouldn’t I waltz tonight? I rather think I shall, the more especially as Mr Fitzgerald waltzes very well.” Thereupon she put her hand upon Burgo’s arm.
Mrs Marsham made still a little effort — a little effort that was probably involuntary. She put out her hand, and laid it on Lady Glencora’s left shoulder, looking into her face as she did so with all the severity of caution of which she was mistress. Lady Glencora shook her duenna off angrily. Whether she would put her fate into the hands of this man who was now touching her, or whether she would not, she had not as yet decided; but of this she was very sure, that nothing said or done by Mrs Marsham should have any effect in restraining her.
What could Mrs Marsham do? Mr Palliser was gone. Some rumour of that proposed visit to Monkshade, and the way in which it had been prevented, had reached her ear. Some whispers had come to her that Fitzgerald still dared to love, as married, the woman whom he had loved before she was married. There was a rumour about that he still had some hope. Mrs Marsham had never believed that Mr Palliser’s wife would really be false to her vows. It was not in fear of any such catastrophe as a positive elopement that she had taken upon herself the duty of duenna. Lady Glencora would, no doubt, require to be pressed down into that decent mould which it would become the wife of a Mr Palliser to assume as her form; and this pressing down, and this moulding, Mrs Marsham thought that she could accomplish. It had not hitherto occurred to her that she might be required to guard Mr Palliser from positive dishonour; but now — now she hardly knew what to think about it. What should she do? To whom should she go? And then she saw Mr Bott looming large before her on the top of the staircase.
In the meantime Lady Glencora went off towards the dancers, leaning on Burgo’s arm. “Who is that woman?” said Burgo. They were the first words he spoke to her, though since he had last seen her he had written to her that letter which even now she carried about her. His voice in her ears sounded as it used to sound when their intimacy had been close, and questions such as that he had asked were common between them. And her answer was of the same nature. “Oh, such an odious woman!” she said. “Her name is Mrs Marsham; she is my bête noire.” And then they were actually dancing, whirling round the room together, before a word had been said of that which was Burgo’s settled purpose, and which at some moments was her settled purpose also.
Burgo waltzed excellently, and in old days, before her marriage, Lady Glencora had been passionately fond of dancing. She seemed to give herself up to it now as though the old days had come back to her. Lady Monk, creeping to the intermediate door between her den and the dancing-room, looked in on them, and then crept back again. Mrs Marsham and Mr Bott standing together just inside the other door, near to the staircase, looked on also — in horror.
“He shouldn’t have gone away and left her,” said Mr Bott, almost hoarsely.
“But who could have thought it?” said Mrs Marsham. “I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I suppose you’d better tell him?” said Mr Bott.
“But I don’t know where to find him,” said Mrs Marsham.
“I didn’t mean now at once,” said Mr Bott — and then he added, “Do you think it is as bad as that?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs Marsham.
The waltzers went on till they were stopped by want of breath. “I am so much out of practice,” said Lady Glencora; “I didn’t think — I should have been able — to dance at all.” Then she put up her face, and slightly opened her mouth, and stretched her nostrils — as ladies do as well as horses when the running has been severe and they want air.
“You’ll take another turn,” said he.
“Presently,” said she, beginning to have some thought in her mind as to whether Mrs Marsham was watching her. Then there was a little pause, after which he spoke in an altered voice.
“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said he.
It was, of course, necessary for him that he should bring her to some thought of the truth. It was all very sweet, that dancing with her, as they used to dance, without any question as to the reason why it was so; that sudden falling into the old habits, as though everything between this night and the former nights had been a dream; but this would not further his views. The opportunity had come to him which he must use, if he intended ever to use such opportunity. There was the two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he did not intend to give back. “Does it put you in mind of ‘old days?’” he said.
The words roused her from her sleep at once, and dissipated her dream. The facts all rushed upon her in an instant; the letter in her pocket; the request which she had made to Alice, that Alice might be induced to guard her from this danger; the words which her husband had spoken to her in the morning, and her anger against him in that he had subjected her to the eyes of a Mrs Marsham; her own unsettled mind — quite unsettled whether it would be best for her to go or to stay! It all came upon her now at the first word of tenderness which Burgo spoke to her.
It has often been said of woman that she who doubts is lost — so often that they who say it now, say it simply because others have said it before them, never thinking whether or no there be any truth in the proverb. But they who have said so, thinking of their words as they were uttered, have known but little of women. Women doubt every day, who solve their doubts at last on the right side, driven to do so, some by fear, more by conscience, but most of them by that half-prudential, half-unconscious knowledge of what is fitting, useful, and best under the circumstances, which rarely deserts either men or women till they have brought themselves to the Burgo Fitzgerald state of recklessness. Men when they have fallen even to that, will still keep up some outward show towards the world; but women in this condition defy the world, and declare themselves to be children of perdition. Lady Glencora was doubting sorely; but, though doubting, she was not as yet lost.
“Does it put you in mind of old days?” said Burgo.
She was driven to answer, and she knew that much would be decided by the way in which she might now speak. “You must not talk of that,” she said, very softly.
“May I not?” And now his tongue was unloosed, so that he began to speak quickly. “May I not? And why not? They were happy days — so happy! Were not you happy when you thought —? Ah, dear! I suppose it is best not even to think of them?”
“Much the best.”
“Only it is impossible. I wish I knew the inside of your heart, Cora, so that I could see what it is that you really wish.”
In the old days he had always called her Cora, and now the name came from his lips upon her ears as a thing of custom, causing no surprise. They were standing back, behind the circle, almost in a corner, and Burgo knew well how to speak at such moments so that his words should be audible to none but her whom he addressed.
“You should not have come to me at all,” she said.
“And why not? Who has a better right to come to you? Who has ever loved you as I have done? Cora, did you get my letter?”
“Come and dance,” she said; “I see a pair of eyes looking at us.” The pair of eyes which Lady Glencora saw were in the possession of Mr Bott, who was standing alone, leaning against the side of the doorway, every now and then raising his heels from the ground, so that he might look down upon the sinners as from a vantage ground. He was quite alone. Mrs Marsham had left him, and had got herself away in Lady Glencora’s own carriage to Park Lane, in order that she might find Mr Palliser there, if by chance he should be at home.
“Won’t it be making mischief?” Mrs Marsham had said when Mr Bott had suggested this line of conduct.
“There’ll be worse mischief if you don’t,” Mr Bott had answered. “He can come back, and then he can do as he likes. I’ll keep my eyes upon them.” And so he did keep his eyes upon them.
Again they went round the room — or that small portion of the room which the invading crowd had left to the dancers — as though they were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and in all innocence. But there were others besides Mr Bott who looked on and wondered. The Duchess of St Bungay saw it, and shook her head sorrowing — for the Duchess was good at heart. Mrs Conway Sparkes saw it, and drank it down with keen appetite — as a thirsty man with a longing for wine will drink champagne — for Mrs Conway Sparkes was not good at heart. Lady Hartletop saw it, and just raised her eyebrows. It was nothing to her. She liked to know what was going on, as such knowledge was sometimes useful; but, as for heart — what she had was, in such a matter, neither good nor bad. Her blood circulated with its ordinary precision, and, in that respect, no woman ever had a better heart. Lady Monk saw it, and a frown gathered on her brow. “The fool!” she said to herself. She knew that Burgo would not help his success by drawing down the eyes of all her guests upon his attempt. In the meantime Mr Bott stood there, mounting still higher on his toes, straightening his back against the wall.
“Did you get my letter?” Burgo said again, as soon as a moment’s pause gave him breath to speak. She did not answer him. Perhaps her breath did not return to her as rapidly as his. But, of course, he knew that she had received it. She would have quickly signified to him that no letter from him had come to her hands had it not reached her. “Let us go out upon the stairs,” he said, “for I must speak to you. Oh, if you could know what I suffered when you did not come to Monkshade! Why did you not come?”
“I wish I had not come here,” she said.
“Because you have seen me? That, at any rate, is not kind of you.”
They were now making their way slowly down the stairs, in the crowd, towards the supper-room. All the world was now intent on food and drink, and they were only doing as others did. Lady Glencora was not thinking where she went, but, glancing upwards, as she stood for a moment wedged upon the stairs, her eyes met those of Mr Bott. “A man that can treat me like that deserves that I should leave him.” That was the thought that crossed her mind at the moment.
“I’ll get you some champagne with water in it,” said Burgo. “I know that is what you like.”
“Do not get me anything,” she said. They had now got into the room, and had therefore escaped Mr Bott’s eyes for the moment. “Mr Fitzgerald,” — and now her words had become a whisper in his ear — “do what I ask you. For the sake of the old days of which you spoke, the dear old days which can never come again — ”
“By G—! they can,” said he. “They can come back, and they shall.”
“Never. But you can still do me a kindness. Go away, and leave me. Go to the sideboard, and then do not come back. You are doing me an injury while you remain with me.”
“Cora,” he said.
But she had now recovered her presence of mind, and understood what was going on. She was no longer in a dream, but words and things bore to her again their proper meaning. “I will not have it, Mr Fitzgerald,” she answered, speaking almost passionately. “I will not have it. Do as I bid you. Go and leave me, and do not return. I tell you that we are watched.” This was still true, for Mr Bott had now again got his eyes on them, round the supper-room door. Whatever was the reward for which he was working, private secretaryship or what else, it must be owned that he worked hard for it. But there are labours which are labours of love.
“Who is watching us?” said Burgo; “and what does it matter? If you are minded to do as I have asked you — ”
“But I am not so minded. Do you not know that you insult me by proposing it?”
“Yes — it is an insult, Cora — unless such an offer be a joy to you. If you wish to be my wife instead of his, it is no insult.”
“How can I be that?” Her face was not turned to him, and her words were half-pronounced, and in the lowest whisper, but, nevertheless, he heard them.
“Come with me — abroad, and you shall yet be my wife. You got my letter? Do what I asked you, then. Come with me — tonight.”
The pressing instance of the suggestion, the fixing of a present hour, startled her back to her propriety. “Mr Fitzgerald,” she said, “I asked you to go and leave me. If you do not do so, I must get up and leave you. It will be much more difficult.”
“And is that to be all?”
“All — at any rate, now.” Oh, Glencora! how could you be so weak? Why did you add that word, “now”? In truth, she added it then, at that moment, simply feeling that she could thus best secure an immediate compliance with her request.
“I will not go,” he said, looking at her sternly, and leaning before her, with earnest face, with utter indifference as to the eyes of any that might see them. “I will not go till you tell me that you will see me again.”
“I will,” she said in that low, all-but-unuttered whisper.
“When — when — when?” he asked.
Looking up again towards the doorway, in fear of Mr Bott’s eyes, she saw the face of Mr Palliser as he entered the room. Mr Bott had also seen him, and had tried to clutch him by the arm; but Mr Palliser had shaken him off, apparently with indifference — had got rid of him, as it were, without noticing him. Lady Glencora, when she saw her husband, immediately recovered her courage. She would not cower before him, or show herself ashamed of what she had done. For the matter of that, if he pressed her on the subject, she could bring herself to tell him that she loved Burgo Fitzgerald much more easily than she could whisper such a word to Burgo himself. Mr Bott’s eyes were odious to her as they watched her; but her husband’s glance she could meet without quailing before it. “Here is Mr Palliser,” said she, speaking again in her ordinary clear-toned voice. Burgo immediately rose from his seat with a start, and turned quickly towards the door; but Lady Glencora kept her chair.
Mr Palliser made his way as best he could through the crowd up to his wife. He, too, kept his countenance without betraying his secret. There was neither anger nor dismay in his face, nor was there any untoward hurry in his movement. Burgo stood aside as he came up, and Lady Glencora was the first to speak. “I thought you were gone home hours ago,” she said.
“I did go home,” he answered, “but I thought I might as well come back for you.”
