Among the Fells.
Alice came down to breakfast on that Christmas morning at Vavasor
Hall without making any sign as to the letter she had received. The
party there consisted of her grandfather, her father, her cousin
Kate, and herself. They all made their Christmas salutations as is
usual, and Alice received and made hers as did the others, without
showing that anything had occurred to disturb her tranquillity. Kate
remarked that she had heard that morning from Aunt Greenow, and
promised to show Alice the letter after breakfast. But Alice said no
word of her own letter.
"Why didn't your aunt come here to eat her Christmas dinner?" said
the Squire.
"Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her," said Kate, standing close
to her grandfather,--for the old man was somewhat deaf.
"And why didn't you ask her;--that is, if she stands upon asking to
come to her old home?"
"Nay, sir, but I couldn't do that without your bidding. We Vavasors
are not always fond of meeting each other."
"Hold your tongue, Kate. I know what you mean, and you should be the
last to speak of it. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I am
much obliged to you for coming down all this way to see your old
grandfather at Christmas. I am indeed. I only wish you had brought
better news about your sweetheart."
"She'll think better of it before long, sir," said her father.
"Papa, you shouldn't say that. You would not wish me to marry against
my own judgement."
"I don't know much about ladies' judgements," said the old man. "It
does seem to me that when a lady makes a promise she ought to keep
it."
"According to that," said Kate, "if I were engaged to a man, and
found that he was a murderer, I still ought to marry him."
"But Mr. Grey is not a murderer," said the Squire.
"Pray,--pray, don't talk about it," said Alice. "If you do I really
cannot sit and hear it."
"I have given over saying anything on the subject," said John
Vavasor, speaking as though he had already expended upon it a vast
amount of paternal eloquence. He had, however, never said more than
has been recorded in these pages. Alice during this conversation, sat
with her cousin's letter in her pocket, and as yet had not even begun
to think what should be the nature of her reply.
The Squire of Vavasor Hall was a stout old man, with a red face and
grey eyes, which looked fiercely at you, and with long grey hair, and
a rough grey beard, which gave him something of the appearance of an
old lion. He was passionate, unreasoning, and specially impatient
of all opposition; but he was affectionate, prone to forgive when
asked to do so, unselfish, and hospitable. He was, moreover, guided
strictly by rules, which he believed to be rules of right. His
grandson George had offended him very deeply,--had offended him
and never asked his pardon. He was determined that such pardon
should never be given, unless it were asked for with almost bended
knees; but, nevertheless, this grandson should be his heir. That
was his present intention. The right of primogeniture could not, in
accordance with his theory, be abrogated by the fact that it was, in
George Vavasor's case, protected by no law. The Squire could leave
Vavasor Hall to whom he pleased, but he could not have hoped to rest
quietly in his grave should it be found that he had left it to any
one but the eldest son of his own eldest son. Though violent, and
even stern, he was more prone to love than to anger; and though none
of those around him dared to speak to him of his grandson, yet he
longed in his heart for some opportunity of being reconciled to him.
The whole party went to church on this Christmas morning. The small
parish church of Vavasor, an unpretending wooden structure, with a
single bell which might be heard tinkling for a mile or two over
the fells, stood all alone about half a mile from the Squire's gate.
Vavasor was a parish situated on the intermediate ground between
the mountains of the lake country and the plains. Its land was
unproductive, ill-drained, and poor, and yet it possessed little or
none of the beauty which tourists go to see. It was all amidst the
fells, and very dreary. There were long skirtings of dark pines
around a portion of the Squire's property, and at the back of the
house there was a thick wood of firs running up to the top of what
was there called the Beacon Hill. Through this there was a wild steep
walk which came out upon the moorland, and from thence there was a
track across the mountain to Hawes Water and Naddale, and on over
many miles to the further beauties of Bowness and Windermere. They
who knew the country, and whose legs were of use to them, could find
some of the grandest scenery in England within reach of a walk from
Vavasor Hall; but to others the place was very desolate. For myself,
I can find I know not what of charm in wandering over open, unadorned
moorland. It must be more in the softness of the grass to the feet,
and the freshness of the air to the lungs, than in anything that
meets the eye. You might walk for miles and miles to the north-east,
or east, or south-east of Vavasor without meeting any object to
arrest the view. The great road from Lancaster to Carlisle crossed
the outskirts of the small parish about a mile from the church, and
beyond that the fell seemed to be interminable. Towards the north
it rose, and towards the south it fell, and it rose and fell very
gradually. Here and there some slight appearance of a valley might
be traced which had been formed by the action of the waters; but
such breakings of ground were inconsiderable, and did not suffice to
interrupt the stern sameness of the everlasting moorland.
The daily life at Vavasor was melancholy enough for such a one as the
Squire's son, who regarded London as the only place on the earth's
surface in which a man could live with comfort. The moors offered
no charms to him. Nor did he much appreciate the homely comforts of
the Hall; for the house, though warm, was old-fashioned and small,
and the Squire's cook was nearly as old as the Squire himself. John
Vavasor's visits to Vavasor were always visits of duty rather than of
pleasure. But it was not so with Alice. She could be very happy there
with Kate; for, like herself, Kate was a good walker and loved the
mountains. Their regard for each other had grown and become strong
because they had gone together o'er river and moor, and because they
had together disregarded those impediments of mud and wet which
frighten so many girls away from the beauties of nature.