“What a model of a husband! Well; I am ready. Only, what shall we do about Jane? Mr Fitzgerald, I left a scarf in your aunt’s room — a little black and yellow scarf — would you mind getting it for me?”
“I will fetch it,” said Mr Palliser; “and I will tell your cousin that the carriage shall come back for her.”
“If you will allow me — ” said Burgo.
“I will do it,” said Mr Palliser; and away he went, making his slow progress up through the crowd, ordering his carriage as he passed through the hall, and leaving Mr Bott still watching at the door.
Lady Glencora resolved that she would say nothing to Burgo while her husband was gone. There was a touch of chivalry in his leaving them again together, which so far conquered her. He might have bade her leave the scarf, and come at once. She had seen, moreover, that he had not spoken to Mr Bott, and was thankful to him also for that. Burgo also seemed to have become aware that his chance for that time was over. “I will say goodnight,” he said. “Goodnight, Mr Fitzgerald,” she answered, giving him her hand. He pressed it for a moment, and then turned and went. When Mr Palliser came back he was no more to be seen.
Lady Glencora was at the dining-room door when her husband returned, standing close to Mr Bott. Mr Bott had spoken to her, but she made no reply. He spoke again, but her face remained as immovable as though she had been deaf. “And what shall we do about Mrs Marsham?” she said, quite out loud, as soon as she put her hand on her husband’s arm. “I had forgotten her.”
“Mrs Marsham has gone home,” he replied. “Have you seen her?”
“Yes.”
“When did you see her?”
“She came to Park Lane.”
“What made her do that?”
These questions were asked and answered as he was putting her into the carriage. She got in just as she asked the last, and he, as he took his seat, did not find it necessary to answer it. But that would not serve her turn. “What made Mrs Marsham go to you at Park Lane after she left Lady Monk’s?” she asked again. Mr Palliser sat silent, not having made up his mind what he would say on the subject. “I suppose she went,” continued Lady Glencora, “to tell you that I was dancing with Mr Fitzgerald. Was that it?”
“I think, Glencora, we had better not discuss it now.”
“I don’t mean to discuss it now, or ever. If you did not wish me to see Mr Fitzgerald you should not have sent me to Lady Monk’s. But, Plantagenet, I hope you will forgive me if I say that no consideration shall induce me to receive again as a guest, in my own house, either Mrs Marsham or Mr Bott.”
Mr Palliser absolutely declined to say anything on the subject on that occasion, and the evening of Lady Monk’s party in this way came to an end.
George Vavasor was not in a very happy mood when he left Queen Anne Street, after having flung his gift ring under the grate. Indeed there was much in his condition as connected with the house which he was leaving, which could not but make him unhappy. Alice was engaged to be his wife and had as yet said nothing to show that she meditated any breach of that engagement, but she had treated him in a way which made him long to throw her promise in her teeth. He was a man to whom any personal slight from a woman was unendurable. To slights from men, unless they were of a nature to provoke offence, he was indifferent. There was no man living for whose liking or disliking George Vavasor cared anything. But he did care much for the good opinion, or rather for the personal favour, of any woman to whom he had endeavoured to make himself agreeable. “I will marry you,” Alice had said to him — not in words, but in acts and looks, which were plainer than words — “I will marry you for certain reasons of my own, which in my present condition make it seem that that arrangement will be more convenient to me than any other that I can make; but pray understand that there is no love mixed up with this. There is another man whom I love — only, for those reasons above hinted, I do not care to marry him.” It was thus that he read Alice’s present treatment of him, and he was a man who could not endure this treatment with ease.
But though he could throw his ring under the grate in his passion, he could not so dispose of her. That he would have done so had his hands been free, we need not doubt. And he would have been clever enough to do so in some manner that would have been exquisitely painful to Alice, willing as she might be to be released from her engagement. But he could not do this to a woman whose money he had borrowed, and whose money he could not repay — to a woman, more of whose money he intended to borrow immediately. As to that latter part of it, he did say to himself over and over again, that he would have no more of it. As he left the house in Queen Anne Street, on that occasion, he swore, that under no circumstances would he be indebted to her for another shilling. But before he had reached Great Marlborough Street, to which his steps took him, he had reminded himself that everything depended on a further advance. He was in Parliament, but Parliament would be dissolved within three months. Having sacrificed so much for his position, should he let it all fall from him now — now, when success seemed to be within his reach? That wretched old man in Westmoreland, who seemed gifted almost with immortality — why could he not die and surrender his paltry acres to one who could use them? He turned away from Regent Street into Hanover Square before he crossed to Great Marlborough Street, giving vent to his passion rather than arranging his thoughts. As he walked the four sides of the square he considered how good it would be if some accident should befall the old man. How he would rejoice were he to hear tomorrow that one of the trees of the “accursed place,” had fallen on the “obstinate old idiot”, and put an end to him! I will not say that he meditated the murder of his grandfather. There was a firm conviction on his mind, as he thought of all this, that such a deed as that would never come in his way. But he told himself, that if he chose to make the attempt, he would certainly be able to carry it through without detection. Then he remembered Rush and Palmer, — the openly bold murderer and the secret poisoner. Both of them, in Vavasor’s estimation, were great men. He had often said so in company. He had declared that the courage of Rush had never been surpassed. “Think of him,” he would say with admiration, “walking into a man’s house, with pistols sufficient to shoot every one there, and doing it as though he were killing rats! What was Nelson at Trafalgar to that? Nelson had nothing to fear!” And of Palmer he declared that he was a man of genius as well as courage. He had “looked the whole thing in the face”, Vavasor would say, “and told himself that all scruples and squeamishness are bosh — child’s tales. And so they are. Who lives as though they fear either heaven or hell? And if we do live without such fear or respect, what is the use of telling lies to ourselves? To throw it all to the dogs, as Palmer did, is more manly.”
“And be hanged,” some hearer of George’s doctrine replied. “Yes, and be hanged — if such is your destiny. But you hear of the one who is hanged, but hear nothing of the twenty who are not.”
Vavasor walked round Hanover Square, nursing his hatred against the old Squire. He did not tell himself that he would like to murder his grandfather. But he suggested to himself, that if he desired to do so, he would have courage enough to make his way into the old man’s room, and strangle him; and he explained to himself how he would be able to get down into Westmoreland without the world knowing that he had been there — how he would find an entrance into the house by a window with which he was acquainted — how he could cause the man to die as though, those around him should think, it was apoplexy — he, George Vavasor, having read something on that subject lately. All this he considered very fully, walking rapidly round Hanover Square more than once or twice. If he were to become an active student in the Rush or Palmer school, he would so study the matter that he would not be the one that should be hung. He thought that he could, so far, trust his own ingenuity. But yet he did not meditate murder. “Beastly old idiot!” he said to himself, “he must have his chance as other men have, I suppose.” And then he went across Regent Street to Mr Scruby’s office in Great Marlborough Street, not having, as yet, come to any positive conclusion as to what he would do in reference to Alice’s money.
But he soon found himself talking to Mr Scruby as though there were no doubts as to the forthcoming funds for the next election. And Mr Scruby talked to him very plainly, as though those funds must be forthcoming before long. “A stitch in time saves nine,” said Mr Scruby, meaning to insinuate that a pound in time might have the same effect. “And I’ll tell you what, Mr Vavasor — of course I’ve my outstanding bills for the last affair. That’s no fault of yours, for the things came so sharp one on another that my fellows haven’t had time to make it out. But if you’ll put me in funds for what I must be out of pocket in June — ”
“Will it be so soon as June?”
“They are talking of June. Why, then, I’ll lump the two bills together when it’s all over.”
In their discussion respecting money Mr Scruby injudiciously mentioned the name of Mr Tombe. No precise caution had been given to him, but he had become aware that the matter was being managed through an agency that was not recognised by his client; and as that agency was simply a vehicle of money which found its way into Mr Scruby’s pocket, he should have held his tongue. But Mr Tombe’s name escaped from him, and Vavasor immediately questioned him. Scruby, who did not often make such blunders, readily excused himself, shaking his head, and declaring that the name had fallen from his lips instead of that of another man. Vavasor accepted the excuse without further notice, and nothing more was said about Mr Tombe while he was in Mr Scruby’s office. But he had not heard the name in vain, and had unfortunately heard it before. Mr Tombe was a remarkable man in his way. He wore powder to his hair — was very polite in his bearing — was somewhat asthmatic, and wheezed in his talking — and was, moreover, the most obedient of men, though it was said of him that he managed the whole income of the Ely Chapter just as he pleased. Being in these ways a man of note, John Grey had spoken of him to Alice, and his name had filtered through Alice and her cousin Kate to George Vavasor. George seldom forgot things or names, and when he heard Mr Tombe’s name mentioned in connection with his own money matters, he remembered that Mr Tombe was John Grey’s lawyer.
As soon as he could escape out into the street he endeavoured to put all these things together, and after awhile resolved that he would go to Mr Tombe. What if there should be an understanding between John Grey and Alice, and Mr Tombe should be arranging his money matters for him! Would not anything be better than this — even that little tragedy down in Westmoreland, for which his ingenuity and courage would be required? He could endure to borrow money from Alice. He might even endure it still — though that was very difficult after her treatment of him; but he could not endure to be the recipient of John Grey’s money. By heavens, no! And as he got into a cab, and had himself driven off to the neighbourhood of Doctors’ Commons, he gave himself credit for much fine manly feeling. Mr Tombe’s chambers were found without difficulty, and, as it happened, Mr Tombe was there.
The lawyer rose from his chair as Vavasor entered, and bowed his powdered head very meekly as he asked his visitor to sit down. “Mr Vavasor — oh, yes. He had heard the name. Yes; he was in the habit of acting for his very old friend Mr John Grey. He had acted for Mr John Grey, and for Mr John Grey’s father — he or his partner — he believed he might say, for about half a century. There could not be a nicer gentleman than Mr John Grey — and such a pretty child as he used to be!” At every new sentence Mr Tombe caught his poor asthmatic breath, and bowed his meek old head, and rubbed his hands together as though he hardly dared to keep his seat in Vavasor’s presence without the support of some such motion; and wheezed apologetically, and seemed to ask pardon of his visitor for not knowing intuitively what was the nature of that visitor’s business. But he was a sly old fox, was Mr Tombe, and was considering all this time how much it would be well that he should tell Mr Vavasor, and how much it would be well that he should conceal. “The fat had got into the fire,” as he told his old wife when he got home that evening. He told his old wife everything, and I don’t know that any of his clients were the worse for his doing so. But while he was wheezing, and coughing, and apologising, he made up his mind that if George Vavasor were to ask him certain questions, it would be best that he should answer them truly. If Vavasor did ask those questions, he would probably do so upon certain knowledge, and if so, why, in that case, lying would be of no use. Lying would not put the fat back into the frying-pan. And even though such questions might be asked without any absolute knowledge, they would, at any rate, show that the questioner had the means of ascertaining the truth. He would tell as little as he could; but he decided during his last wheeze, that he could not be in the matter with any chance of benefiting his client. “The prettiest child I ever saw, Mr Vavasor!” said Mr Tombe, and then he coughed violently. Some people who knew Mr Tombe declared that he nursed his cough.
“I dare say,” said George.
“Yes, indeed — ugh — ugh — ugh.”
“Can you tell me, Mr Tombe, whether either you or he have anything to do with the payment of certain sums to my credit at Messrs Hock and Block’s?”
“Messrs Hock and Block’s, the bankers — in Lom-bard Street?” said Mr Tombe, taking a little more time.
“Yes; I bank there,” said Vavasor, sharply.
“A most respectable house.”
“Has any money been paid there to my credit, by you, Mr Tombe?”
“May I ask why you put the question to me, Mr Vavasor?”
“Well, I don’t think you may. That is to say, my reason for asking it can have nothing to do with yours for replying to it. If you have had no hand in any such payment, there is an end of it, and I need not take up your time by saying anything more on the subject.”
“I am not prepared to go that length, Mr Vavasor — not altogether to go that length — ugh — ugh — ugh.”
“Then, will you tell me what you have done in the matter?”
“Well — upon my word, you’ve taken me a little by surprise. Let me see. Pinkle — Pinkle.” Pinkle was a clerk who sat in an inner room, and Mr Tombe’s effort to call him seemed to be most ineffectual. But Pinkle understood the sound, and came. “Pinkle, didn’t we pay some money into Hock and Block’s a few weeks since, to the credit of Mr George Vavasor?”
“Did we, sir?” said Tinkle, who probably knew that his employer was an old fox, and who, perhaps, had caught something of the fox nature himself.
“I think we did. Just look, Pinkle — and, Pinkle — see the date, and let me know all about it. It’s fine bright weather for this time of year, Mr Vavasor; but these easterly winds — ugh — ugh — ugh!”
Vavasor found himself sitting for an apparently interminable number of minutes in Mr Tombe’s dingy chamber, and was coughed at, and wheezed at, till he begun to he tired of his position; moreover, when tired, he showed his impatience. “Perhaps you’ll let us write you a line when we have looked into the matter?” suggested Mr Tombe.
“I’d rather know at once,” said Vavasor. “I don’t suppose it can take you very long to find out whether you have paid money to my account, by order of Mr Grey. At any rate, I must know before I go away.”
“Pinkle, Pinkle!” screamed the old man through his coughing; and again Pinkle came. “Well, Pinkle, was anything of the kind done, or is my memory deceiving me?” Mr Tombe was, no doubt, lying shamefully, for, of course, he remembered all about it; and, indeed, George Vavasor had learned already quite enough for his own purposes.
“I was going to look,” said Pinkle; and Pinkle again went away.
“I’m sorry to give your clerk so much trouble,” said Vavasor, in an angry voice; “and I think it must be unnecessary. Surely you know whether Mr Grey has commissioned you to pay money for me?”
“We have so many things to do, Mr Vavasor; and so many clients. We have, indeed. You see, it isn’t only one gentleman’s affairs. But I think there was something done. I do, indeed.”
“What is Mr John Grey’s address?” asked Vavasor, very sharply.
“Number 5, Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East,” said Mr Tombe. Herein Mr Tombe somewhat committed himself. His client, Mr Grey, was, in fact, in town, but Vavasor had not known or imagined that such was the case. Had Mr Tombe given the usual address of Nethercoats, nothing further would have been demanded from him on that subject. But he had foolishly presumed that the question had been based on special information as to his client’s visit to London, and he had told the plain truth in a very simple way.
“Number 5, Suffolk Street,” said Vavasor, writing down the address. “Perhaps it will be better that I should go to him, as you do not seem inclined to give me any information.” Then he took up his hat, and hardly bowing to Mr Tombe, left the chambers. Mr Tombe, as he did so, rose from his chair, and bent his head meekly down upon the table.
“Pinkle, Pinkle,” wheezed Mr Tombe. “Never mind; never mind.” Pinkle didn’t mind; and we may say that he had not minded; for up to that moment he had taken no steps towards a performance of the order which had been given him.
Mr Tombe had gained nothing for the cause by his crafty silence. George Vavasor felt perfectly certain, as he walked out from the little street which runs at the back of Doctors’ Commons, that the money which he had been using had come, in some shape, through the hands of John Grey. He did not care much to calculate whether the payments had been made from the personal funds of his rival, or whether that rival had been employed to dispense Alice’s fortune. Under either view of the case his position was sufficiently bitter. The truth never for a moment occurred to him. He never dreamed that there might be a conspiracy in the matter, of which Alice was as ignorant as he himself had been. He never reflected that his uncle John, together with John, the lover, whom he so hated, might be the conspirators. To him it seemed to be certain that Alice and Mr Grey were in league — and if they were in league, what must he think of Alice, and of her engagement with himself!
There are men who rarely think well of women — who hardly think well of any woman. They put their mothers and sisters into the background — as though they belonged to some sex or race apart — and then declare to themselves and to their friends that all women are false — that no woman can be trusted unless her ugliness protect her; and that every woman may be attacked as fairly as may game in a cover, or deer on a mountain. What man does not know men who have so thought? I cannot say that such had been Vavasor’s creed — not entirely such. There had been periods of his life when he had believed implicitly in his cousin Alice — but then there had been other moments in which he had ridiculed himself for his Quixotism in believing in any woman. And as he had grown older the moments of his Quixotism had become more rare. There would have been no such Quixotism left with him now, had not the various circumstances which I have attempted to describe, filled him, during the last twelve months, with a renewed desire to marry his cousin. Every man tries to believe in the honesty of his future wife; and, therefore, Vavasor had tried, and had, in his way, believed. He had flattered himself, too, that Alice’s heart had, in truth, been more prone to him than to that other suitor. Grey, as he thought, had been accepted by her cold prudence; but he thought, also, that she had found her prudence to be too cold, and had therefore returned where she had truly loved. Vavasor, though he did not love much himself, was willing enough to be the object of love.
This idea of his, however, had been greatly shaken by Alice’s treatment of himself personally; but still he had not, hitherto, believed that she was false to him. Now, what could he believe of her? What was there within the compass of such a one to believe? As he walked out into St Paul’s Churchyard he called her by every name which is most offensive to a woman’s ears. He hated her at this moment with even a more bitter hatred than that which he felt towards John Grey. She must have deceived him with unparalleled hypocrisy, and lied to him and to his sister Kate as hardly any woman had ever lied before. Or could it be that Kate, also, was lying to him? If so, Kate also should be included in the punishment.
But why should they have conspired to feed him with these moneys? There had been no deceit, at any rate, in reference to the pounds sterling which Scruby had already swallowed. They had been supplied, whatever had been the motives of the suppliers; and he had no doubt that more would be supplied if he would only keep himself quiet. He was still walking westward as he thought of this, down Ludgate Hill, on his direct line towards Suffolk Street; and he tried to persuade himself that it would be well that he should hide his wrath till after provision should have been made for this other election. They were his enemies — Alice and Mr Grey — and why should he keep any terms with his enemies? It was still a trouble to him to think that he should have been in any way beholden to John Grey; but the terrible thing had been done; the evil had occurred. What would he gain by staying his hand now? Still, however, he walked on quickly along Fleet Street, and along the Strand, and was already crossing under the Picture Galleries towards Pall Mall East before he had definitely decided what steps he would take on this very day. Exactly at the corner of Suffolk Street he met John Grey.
“Mr Grey,” he said, stopping himself suddenly, “I was this moment going to call on you at your lodgings.”
“At my lodgings, were you? Shall I return with you?”
“If you please,” said Vavasor, leading the way up Suffolk Street. There had been no other greeting than this between them. Mr Grey himself, though a man very courteous in his general demeanour, would probably have passed Vavasor in the street with no more than the barest salutation. Situated as they were towards each other there could hardly be any show of friendship between them; but when Vavasor had spoken to him, he had dressed his face in that guise of civility which men always use who do not intend to be offensive — but Vavasor dressed his as men dress theirs who do mean to be offensive; and Mr Grey had thoroughly appreciated the dressing.
“If you will allow me, I have the key,” said Grey. Then they both entered the house, and Vavasor followed his host up stairs. Mr Grey, as he went up, felt almost angry with himself in having admitted his enemy into his lodgings. He was sure that no good could come of it, and remembered, when it was too late, that he might easily have saved himself from giving the invitation while he was still in the street. There they were, however, together in the sitting-room, and Grey had nothing to do but to listen. “Will you take a chair, Mr Vavasor?” he said. “No, said Vavasor; I will stand up.” And he stood up, holding his hat behind his back with his left hand, with his right leg forward, and the thumb of his right hand in his waistcoat-pocket. He looked full into Grey’s face, and Grey looked full into his; and as he looked the great cicatrice seemed to open itself and to become purple with fresh blood stains. “I have come here from Mr Tombe’s office in the City,” said Vavasor, “to ask you of what nature has been the interference which you have taken in my money matters?”
This was a question which Mr Grey could not answer very quickly. In the first place it was altogether unexpected; in the next place he did not know what Mr Tombe had told, and what he had not told; and then, before he replied, he must think how much of the truth he was bound to tell in answer to a question so put to him.
“Do you say that you have come from Mr Tombe?” he asked.
“I think you heard me say so. I have come here direct from Mr Tombe’s chambers. He is your lawyer, I believe?”
“He is so.”
“And I have come from him to ask you what interference you have lately taken in my money matters. When you have answered that, I shall have other questions to ask you.”
“But, Mr Vavasor, has it occurred to you that I may not be disposed to answer questions so asked?”
“It has not occurred to me to think that you will prevaricate. If there has been no such interference, I will ask your pardon, and go away; but if there has been such interference on your part, I have a right to demand that you shall explain to me its nature.”
Grey had now made up his mind that it would be better that he should tell the whole story — better not only for himself, but for all the Vavasors, including this angry man himself. The angry man evidently knew something, and it would be better that he should know the truth. “There has been such interference, Mr Vavasor, if you choose to call it so. Money, to the extent of two thousand pounds, I think, has by my directions been paid to your credit by Mr Tombe.”
“Well,” said Vavasor, taking his right hand away from his waistcoat, and tapping the round table with his fingers impatiently.
“I hardly know how to explain all the circumstances under which this has been done.”
“I dare say not; but, nevertheless, you must explain them.”
Grey was a man tranquil in temperament, very little prone to quarrelling, with perhaps an exaggerated idea of the evil results of a row — a man who would take infinite trouble to avoid any such scene as that which now seemed to be imminent; but he was a man whose courage was quite as high as that of his opponent. To bully or to be bullied were alike contrary to his nature. It was clear enough now that Vavasor intended to bully him, and he made up his mind at once that if the quarrel were forced upon him it should find him ready to take his own part. “My difficulty in explaining it comes from consideration for you,” he said.
“Then I beg that your difficulty will cease, and that you will have no consideration for me. We are so circumstanced towards each other that any consideration must be humbug and nonsense. At any rate, I intend to have none for you. Now, let me know why you have meddled with my matters.”
“I think I might, perhaps, better refer you to your uncle.”
“No, sir; Mr Tombe is not my uncle’s lawyer. My uncle never heard his name, unless he heard of it from you.”
“But it was by agreement with your uncle that I commissioned Mr Tombe to raise for you the money you were desirous of borrowing from your cousin. We thought it better that her fortune should not be for the moment disturbed.”
“But what had you to do with it? Why should you have done it? In the first place, I don’t believe your story; it is altogether improbable. But why should he come to you of all men to raise money on his daughter’s behalf?”
“Unless you can behave yourself with more discretion, Mr Vavasor, you must leave the room,” said Mr Grey. Then, as Vavasor simply sneered at him, but spoke nothing, he went on. “It was I who suggested to your uncle that this arrangement should be made. I did not wish to see Miss Vavasor’s fortune squandered.”
“And what was her fortune to you, sir? Are you aware that she is engaged to me as my wife? I ask you,‘sir, whether you are aware that Miss Vavasor is to be my wife?”
“I must altogether decline to discuss with you Miss Vavasor’s present or future position.”
“By heavens, then, you shall hear me discuss it! She was engaged to you, and she has given you your dismissal. If you had understood anything of the conduct which is usual among gentlemen, or if you had had any particle of pride in you, sir, you would have left her and never mentioned her name again. I now find you meddling with her money matters, so as to get a hold upon her fortune.”
“I have no hold upon her fortune.”
“Yes, sir, you have. You do not advance two thousand pounds without knowing that you have security. She has rejected you; and in order that you may be revenged, or that you may have some further hold upon her — that she may be in some sort within your power, you have contrived this rascally pettifogging way of obtaining power over her income. The money shall be repaid at once, with any interest that can be due; and if I find you interfering again, I will expose you.”
“Mr Vavasor,” said Grey very slowly, in a low tone of voice, but with something in his eye which would have told any bystander that he was much in earnest, “you have used words in your anger which I cannot allow to pass. You must recall them.”
“What were the words? I said that you were a pettifogging rascal. I now repeat them.” As he spoke he put on his hat, so as to leave both his hands ready for action if action should be required.
Grey was much the larger man and much the stronger. It may be doubted whether he knew himself the extent of his own strength, but such as it was he resolved that he must now use it. “There is no help for it,” he said, as he also prepared for action. The first thing he did was to open the door, and as he did so he became conscious that his mouth was full of blood from a sharp blow upon his face. Vavasor had struck him with his fist, and had cut his lip against his teeth. Then there came a scramble, and Grey was soon aware that he had his opponent in his hands. I doubt whether he had attempted to strike a blow, or whether he had so much as clenched his fist. Vavasor had struck him repeatedly, but the blows had fallen on his body or his head, and he was unconscious of them. He had but one object now in his mind, and that object was the kicking his assailant down the stairs. Then came a scramble, as I have said, and Grey had a hold of the smaller man by the nape of his neck. So holding him he forced him back through the door on to the landing, and then succeeded in pushing him down the first flight of steps. Grey kicked at him as he went, but the kick was impotent. He had, however, been so far successful that he had thrust his enemy out of the room, and had the satisfaction of seeing him sprawling on the landing-place.
Vavasor, when he raised himself, prepared to make another rush at the room, but before he could do so a man from below, hearing the noise, had come upon him and interrupted him. “Mr Jones,” said Grey, speaking from above, “if that gentleman does not leave the house, I must get you to search for a policeman.”
Vavasor, though the lodging-house man had hold of the collar of his coat, made no attempt to turn upon his new enemy. When two dogs are fighting, any bystander may attempt to separate them with impunity. The brutes are so anxious to tear each other that they have no energies left for other purposes. It never occurs to them to turn their teeth upon the new comers in the quarrel. So it was with George Vavasor. Jones was sufficient to prevent his further attack upon the foe up stairs, and therefore he had no alternative but to relinquish the fight.
“What’s it all about, sir?” said Jones, who kept a tailor’s establishment, and, as a tailor, was something of a fighting man himself. Of all tradesmen in London the tailors are, no doubt, the most combative — as might be expected from the necessity which lies upon them of living down the general bad character in this respect which the world has wrongly given them. “What’s it all about, sir?” said Jones, still holding Vavasor by his coat.
“That man has ill-used me, and I’ve punished him; that’s all.”
“I don’t know much about punishing,” said the tailor. “It seems to me he pitched you down pretty clean out of the room above. I think the best thing you can do now is to walk yourself off.”
It was the only thing that Vavasor could do, and he did walk himself off. He walked himself off, and went home to his own lodgings in Cecil Street, that he might smooth his feathers after the late encounter before he went down to Westminster to take his seat in the House of Commons. I do not think that he was comfortable when he got there, or that he felt himself very well able to fight another battle that night on behalf of the River Bank. He had not been hurt, but he had been worsted. Grey had probably received more personal damage than had fallen to his share; but Grey had succeeded in expelling him from the room, and he knew that he had been found prostrate on the landing-place when the tailor first saw him.
But he might probably have got over the annoyance of this feeling had he not been overwhelmed by a consciousness that everything was going badly with him. He was already beginning to hate his seat in Parliament. What good had it done for him, or was it likely to do for him? He found himself to be associated there with Mr Bott, and a few others of the same class — men whom he despised; and even they did not admit him among them without a certain show of superiority on their part. Who has not ascertained by his own experience the different lights through which the same events may be seen, according to the success, or want of success, which pervades the atmosphere at the moment? At the present time everything was unsuccessful with George Vavasor; and though he told himself, almost from hour to hour, that he would go on with the thing which he had begun — that he would persevere in Parliament till he had obtained a hearing there and created for himself success, he could not himself believe in the promises which he had made to himself. He had looked forward to his entrance into that Chamber as the hour of his triumph; but he had entered it with Mr Bott, and there had been no triumph to him in doing so. He had sworn to himself that when there he would find men to hear him. Hitherto, indeed, he could not accuse himself of having missed his opportunities; his election had been so recent that he could hardly yet have made the attempt. But he had been there long enough to learn to fancy that there was no glory in attempting. This art of speaking in Parliament, which had appeared to him to be so grand, seemed already to be a humdrum, homely, dull affair. No one seemed to listen much to what was said. To such as himself — Members without an acquired name — men did not seem to listen at all. Mr Palliser had once, in his hearing, spoken for two hours together, and all the House had treated his speech with respect — had declared that it was useful, solid, conscientious, and what not; but more than half the House had been asleep more than half the time that he was on his legs. Vavasor had not as yet commenced his career as an orator; but night after night, as he sat there, the chance of commencing it with brilliance seemed to be further from him, and still further. Two thousand pounds of his own money, and two thousand more of Alice’s money — or of Mr Grey’s — he had already spent to make his way into that assembly. He must spend, at any rate, two thousand more if he intended that his career should be prolonged beyond a three months’ sitting — and how was he to get this further sum after what had taken place today?
He would get it. That was his resolve as he walked in by the apple-woman’s stall, under the shadow of the great policeman, and between the two august lamps. He would get it — as long as Alice had a bound over which he could obtain mastery by any act or violence within his compass. He would get it; even though it should come through the hands of John Grey and Mr Tombe. He would get it; though in doing so he might destroy his cousin Alice and ruin his sister Kate. He had gone too far to stick at any scruples. Had he not often declared how great had been that murderer who had been able to divest himself of all such scruples — who had scoured his bosom free from all fears of the hereafter, and, as regarded the present, had dared to trust for everything to success? He would go to Alice and demand the money from her with threats, and with that violence in his eyes which he knew so well how to assume. He believed that when he so demanded it, the money would be forthcoming so as to satisfy, at any rate, his present emergencies.
That wretched old man in Westmoreland! If he would but die, there might yet be a hope remaining of permanent success! Even though the estate might be entailed so as to give him no more than a life-interest, still money might be raised on it. His life-interest in it would be worth ten or twelve years’ purchase. He had an idea that his grandfather had not as yet made any such will when he left the place in Westmoreland. What a boon it would be if death could be made to overtake the old man before he did so! On this very night he walked about the lobbies of the House, thinking of all this. He went by himself from room to room, roaming along passages, sitting now for ten minutes in the gallery, and then again for a short space in the body of the House — till he would get up and wander again out into the lobby, impatient of the neighbourhood of Mr Bott. Certainly just at this time he felt no desire to bring before the House the subject of the River Embankment.
Nor was Mr Grey much happier when he was left alone, than was his assailant. To give Vavasor his due, the memory of the affray itself did not long trouble him much. The success between the combatants had been nearly equal, and he had, at any rate, spoken his mind freely. His misery had come from other sources. But the reflection that he had been concerned in a row was in itself enough to make John Grey wretched for the time. Such a misfortune had never hitherto befallen him. In all his dealings with men words had been sufficient, and generally words of courtesy had sufficed. To have been personally engaged in a fighting scramble with such a man as George Vavasor was to him terrible. When ordering that his money might be expended with the possible object of saving Alice from her cousin, he had never felt a moment’s regret; he had never thought that he was doing more than circumstances fairly demanded of him. But now he was almost driven to utter a reproach. “Oh, Alice! Alice! that this thing should have come upon me through thy fault!”
When Vavasor was led away down stairs by the tailor, and Grey found that no more actual fighting would be required of him, he retired into his bedroom, that he might wash his mouth and free himself from the stains of the combat. He had heard the front door closed, and knew that the miscreant was gone — the miscreant who had disturbed his quiet. Then he began to think what was the accusation with which Vavasor had charged him. He had been told that he had advanced money on behalf of Alice, in order that he might obtain some power over Alice’s fortune, and thus revenge himself upon Alice for her treatment of him. Nothing could be more damnably false than this accusation. Of that he was well aware. But were not the circumstances of a nature to make it appear that the accusation was true? Security for the money advanced by him, of course, he had none — of course he had desired none — of course the money had been given out of his own pocket with the sole object of saving Alice, if that might be possible; but of all those who might hear of this affair, how many would know or even guess the truth?
While he was in this wretched state of mind, washing his mouth, and disturbing his spirit, Mr Jones, his landlord, came up to him. Mr Jones had known him for some years, and entertained a most profound respect for his character. A rather sporting man than otherwise was Mr Jones. His father had been a tradesman at Cambridge, and in this way Jones had become known to Mr Grey. But though given to sport, by which he meant modern prize-fighting and the Epsom course on the Derby day, Mr Jones was a man who dearly loved respectable customers and respectable lodgers. Mr Grey, with his property at Nethercoats, and his august manners, and his reputation at Cambridge, was a most respectable lodger, and Mr Jones could hardly understand how any one could presume to raise his hand against such a man.
“Dear, dear, sir — this is a terrible affair!” he said, as he made his way into the room.
“It was very disagreeable, certainly,” said Grey.
“Was the gentleman known to you?” asked the tailor.
“Yes; I know who he is.”
“Any quarrel, sir?”
“Well, yes. I should not have pushed him down stairs had he not quarrelled with me.”
“We can have the police after him if you wish it, sir?”
“I don’t wish it at all.”
“Or we might manage to polish him off in any other way, you know.”
It was some time before Mr Grey could get rid of the tailor, but he did so at last without having told any part of the story to that warlike, worthy, and very anxious individual.
In the meantime Kate Vavasor was living down in Westmoreland, with no other society than that of her grandfather, and did not altogether have a very pleasant life of it. George had been apt to represent the old man to himself as being as strong as an old tower, which, though it be but a ruin, shows no sign of falling. To his eyes the Squire had always seemed to be full of life and power. He could be violent on occasions, and was hardly ever without violence in his eyes and voice. But George’s opinion was formed by his wish, or rather by the reverse of his wish. For years he had been longing that his grandfather should die — had been accusing Fate of gross injustice in that she did not snap the thread; and with such thoughts in his mind he had grudged every ounce which the Squire’s vigour had been able to sustain. He had almost taught himself to believe that it would be a good deed to squeeze what remained of life out of that violent old throat. But, indeed, the embers of life were burning low; and had George known all the truth, he would hardly have inclined his mind to thoughts of murder.
He was, indeed, very weak with age, and tottering with unsteady steps on the brink of his grave, though he would still come down early from his room, and would, if possible, creep out about the garden and into the farmyard. He would still sit down to dinner, and would drink his allotted portion of port wine, in the doctor’s teeth. The doctor by no means desired to rob him of this last luxury, or even to stint his quantity; but he recommended certain changes in the mode and time of taking it. Against this, however, the old Squire indignantly rebelled, and scolded Kate almost off her legs when she attempted to enforce the doctor’s orders. “What the mischief does it signify,” the old man said to her one evening — “what difference will it make whether I am dead or alive, unless it is that George would turn you out of the house directly he gets it?”
“I was not thinking of any one but yourself, sir,” said Kate, with a tear in her eye.
“You won’t be troubled to think of me much longer,” said the Squire; and then he gulped down the remaining half of his glass of wine.
Kate was, in truth, very good to him. Women always are good under such circumstances; and Kate Vavasor was one who would certainly stick to such duties as now fell to her lot. She was eminently true and loyal to her friends, though she could be as false on their behalf as most false people can be on their own. She was very good to the old man, tending all his wants, taking his violence with good humour rather than with submission, not opposing him with direct contradiction when he abused his grandson, but saying little words to mitigate his wrath, if it were possible. At such times the Squire would tell her that she also would learn to know her brother’s character some day. “You’ll live to be robbed by him, and turned out as naked as you were born,” he said to her one day. Then Kate fired up and declared that she fully trusted her brother’s love. Whatever faults he might have, he had been stanch to her. So she said, and the old man sneered at her for saying so.
One morning, soon after this, when she brought him up to his bedroom some mixture of thin porridge which he still endeavoured to swallow for his breakfast, he bade her sit down, and began to talk to her about the property. “I know you are a fool,” he said, “about all matters of business — more of a fool than even women generally are.” To this Kate acceded with a little smile — acknowledging that her understanding was limited. “I want to see Gogram,” he said. “Do you write him a line, telling him to come here today — he or one of his men, and send it at once by Peter.” Gogram was an attorney who lived at Penrith, and who was never summoned to Vavasor Hall unless the Squire had something to say about his will. “Don’t you think you’d better put it off till you are a little stronger?” said Kate. Whereupon the Squire fired at her such a volley of oaths that she sprang off the chair on which she was sitting, and darted across to a little table at which there was pen and ink, and wrote her note to Mr Gogram, before she had recovered from the shaking which the battery had given her. She wrote the note, and ran away with it to Peter, and saw Peter on the pony on his way to Penrith, before she dared to return to her grandfather’s bedside.
“What should you do with the estate if I left it you?” the Squire said to her the first moment she was again back with him.
This was a question she could not answer instantly. She stood by his bedside for a while thinking — holding her grandfather’s hand and looking down upon the bed. He, with his rough watery old eyes, was gazing up into her face, as though he were trying to read her thoughts. “I think I should give it to my brother,” she said.
“Then I’m d — if I’ll leave it to you,” said he. She did not jump now, though he had sworn at her. She still stood, holding his hand softly, and looking down upon the bed. “If I were you, grandfather,” she said almost in a whisper, “I would not trust myself to alter family arrangements whilst I was ill. I’m sure you would advise any one else against doing so.”
“And if I were to leave it to Alice, she’d give it him too,” he said, speaking his thoughts out loud. “What it is you see in him, I never could even guess. He’s as ugly as a baboon, with his scarred face. He has never done anything to show himself a clever fellow. Kate, give me some of that bottle the man sent.” Kate handed him his medicine, and then stood again by his bedside.
“Where did he get the money to pay for his election?” the Squire asked, as soon as he had swallowed the draught. “They wouldn’t give such a one as him credit a yard further than they could see him.”
“I don’t know where he got it,” said Kate, lying.
“He has not had yours; has he?”
“He would not take it, sir.”
“And you offered it to him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he has not had it?”
“Not a penny of it, sir.”
“And what made you offer it to him after what I said to you?”
“Because it was my own,” said Kate, stoutly.
“You’re the biggest idiot that ever I heard of, and you’ll know it yourself some day. Go away now, and let me know when Gogram comes.”
She went away, and for a time employed herself about her ordinary household work. Then she sat down alone in the dingy old dining-room, to think what had better be done in her present circumstances. The carpet of the room was worn out, as were also the covers of the old chairs and the horsehair sofa which was never moved from its accustomed place along the wall. It was not a comfortable Squire’s residence, this old house at Vavasor. In the last twenty years no money had been spent on furniture or embellishments, and for the last ten years there had been no painting, either inside or out. Twenty years ago the Squire had been an embarrassed man, and had taken a turn in his life and had lived sparingly. It could not be said that he had become a miser. His table was kept plentifully, and there had never been want in his house. In some respects, too, he had behaved liberally to Kate and to others, and he had kept up the timber and fences on the property. But the house had become wretched in its dull, sombre, dirty darkness, and the gardens round it were as bad.
What ought she now to do? She believed that her grandfather’s last days were coming, and she knew that others of the family should be with him besides herself. For their sakes, for his, and for her own, it would be proper that she should not be alone there when he died. But for whom should she send? Her brother was the natural heir, and would be the head of the family. Her duty to him was clear, and the more so as her grandfather was at this moment speaking of changes in his will. But it was a question to her whether George’s presence at Vavasor, even if he would come, would not at this moment do more harm than good to his own interests. It would make some prejudicial change in the old man’s will more probable instead of less so. George would not become soft and mild-spoken even by a death-bed side, and it would be likely enough that the Squire would curse his heir with his dying breath. She might send for her uncle John; but if she did so without telling George she would be treating George unfairly; and she knew that it was improbable that her uncle and her brother should act together in anything. Her aunt Greenow, she thought, would come to her, and her presence would not influence the Squire in any way with reference to the property. So she made up her mind at last that she would ask her aunt to come to Vavasor, and that she would tell her brother accurately all that she could tell — leaving him to come or stay, as he might think. Alice would, no doubt, learn all the facts from him, and her uncle John would hear them from Alice. Then they could do as they pleased. As soon as Mr Gogram had been there she would write her letters, and they should be sent over to Shap early on the following morning.
Mr Gogram came and was closeted with the Squire, and the doctor also came. The doctor saw Kate, and, shaking his head, told her that her grandfather was sinking lower and lower every hour. It would be infinitely better for him if he would take that port wine at four doses in the day, or even at two, instead of taking it all together. Kate promised to try again, but stated her conviction that the trial would be useless. The doctor, when pressed on the matter, said that his patient might probably live a week, not improbably a fortnight — perhaps a month, if he would be obedient — and so forth. Gogram went away without seeing Kate; and Kate, who looked upon a will as an awful and somewhat tedious ceremony, was in doubt whether her grandfather would live to complete any new operation. But, in truth, the will had been made and signed and witnessed — the parish clerk and one of the tenants having been had up into the room as witnesses. Kate knew that the men had been there, but still did not think that a new will had been perfected.
That evening when it was dusk the Squire came into the dining-room, having been shuffling about the grand sweep before the house for a quarter of an hour. The day was cold and the wind bleak, but still he would go out, and Kate had wrapped him up carefully in mufflers and great coats. Now he came in to what he called dinner, and Kate sat down with him. He had drunk no wine that day, although she had brought it to him twice during the morning. Now he attempted to swallow a little soup, but failed; and after that, while Kate was eating her bit of chicken, had the decanter put before him. “I can’t eat, and I suppose it won’t hurt you if I take my wine at once,” he said. It went against the grain with him, even yet, that he could not wait till the cloth was gone from the table, but his impatience for the only sustenance that he could take was too much for him.
“But you should eat something, sir; will you have a bit of toast to sop in your wine?”
The word “sop” was badly chosen, and made the old Squire angry. “Sopped toast! Why am I to spoil the only thing I can enjoy?”
“But the wine would do you more good if you would take something with it.”
“Good! Nothing will do me any good any more. As for eating, you know I can’t eat. What’s the use of bothering me?” Then he filled his second glass, and paused awhile before he put it to his lips. He never exceeded four glasses, but the four he was determined that he would have, as long as he could lift them to his mouth.
Kate finished, or pretended to finish, her dinner within five minutes, in order that the table might be made to look comfortable for him. Then she poked the fire, and brushed up the hearth, and closed the old curtains with her own hands, moving about silently. As she moved his eye followed her, and when she came behind his chair, and pushed the decanter a little more within his reach, he put out his rough, hairy hand, and laid it upon one of hers which she had rested on the table, with a tenderness that was unusual with him. “You are a good girl, Kate. I wish you had been a boy, that’s all.”
“If I had, I shouldn’t, perhaps, have been here to take care of you,” she said, smiling.
“No; you’d have been like your brother, no doubt. Not that I think there could have been two so bad as he is.”
“Oh, grandfather, if he has offended you, you should try to forgive him.”
“Try to forgive him! How often have I forgiven him without any trying? Why did he come down here the other day, and insult me for the last time? Why didn’t he keep away, as I had bidden him?”
“But you gave him leave to see you, sir.”
“I didn’t give him leave to treat me like that. Never mind; he will find that, old as I am, I can punish an insult.”
“You haven’t done anything, sir, to injure him?” said Kate.
“I have made another will, that’s all. Do you suppose I had that man here all the way from Penrith for nothing?”
“But it isn’t done yet?”
“I tell you it is done. If I left him the whole property it would be gone in two years’ time. What’s the use of doing it?”
“But for his life, sir! You had promised him that he should have it for his life.”
“How dare you tell me that? I never promised him. As my heir, he would have had it all, if he would have behaved himself with common decency. Even though I disliked him, as I always have done, he should have had it.”
“And you have taken it from him altogether?”
“I shall answer no questions about it, Kate.” Then a fit of coughing came upon him, his four glasses of wine having been all taken, and there was no further talk about business. During the evening Kate read a chapter of the Bible out loud. But the Squire was very impatient under the reading, and positively refused permission for a second. “There isn’t any good in so much of it, all at once,” he said, using almost exactly the same words which Kate had used to him about the port wine. There may have been good produced by the small quantity to which he listened as there is good from the physic which children take with wry faces, most unwillingly. Who can say?
For many weeks past Kate had begged her grandfather to allow the clergyman of Vavasor to come to him; but he hid positively declined. The vicar was a young man to whom the living had lately been given by the Chancellor, and he had commenced his career by giving instant offence to the Squire. This vicar’s predecessor had been an old man, almost as old as the Squire himself, and had held the living for forty years. He had been a Westmoreland man, had read the prayers and preached his one Sunday sermon in a Westmoreland dialect, getting through the whole operation rather within an hour and a quarter. He had troubled none of his parishioners by much advice and had been meek and obedient to the Squire. Knowing the country well, and being used to its habits, he had lived, and been charitable too, on the proceeds of his living, which had never reached two hundred a year. But the new comer was a close-fisted man, with higher ideas of personal comfort, who found it necessary to make every penny go as far as possible, who made up in preaching for what he could not give away in charity; who established an afternoon service, and who had rebuked the Squire for saying that the doing so was trash and nonsense. Since that the Squire had never been inside the church except on the occasion of Christmas Day. For this, indeed, the state of his health gave ample excuse; but he had positively refused to see the vicar, though that gentleman had assiduously called, and had at last desired the servant to tell the clergyman not to come again unless he were sent for. Kate’s task was, therefore, difficult, both as regarded the temporal and spiritual wants of her grandfather.
When the reading was finished, the old man dozed in his chair for half an hour. He would not go up to bed before the enjoyment of that luxury. He was daily implored to do so, because that sleep in the chair interfered so fatally with his chance of sleeping in bed. But sleep in his chair he would and did. Then he woke, and after a fit of coughing, was induced, with much ill-humour, to go up to his room. Kate had never seen him so weak. He was hardly able, even with her assistance and that of the old servant, to get up the broad stairs. But there was still some power left to him for violence of language after he got to his room, and he rated Kate and the old woman loudly, because his slippers were not in the proper place. “Grandfather,” said Kate, “would you like me to stay in the room with you tonight?” He rated her again for this proposition, and then, with assistance from the nurse, he was gotten into bed and was left alone.
After that Kate went to her own room and wrote her letters. The first she wrote was to her aunt Greenow. That was easily enough written. To Mrs Greenow it was not necessary that she should say anything about money. She simply stated her belief that her grandfather’s last day was near at hand, and begged her aunt to come and pay a last visit to the old man. “It will be a great comfort to me in my distress,” she said; “and it will be a satisfaction to you to have seen your father again.” She knew that her aunt would come, and that task was soon done.
But her letter to her brother was much more difficult. What should she tell him, and what should she not tell him? She began by describing her grandfather’s state, and by saying to him, as she had done to Mrs Greenow, that she believed the old man’s hours were well-nigh come to a close. She told him that she had asked her aunt to come to her; “not,” she said, “that I think her coming will be of material service, but I feel the loneliness of the house will be too much for me at such a time. I must leave it for you to decide,” she said, “whether you had better be here. If anything should happen” — people when writing such letters are always afraid to speak of death by its proper name — “I will send you a message, and no doubt you would come at once.” Then came the question of the will. Had it not occurred to her that her own interests were involved she would have said nothing on the subject; but she feared her brother — feared even his misconstruction of her motives, even though she was willing to sacrifice so much on his behalf — and therefore she resolved to tell him all that she knew. He might turn upon her hereafter if she did not do so and accuse her of a silence which had been prejudicial to him’.
So she told it all, and the letter became long in the telling “I write with a heavy heart,” she said, “because I know it will be a great blow to you. He gave me to understand that in this will he left everything away from you. I cannot declare that he said so directly. Indeed I cannot remember his words; but that was the impression he left on me. The day before he had asked me what I should do if he gave me the estate; but of course I treated that as a joke. I have no idea what he put into this will. I have not even attempted to guess. But now I have told you all that I know.” The letter was a very long one, and was not finished till late; but when it was completed she had the two taken out into the kitchen, as the boy was to start with them before daylight.
Early on the next morning she crept silently into her grandfather’s room, as was her habit; but he was apparently sleeping, and then she crept back again. The old servant told her that the Squire had been awake at four, and at five, and at six, and had called for her. Then he had seemed to go to sleep. Four or five times in the course of the morning Kate went into the room, but her grandfather did not notice her. At last she feared he might already have passed away, and she put her hand upon his shoulder, and down his arm. He then gently touched her hand with his, showing her plainly that he was not only alive, but conscious. She then offered him food — the thin porridge — which he was wont to take, and the medicine. She offered him some wine too, but he would take nothing.
At twelve o’clock a letter was brought to her, which had come by the post. She saw that it was from Alice, and opening it found that it was very long. At that moment she could not read it, but she saw words in it that made her wish to know its contents as quickly as possible. But she could not leave her grandfather then. At two o’clock the doctor came to him, and remained there till the dusk of the evening had commenced. At eight o-clock the old man was dead.
Poor Kate’s condition at the old Hall on that night was very sad. The presence of death is always a source of sorrow, even though the circumstances of the case are of a kind to create no agony of grief. The old man who had just passed away upstairs was fully due to go. He had lived his span all out, and had himself known that to die was the one thing left for him to do. Kate also had expected his death, and had felt that the time had come in which it would be foolish even to wish that it should be arrested. But death close to one is always sad as it is solemn.
And she was quite alone at Vavasor Hall. She had no acquaintance within some miles of her. From the young vicar, though she herself had not quarrelled with him, she could receive no comfort, as she hardly knew him; nor was she of a temperament which would dispose her to turn to a clergyman at such a time for comfort, unless to one who might have been an old friend. Her aunt and brother would probably both come to her; but they could hardly be with her for a day or two, and during that day or two it would be needful that orders should be given which it is disagreeable for a woman to have to give. The servants, moreover, in the house were hardly fit to assist her much. There was an old butler, or footman, who had lived at the Hall for more than fifty years, but he was crippled with rheumatism, and so laden with maladies, that he rarely crept out of his own room. He was simply an additional burden on the others. There was a boy who had lately done all the work which the other should have done, and ever so much more beside. There is no knowing how much work such a boy will do when properly drilled, and he was now Kate’s best minister in her distress. There was the old nurse — but she had been simply good for nursing, and there were two rough Westmoreland girls who called themselves cook and housemaid.
On that first evening — the very day on which her grandfather had died — Kate would have been more comfortable had she really found something that she could do. But there was in truth nothing. She hovered for an hour or two in and out of the room, conscious of the letter which she had in her pocket, and very desirous in heart of reading it, but restrained by a feeling that at such a moment she ought to think only of the dead. In this she was wrong. Let the living think of the dead, when their thoughts will travel that way whether the thinker wish it or no. Grief taken up because grief is supposed to be proper, is only one degree better than pretended grief. When one sees it, one cannot but think of the lady who asked her friend, in confidence, whether hot roast fowl and bread sauce were compatible with the earliest state of weeds; or of that other lady — a royal lady she — who was much comforted in the tedium of her trouble when assured by one of the lords about the Court that piquet was mourning.
It was late at night, near eleven, before Kate took out her letter and read it. As something of my story hangs upon it, I will give it at length, though it was a long letter. It had been written with great struggles and with many tears, and Kate, as she read it to the end, almost forgot that her grandfather was lying dead in the room above her.
“Queen Anne Street, April, 186-.
“DEAREST KATE,
“I hardly know how to write to you — what I have to tell, and yet I must tell it. I must tell it to you, but I shall never repeat the story to any one else. I should have written yesterday, when it occurred, but I was so ill that I felt myself unable to make the exertion. Indeed, at one time, after your brother had left me, I almost doubted whether I should ever be able to collect my thoughts again. My dismay was at first so great that my reason for a time deserted me, and I could only sit and cry like an idiot.
“Dear Kate, I hope you will not be angry with me for telling you. I have endeavoured to think about it as calmly as I can, and I believe that I have no alternative. The fact that your brother has quarrelled with me cannot be concealed from you, and I must not leave him to tell you of the manner of it. He came to me yesterday in great anger. His anger then was nothing to what it became afterwards; but even when he first came in he was full of wrath. He stood up before me, and asked me how it had come to pass that I had sent him the money which he had asked of me through the hands of Mr Grey. Of course I had not done this, and so I told him at once. I had spoken of the matter to no one but papa, and he had managed it for me. Even now I know nothing of it, and as I have not yet spoken to papa I cannot understand it. George at once told me that he disbelieved me, and when I sat quiet under this insult, he used harsher words, and said that I had conspired to lower him before the world.
“He then asked me whether I loved him. Oh, Kate, I must tell it you all, though it is dreadful to me that I should have to write it. You remember how it came to pass when we were in Westmoreland together at Christmas? Do not think that I am blaming you, but I was very rash then in the answers which I made to him. I thought that I could be useful to him as his wife, and I had told myself that it would be good that I should be of use in some way. When he asked me that question yesterday, I sat silent. Indeed, how could I have answered it in the affirmative, when he had just used such language to me — while he was standing opposite to me, looking at me in that way which he has when he is enraged? Then he spoke again and demanded of me that I should at once send back to Mr Grey all presents of his which I had kept, and at the same time took up and threw across the table on to the sofa near me, a little paper knife which Mr Grey once gave me. I could not allow myself to be so ordered by him; so I said nothing, but put the knife back upon the table. He then took it again and threw it beneath the grate. ‘I have a right to look upon you as my wife,’ he said, ‘and, as such, I will not allow you to keep that man’s things about you.’ I think I told him then that I should never become his wife, but though I remember many of his words, I remember none of my own. He swore, I know, with a great oath, that if I went back a second time from my word to him he would leave me no peace — that he would punish me for my perfidy with some fearful punishment. Oh, Kate, I cannot tell you what he looked like. He had then come quite close to me, and I know that I trembled before him as though he were going to strike me. Of course I said nothing. What could I say to a man who behaved to me in such a manner? Then, as far as I can remember it, he sat down and began to talk about money. I forget what he said at first, but I know that I assured him that he might take what he wanted so long as enough was left to prevent my being absolutely a burden on papa. ‘That, madam, is a matter of course,’ he said. I remember those words so well. Then he explained that after what had passed between us, I had no right to ruin him by keeping back from him money which had been promised to him, and which was essential to his success. In this, dear Kate, I think he was mainly right. But he could not have been right in putting it to me in that hard, cruel manner, especially as I had never refused anything that he had asked of me in respect of money. The money he may have while it lasts; but then there must be an end of it all between us, even though he should have the power of punishing me, as he says he will do. Punishing me, indeed! What punishment can be so hard as that which he has already inflicted?
“He then desired me to write a letter to him which he might show to the lawyer — to our own lawyer, I think he meant, in order that money might be raised to pay back what Mr Grey had advanced, and give him what he now required, I think he said it was to be five thousand pounds. When he asked this I did not move. Indeed, I was unable to move. Then he spoke very loud, and swore at me again, and brought me pen and ink, demanding that I should write the letter. I was so frightened that I thought of running to the door to escape, and I would have done so had I not distrusted my own power. Had it been to save my life I could not have written the letter. I believe I was now crying — at any rate I threw myself back and covered my face with my hands. Then he came and sat by me, and took hold of my arms. Oh, Kate; I cannot tell it you all. He put his mouth close to my ear, and said words which were terrible, though I did not understand them. I do not know what it was he said, but he was threatening me with his anger if I did not obey him. Before he left me, I believe I found my voice to tell him that he should certainly have the money which he required. And so he shall. I will go to Mr Round myself, and insist on its being done. My money is my own, and I may do with it as I please. But I hope — I am obliged to hope, that I may never be made to see my cousin again.
“I will not pretend to express any opinion as to the cause of all this. It is very possible that you will not believe all I say — that you will think that I am mad and have deluded myself. Of course your heart will prompt you to accuse me rather than him. If it is so, and if there must therefore be a division between us, my grief will be greatly increased; but I do not know that I can help it. I cannot keep all this back from you. He has cruelly ill-used me and insulted me. He has treated me as I should have thought no man could have treated a woman. As regards money, I did all that I could do to show that I trusted him thoroughly, and my confidence has only led to suspicion. I do not know whether he understands that everything must be over between us; but, if not, I must ask you to tell him so. And I must ask you to explain to him that he must not come again to Queen Anne Street. If he does, nothing shall induce me to see him. Tell him also that the money that he wants shall assuredly be sent to him as soon as I can make Mr Round get it.
“Dearest Kate, goodbye. 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 he 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 that 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 that 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, today I received your letter, and today 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 he 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 upstairs, 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 tonight,” 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 must 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 last 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.
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 described 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 upstairs.
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 upstairs, 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 tomorrow.”
“Why couldn’t they do it tomorrow, 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?”
“Mr Vavasor!” shouted out George, making the old woman jump. She did not understand his meaning in the least. “Yes, sir; the old Squire,” she said.
“Will you come, George?” Kate asked.
“No; what should I go there for? Why should I pretend an interest in the dead body of a man whom I hated, and who hated me — whose very last act, as far as I know as yet, was an attempt to rob me? I won’t go and see him.”
Kate went, and was glad of an opportunity of getting away from her brother. Every hour the idea was becoming stronger in her mind that she must in some way separate herself from him. There had come upon him of late a hard ferocity which made him unendurable. And then he carried to such a pitch that hatred, as he called it, of conventional rules, that he allowed himself to be controlled by none of the ordinary bonds of society. She had felt this heretofore, with a nervous consciousness that she was doing wrong in endeavouring to bring about a marriage between him and Alice; but this demeanour and mode of talking had now so grown upon him that Kate began to feel herself thankful that Alice had been saved. Kate went up with her uncle and aunt, and saw the face of her grandfather for the last time. “Poor, dear old man!” said Mrs Greenow, as the easy tears ran down her face. “Do you remember, John, how he used to scold me, and say that I should never come to good? He has said the same thing to you, Kate, I dare say?”
“He has been very kind to me,” said Kate, standing at the foot of the bed. She was not one of those whose tears stand near their eyes.
“He was a fine old gentleman,” said John Vavasor — “belonging to days that are now gone by, but by no means the less of a gentleman on that account. I don’t know that he ever did an unjust or ungenerous act to any one. Come, Kate, we may as well go down.” Mrs Greenow lingered to say a word or two to the nurse, of the manner in which Greenow’s body was treated when Greenow was lying dead, and then she followed her brother and niece.
George did not go into Penrith, nor did he see Mr Gogram till that worthy attorney came out to Vavasor Hall on the morning of the funeral. He said nothing more on the subject, nor did he break the seals on the old upright desk that stood in the parlour. The two days before the funeral were very wretched for all the party, except, perhaps, for Mrs Greenow, who affected not to understand that her nephew was in a bad humour. She called him “poor George,” and treated all his incivility to herself as though it were the effect of his grief. She asked him questions about Parliament, which, of course, he didn’t answer, and told him little stories about poor dear Greenow, not heeding his expressions of unmistakable disgust.
The two days at last went by, and the hour of the funeral came. There was the doctor and Gogram, and the uncle and the nephew, to follow the corpse — the nephew taking upon himself ostentatiously the foremost place, as though he could thereby help to maintain his pretensions as heir. The clergyman met them at the little wicket-gate of the churchyard, having by some reasoning, which we hope was satisfactory to himself, overcome a resolution which he at first formed, that he would not read the burial service over an unrepentant sinner. But he did read it, having mentioned his scruples to none but one confidential clerical friend in the same diocese.
“I’m told that you have got my grandfather’s will,” George said to the attorney as soon as he saw him.
“I have it in my pocket,” said Mr Gogram, “and purpose to read it as soon as we return from church.”
“Is it usual to take a will away from a man’s house in that way?” George asked.
“Quite usual,” said the attorney; “and in this case it was done at the express desire of the testator.”
“I think it is the common practice,” said John Vavasor.
George upon this turned round at his uncle as though about to attack him, but he restrained himself and said nothing, though he showed his teeth.
The funeral was very plain, and not a word was spoken by George Vavasor during the journey there and back. John Vavasor asked a few questions of the doctor as to the last weeks of his father’s life; and it was incidentally mentioned, both by the doctor and by the attorney, that the old Squire’s intellect had remained unimpaired up to the last moment that he had been seen by either of them. When they returned to the hall Mrs Greenow met them with an invitation to lunch. They all went to the dining-room, and drank each a glass of sherry. George took two or three glasses. The doctor then withdrew, and drove himself back to Penrith, where he lived.
“Shall we go into the other room now?” said the attorney. The three gentlemen then rose up, and went across to the drawing-room, George leading the way. The attorney followed him, and John Vavasor closed the door behind them. Had any observer been there to watch them he might have seen by the faces of the two latter that they expected an unpleasant meeting. Mr Gogram, as he had walked across the hall, had pulled a document out of his pocket, and held it in his hand as he took a chair. John Vavasor stood behind one of the chairs which had been placed at the table, and leaned upon it, looking across the room, up at the ceiling. George stood on the rug before the fire, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, and his coat-tails over his arms.
“Gentlemen, will you sit down?” said Mr Gogram. John Vavasor immediately sit down.
“I prefer to stand here,” said George.
Mr Gogram then opened the document before him.
“Before that paper is read,” said George, “I think it right to say a few words. I don’t know what it contains, but I believe it to have been executed by my grandfather only an hour or two before his death.”
“On the day before he died — early in the day,” said the attorney.
“Well — the day before he died; it is the same thing — while he was dying, in fact. He never got out of bed afterwards.”
“He was not in bed at the time, Mr Vavasor. Not that it would have mattered if he had been. And he came down to dinner on that day. I don’t understand, however, why you make these observations.”
“If you’ll listen to me you will understand. I make them because I deny my grandfather’s fitness to make a will in the last moments of his existence, and at such an age. I saw him a few weeks ago, and he was not fit to be trusted with the management of property then.”
“I do not think this is the time, George, to put forward such objections,” said the uncle.
“I think it is,” said George. “I believe that that paper purports to be an instrument by which I should be villanously defrauded if it were allowed to be held as good. Therefore I protest against it now, and shall question it at law if action be taken on it. You can read it now, if you please.”
“Oh, yes, I shall read,” said Mr Gogram; “and I say that it is as valid a will as ever a man signed.”
“And I say it’s not. That’s the difference between us.”
The will was read amidst sundry interjections and expressions of anger from George, which it is not necessary to repeat. Nor need I trouble my readers with the will at length. It began by expressing the testator’s great desire that his property might descend in his own family, and that the house might be held and inhabited by someone bearing the name of Vavasor. He then declared that he felt himself obliged to pass over his natural heir, believing that the property would not be safe in his hands; he therefore left it in trust to his son John Vavasor, whom he appointed to be sole executor of his will. He devised it to George’s eldest son — should George ever marry and have a son — as soon as he might reach the age of twenty-five. In the meantime the property should remain in the hands of John Vavasor for his use and benefit, with a lien on it of five hundred a year to be paid annually to his granddaughter Kate. In the event of George having no son, the property was to go to the eldest son of Kate, or failing that to the eldest son of his other granddaughter who might take the name of Vavasor. All his personal property he left to his son, John Vavasor. “And, Mr Vavasor,” said the attorney, as he finished his reading, “you will, I fear, get very little by that latter clause. The estate now owes nothing; but I doubt whether the Squire had fifty pounds in his banker’s hands when he died, and the value of the property about the place is very small. He has been unwilling to spend anything during the last ten years, but has paid off every shilling that the property owed.”
“It is as I supposed,” said George. His voice was very unpleasant, and so was the fire of his eyes and the ghastly rage of his scarred face. “The old man has endeavoured in his anger to rob me of everything because I would not obey him in his wickedness when I was here with him a short while before he died. Such a will as that can stand nowhere.”
“As to that I have nothing to say at present,” said the attorney.
“Where is his other will — the one he made before that?”
“If I remember rightly we executed two before this.”
“And where are they?”
“It is not my business to know, Mr Vavasor. I believe that I saw him destroy one, but I have no absolute knowledge. As to the other, I can say nothing.”
“And what do you mean to do?” said George, turning to his uncle.
“Do! I shall carry out the will. I have no alternative. Your sister is the person chiefly interested under it. She gets five hundred a year for her life; and if she marries and you don’t, or if she has a son and you don’t, her son will have the whole property.”
George stood for a few moments thinking. Might it not be possible that by means of Alice and Kate together — by marrying the former — perhaps, he might still obtain possession of the property? But that which he wanted was the command of the property at once — the power of raising money upon it instantly. The will had been so framed as to make that impossible in any way. Kate’s share in it had not been left to her unconditionally, but was to be received even by her through the hands of her uncle John. Such a will shut him out from all his hopes. “It is a piece of d — roguery,” he said.
“What do you mean by that, sir?” said Gogram, turning round towards him. “I mean exactly what I say. It is a piece of d — roguery. Who was in the room when that thing was written?”
“The signature was witnessed by — ”
“I don’t ask as to the signature. Who was in the room when the thing was written?”
“I was here with your grandfather.”
“And no one else?”
“No one else. The presence of any one else at such a time would be very unusual.”
“Then I regard the document simply as waste paper.” After saying this, George Vavasor left the room, and slammed the door after him.
“I never was insulted in such a way before,” said the attorney, almost with tears in his eyes.
“He is a disappointed and I fear a ruined man,” said John Vavasor. “I do not think you need regard what he says.”
“But he should not on that account insult me. I have only done my duty. I did not even advise his grandfather. It is mean on his part and unmanly. If he comes in my way again I shall tell him so.”
“He probably will not put himself in your way again, Mr Gogram.”
Then the attorney went, having suggested to Mr Vavasor that he should instruct his attorney in London to take steps in reference to the proving of the will. “It’s as good a will as ever was made,” said Mr Gogram. “If he can set that aside, I’ll give up making wills altogether.”
Who was to tell Kate? That was John Vavasor’s first thought when he was left alone at the hall door, after seeing the lawyer start away. And how was he to get himself back to London without further quarrelling with his nephew? And what was he to do at once with reference to the immediate duties of proprietorship which were entailed upon him as executor? It was by no means improbable, as he thought, that George might assume to himself the position of master of the house; that he might demand the keys, for instance, which no doubt were in Kate’s hands at present, and that he would take possession with violence. What should he do under such circumstances? It was clear that he could not run away and get back to his club by the night mail train. He had duties there at the Hall, and these duties were of a nature to make him almost regret the position in which his father’s will had placed him. Eventually he would gain some considerable increase to his means, but the immediate effect would be terribly troublesome. As he looked up at the melancholy pines which were slowly waving their heads in the wind before the door he declared to himself that he would sell his inheritance and his executorship very cheaply, if such a sale were possible.
In the dining-room he found his sister alone. “Well, John,” said she; “well? How is it left?”
“Where is Kate?” he asked.
“She has gone out with her brother.”
“Did he take his hat?”
“Oh, yes. He asked her to walk, and she went with him at once.”
“Then, I suppose, he will tell her,” said John Vavasor. After that he explained the circumstances of the will to Mrs Greenow. “Bravo,” exclaimed the widow. “I’m delighted. I love Kate dearly; and now she can marry almost whom she pleases.”
George, when he left the room in which he had insulted the lawyer, went immediately across to the parlour in which his aunt and sister were sitting. “Kate,” said he, “put on your hat and come and walk with me. That business is over.” Kate’s hat and shawl were in the room, and they were out of the house together within a minute.
They walked down the carriage-road, through the desolate, untended grounds, to the gate, before either of them spoke a word. Kate was waiting for George to tell her of the will, but did not dare to ask any question. George intended to tell her of the will, but was not disposed to do so without some preparation. It was a thing not to be spoken of open-mouthed, as a piece of ordinary news. “Which way shall we go?” said Kate, as soon as they had passed through the old rickety gate, which swang at the entrance of the place. “Up across the fell,” said George; “the day is fine, and I want to get away from my uncle for a time.” She turned round, therefore, outside the hill of firs, and led the way back to the beacon wood through which she and Alice had walked across to Hawes Water upon a memorable occasion. They had reached the top of the beacon hill, and were out upon the Fell, before George had begun his story. Kate was half beside herself with curiosity, but still she was afraid to ask. “Well,” said George, when they paused a moment as they stepped over a plank that crossed the boundary ditch of the wood; “don’t you want to know what that dear old man has done for you?” Then he looked into her face very steadfastly. “But perhaps you know already,” he added. He had come out determined not to quarrel with his sister. He had resolved, in that moment of thought which had been allowed to him, that his best hope for the present required that he should keep himself on good terms with her, at any rate till he had settled what line of conduct he would pursue. But he was, in truth, so sore with anger and disappointment — he had become so nearly mad with that continued, unappeased wrath in which he now indulged against all the world, that he could not refrain himself from bitter words. He was as one driven by the Furies, and was no longer able to control them in their driving of him.
“I know nothing of it,” said Kate. “Had I known I should have told you. Your question is unjust to me.”
“I am beginning to doubt,” said he, “whether a man can be safe in trusting any one. My grandfather has done his best to rob me of the property altogether.”
“I told you that I feared he would do so.”
“And he has made you his heir.”
“Me?”
“Yes; you.”
“He told me distinctly that he would not do that.”
“But he has, I tell you.”
“Then, George, I shall do that which I told him I should do in the event of his making such a will; for he asked me the question. I told him I should restore the estate to you, and upon that he swore that he would not leave it to me.”
“And what a fool you were,” said he, stopping her in the pathway. “What an ass! Why did you tell him that? You knew that he would not, on that account, do justice to me.”
“He asked me, George.”
“Psha! now you have ruined me, and you might have saved me.”
“But I will save you still, if he has left the estate to me. I do not desire to take it from you. As God in heaven sees me, I have never ceased to endeavour to protect your interests here at Vavasor. I will sign anything necessary to make over my right in the property to you.” Then they walked on over the Fell for some minutes without speaking. They were still on the same path — that path which Kate and Alice had taken in the winter — and now poor Kate could not but think of all that she had said that day on George’s behalf — how had she mingled truth and falsehood in her efforts to raise her brother’s character in her cousin’s eyes! It had all been done in vain. At this very moment of her own trouble Kate thought of John Grey, and repented of what she had done. Her hopes in that direction were altogether blasted. She knew that her brother had ill-treated Alice, and that she must tell him so if Alice’s name were mentioned between them. She could no longer worship her brother, and hold herself at his command in all things. But, as regarded the property to which he was naturally the heir, if any act of hers could give it to him, that act would be done. “If the will is as you say, George, I will make over my right to you.”
“You can make over nothing,” he answered. “The old robber has been too cunning for that; he has left it all in the hands of my uncle John. D— him. D— them both.”
“George! George! He is dead now.”
“Dead; of course he is dead. What of that? I wish he had been dead ten years ago — or twenty. Do you suppose I am to forgive him because he is dead? I’ll heap his grave with curses, if that can be of avail to punish him.”
“You can only punish the living that way.”
“And I will punish them — but not by cursing them. My uncle John shall have such a life of it for the next year or two that he shall bitterly regret the hour in which he has stepped between me and my rights.”
“I do not believe that he has done so.”
“Not done so! What was he down here for at Christmas? Do you pretend to think that that make-believe will was concocted without his knowledge?”
“I’m sure that he knew nothing of it. I don’t think my grandfather’s mind was made up a week before he died.”
“You’ll have to swear that, remember, in a court. I’m not going to let the matter rest, I can tell you. You’ll have to prove that. How long is it since he asked you what you would do with the estate if he left it to you?”
Kate thought for a moment before she answered. “It was only two days before he died, if I remember rightly.”
“But you must remember rightly. You’ll have to swear to it. And now tell me this honestly; do you believe, in your heart, that he was in a condition fit for making a will?”
“I advised him not to make it.”
“Why? Why? What reason did you give?”
“I told him that I thought no man should alter family arrangements when he was so ill.”
“Exactly. You told him that. And what did he say?”
“He was very angry, and made me send for Mr Gogram.”
“Now, Kate, think a little before you answer me again. If ever you are to do me a good turn, you must do it now. And, remember this, I don’t at all want to take anything away from you. Whatever you think is fair you shall have.”
He was a fool not to have known her better than that.
“I want nothing,” she said, stopping and stamping with her foot upon the crushed heather. “George, you don’t understand what it is to be honest.”
He smiled — with a slight provoking smile that passed very rapidly from his face. The meaning of the smile was to be read, had Kate been calm enough to read it. “I can’t say that I do.” That was the meaning of the smile. “Well, never mind about that,” said he; “you advised my grandfather not to make his will — thinking, no doubt, that his mind was not clear enough?”
She paused a moment again before she answered him. “His mind was clear,” she said; “but I thought that he should not trust his judgment while he was so weak.”
“Look here, Kate; I do believe that you at any rate have no mind to assist in this robbery. That it is a robbery you can’t have any doubt. I said he had left the estate to you. That is not what he has done. He has left the estate to my uncle John.”
“Why tell me, then, what was untrue?”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Of course I am; Uncle John won’t give it you. George, I don’t understand you; I don’t, indeed.”
“Never mind about that, but listen to me. The estate is left in the hands of John Vavasor; but he has left you five hundred a year out of it till somebody is twenty-five years old who is not yet born, and probably never will be born. The will itself shows the old fool to have been mad.”
“He was no more mad than you are, George.”
“Listen to me, I tell you. I don’t mean that he was a raging maniac. Now, you had advised him not to make any new will because you thought he was not in a fit condition?”
“Yes; I did.”
“You can swear to that?”
“I hope I may not be called on to do so. I hope there may be no swearing about it. But if I am asked the question I must swear it.”
“Exactly. Now listen till you understand what it is I mean. That will, if it stands, gives all the power over the estate to John Vavasor. It renders you quite powerless as regards any help or assistance that you might be disposed to give me. But, nevertheless, your interest under the will is greater than his — or than that of any one else — for your son would inherit if I have none. Do you understand?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“And your testimony as to the invalidity of the will would be conclusive against all the world.”
“I would say in a court what I have told you, if that will do any good.”
“It will not be enough. Look here, Kate; you must be steadfast here; everything depends on you. How often have you told me that you will stick to me throughout life? Now you will be tried.”
Kate felt that her repugnance towards him — towards all that he was doing and wished her to do — was growing stronger within her at every word he spoke. She was becoming gradually aware that he desired from her something which she could not and would not do, and she was aware also that in refusing him she would have to encounter him in all his wrath. She set her teeth firmly together, and clenched her little fist. If a fight was necessary, she would fight with him. As he looked at her closely with his sinister eyes, her love towards him was almost turned to hatred.
“Now you will be tried,” he said again. “You advised him not to make the will because you thought his intellect was impaired!”
“No; not so.”
“Stop, Kate, stop. If you will think of it, it was so. What is the meaning of his judgment being weak?”
“I didn’t say his judgment was weak.”
“But that was what you meant when you advised him not to trust it!”
“Look here, George; I think I know now what you mean. If anybody asks me if his mind was gone, or his intellect deranged, I cannot say that there was anything of the kind.”
“You will not?”
“Certainly not. It would be untrue.”
“Then you are determined to throw me over and claim the property for yourself.” Again he turned towards and looked at her as though he were resolved to frighten her. “And I am to count you also among my enemies? You had better take care, Kate.”
They were now upon the Fell side, more than three miles away from the Hall; and Kate, as she looked round, saw that they were all alone. Not a cottage — not a sign of humanity was within sight. Kate saw that it was so, and was aware that the fact pressed itself upon her as being of importance. Then she thought again of her resolution to fight with him, if any fight were necessary; to tell him, in so many words, that she would separate herself from him and defy him. She would not fear him, let his words and face be ever so terrible! Surely her own brother would do her no bodily harm. And even though he should do so — though he should take her roughly by the arm as he had done to Alice — though he should do worse than that, still she would fight him. Her blood was the same as his, and he should know that her courage was, at any rate, as high.
And, indeed, when she looked at him, she had cause to fear. He intended that she should fear. He intended that she should dread what he might do to her at that moment. As to what he would do he had no resolve made. Neither had he resolved on anything when he had gone to Alice and had shaken her rudely as she sat beside him. He had been guided by no fixed intent when he had attacked John Grey, nor when he insulted the attorney; but a Fury was driving him, and he was conscious of being so driven. He almost wished to be driven to some act of frenzy. Everything in the world had gone against him, and he desired to expend his rage on someone.
“Kate,” said he, stopping her, “we will have this out here, if you please. So much, at any rate, shall be settled today. You have made many promises to me, and I have believed them. You can now keep them all, by simply saying what you know to be the truth — that that old man was a drivelling idiot when he made this will. Are you prepared to do me that justice? Think before you answer me, for, by G—, if I cannot have justice among you, I will have revenge.” And he put his hand upon her breast up near to her throat.
“Take your hand down, George,” said she. “I’m not such a fool that you can frighten me in that way.”
“Answer me!” he said, and shook her, having some part of her raiment within his clutch.
“Oh, George, that I should live to be so ashamed of my brother!”
“Answer me,” he said again; and again he shook her.
“I have answered you. I will say nothing of the kind that you want me to say. My grandfather, up to the latest moment that I saw him, knew what he was about. He was not an idiot. He was, I believe, only carrying out a purpose fixed long before. You will not make me change what I say by looking at me like that, nor yet by shaking me. You don’t know me, George, if you think you can frighten me like a child.”
He heard her to the last word, still keeping his hand upon her, and holding her by the cloak she wore; but the violence of his grasp had relaxed itself, and he let her finish her words, as though his object had simply been to make her speak out to him what she had to say. “Oh,” said he, when she had done, “That’s to be it; is it? That’s your idea of honesty. The very name of the money being your own has been too much for you. I wonder whether you and my uncle had contrived it all between you beforehand?”
“You will not dare to ask him, because he is a man,” said Kate, her eyes brimming with tears, not through fear, but in very vexation at the nature of the charge he had brought against her.
“Shall I not? You will see what I dare do. As for you, with all your promises —. Kate, you know that I keep my word. Say that you will do as I desire you, or I will be the death of you.”
“Do you mean that you will murder me?” said she.
“Murder you! Yes; why not? Treated as I have been among you, do you suppose that I shall stick at anything? Why should I not murder you — you and Alice, too, seeing how you have betrayed me?”
“Poor Alice!” as she spoke the words she looked straight into his eyes, as though defying him, as far as she herself were concerned.
“Poor Alice, indeed! D— hypocrite! There’s a pair of you; cursed, whining, false, intriguing hypocrites. There; go down and tell your uncle and that old woman there that I threatened to murder you. Tell the judge so, when you’re brought into court to swear me out of my property. You false liar!” Then he pushed her from him with great violence, so that she fell heavily upon the stony ground.
He did not stop to help her up, or even to look at her as she lay, but walked away across the heath, neither taking the track on towards Hawes Water, nor returning by the path which had brought them? thither. He went away morthwards across the wild fell; and Kate, having risen up and seated herself on a small cairn of stones which stood there, watched him as he descended the slope of the hill till he was out of sight. He did not run, but he seemed to move rapidly, and he never once turned round to look at her. He went away, down the hill northwards, and presently the curving of the ground hid him from her view.
When she first seated herself her thoughts had been altogether of him. She had feared no personal injury, even when she had asked him whether he would murder her. Her blood had been hot within her veins, and her heart had been full of defiance. Even yet she feared nothing, but continued to think of him and his misery, and his disgrace. That he was gone for ever, utterly and irretrievably ruined, thrown out, as it were, beyond the pale of men, was now certain to her. And this was the brother in whom she had believed; for whom she had not only been willing to sacrifice herself, but for whose purposes she had striven to sacrifice her cousin! What would he do now? As he passed from out of her sight down the hill, it seemed to her as though he were rushing straight into some hell from which there could be no escape.
She knew that her arm had been hurt in the fall, but for a while she would not move it or feel it, being resolved to take no account of what might have happened to herself. But when he had been gone some ten minutes, she rose to her feet, and finding that the movement pained her greatly, and that her right arm was powerless, she put up her left hand and became aware that the bone of her arm was broken below the elbow. Her first thought was given to the telling him of this, or the not telling, when she should meet him below at the house. How should she mention the accident to him? Should she lie, and say that she had fallen as she came down the hill alone? Of course he would not believe her, but still some such excuse as that might make the matter easier for them all. It did not occur to her that she might not see him again at all that day; and that, as far as he was concerned, there might be need for no lie.
She started off to walk down home, holding her right arm steadily against her body with her left hand. Of course she must give some account of herself when she got to the house; but it was of the account to be given to him that she thought. As to the others she cared little for them. “Here I am; my arm is broken; and you had better send for a doctor.” That would be sufficient for them.
When she got into the wood the path was very dark. The heavens were overcast with clouds, and a few drops began to fall. Then the rain fell faster and faster, and before she had gone a quarter of a mile down the beacon hill, the clouds had opened themselves, and the shower had become a storm of water. Suffering as she was she stood up for a few moments under a large tree, taking the excuse of the rain for some minutes of delay, that she might make up her mind as to what she would say. Then it occurred to her that she might possibly meet him again before she reached the house; and, as she thought of it, she began for the first time to fear him. Would he come out upon her from the trees and really kill her? Had he made his way round, when he got out of her sight, that he might fall upon her suddenly and do as he had threatened? As the idea came upon her, she made a little attempt to run, but she found that running was impracticable from the pain the movement caused her. Then she walked on through the hard rain, steadily holding her arm against her side, but still looking every moment through the trees on the side from which George might be expected to reach her. But no one came near her on her way homewards. Had she been calm enough to think of the nature of the ground, she might have known that he could not have returned upon her so quickly. He must have come back up the steep hillside which she had seen him descend. No — he had gone away altogether, across the fells towards Bampton, and was at this moment vainly buttoning his coat across his breast, in his unconscious attempt to keep out the wet. The Fury was driving him on, and he himself was not aware whither he was driven.
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.