On this Christmas Day they all went to church, the Squire being
accompanied by Alice in a vehicle which in Ireland is called an
inside jaunting-car, and which is perhaps the most uncomfortable kind
of vehicle yet invented; while John Vavasor walked with his niece.
But the girls had arranged that immediately after church they would
start for a walk up the Beacon Hill, across the fells, towards Hawes
Water. They always dined at the Hall at the vexatious hour of five;
but as their church service, with the sacrament included, would
be completed soon after twelve, and as lunch was a meal which the
Squire did not himself attend, they could have full four hours for
their excursion. This had all been planned before Alice received her
letter; but there was nothing in that to make her change her mind
about the walk.
"Alice, my dear," said the old man to her when they were together in
the jaunting-car, "you ought to get married." The Squire was hard
of hearing, and under any circumstances an inside jaunting-car is a
bad place for conversation, as your teeth are nearly shaken out of
your head by every movement which the horse makes. Alice therefore
said nothing, but smiled faintly, in reply to her grandfather. On
returning from church he insisted that Alice should again accompany
him, telling her specially that he desired to speak to her. "My dear
child," he said, "I have been thinking a great deal about you, and
you ought to get married."
"Well, sir, perhaps I shall some day."
"Not if you quarrel with all your suitors," said the old man. "You
quarrelled with your cousin George, and now you have quarrelled with
Mr. Grey. You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in that
way."
"Why should I be married more than Kate?"
"Oh, Kate! I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wish
you'd think of what I say. If you don't get married before long,
perhaps you'll never get married at all. Gentlemen won't stand that
kind of thing for ever."
The two girls took a slice of cake each in her hand, and started on
their walk. "We shan't be able to get to the lake," said Kate.
"No," said Alice; "but we can go as far as the big stone on Swindale
Fell, where we can sit down and see it."
"Do you remember the last time we sat there?" said Kate. "It is
nearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all was
to be over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was,
and how I screamed in my sorrow? I sometimes wonder at myself and my
own folly. How is it that I can never get up any interest about my
own belongings? And then we got soaking wet through coming home."
"I remember that very well."
"And how dark it was! That was in September, but we had dined early.
If we go as far as Swindale we shall have it very dark coming home
to-day;--but I don't mind that through the Beacon Wood, because I
know my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark?"
"Oh, no," said Alice.
"Yes; I do remember that day. Well; it's all for the best, I suppose.
And now I must read you my aunt's letter." Then, while they were
still in the wood, Kate took out the letter from her aunt and read
it, while they still walked slowly up the hill. It seemed that
hitherto neither of her two suitors had brought the widow to terms.
Indeed, she continued to write of Mr. Cheesacre as though that
gentleman were inconsolable for the loss of Kate, and gave her niece
much serious advice as to the expedience of returning to Norfolk,
in order that she might secure so eligible a husband. "You must
understand all the time, Alice," said Kate, pausing as she read the
letter, "that the dear man has never given me the slightest ground
for the faintest hope, and that I know to a certainty that he makes
an offer to her twice a week,--that is, on every market day. You
can't enjoy half the joke if you won't bear that in mind." Alice
promised that she would bear it all in mind, and then Kate went on
with her reading. Poor Bellfield was working very hard at his drill,
Mrs. Greenow went on to say; so hard that sometimes she really thought
the fatigue would be too much for his strength. He would come in
sometimes of an evening and just take a cup of tea;--generally on
Mondays and Thursdays. "These are not market days at Norwich," said
Kate; "and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided." "He comes in," said
Mrs. Greenow, "and takes a little tea; and sometimes I think that
he will faint at my feet." "That he kneels there on every occasion,"
said Kate, "and repeats his offer also twice a week, I have not the
least doubt in the world."
"And will she accept him at last?"
"Really I don't know what to think of it. Sometimes I fancy that
she likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake to
put herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money,
because he wants it sadly and she is very generous. She gives him
money, I feel sure, but takes his receipt on stamped paper for every
shilling. That's her character all over."
The letter then went on to say that the writer had made up her mind
to remain at Norwich certainly through the winter and spring, and
that she was anxiously desirous that her dear Kate should go back to
her. "Come and have one other look at Oileymead," said the letter,
"and then, if you make up your mind that you don't like it or him, I
won't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a very
honest fellow." "Did you ever know such a woman?" said Kate; "with
all her faults I believe she would go through fire and water to serve
me. I think she'd lend me money without any stamped paper." Then Aunt
Greenow's letter was put up, and the two girls had come out upon the
open fell.
It was a delicious afternoon for a winter's walk. The air was clear
and cold, but not actually frosty. The ground beneath their feet
was dry, and the sky, though not bright, had that appearance of
enduring weather which gives no foreboding of rain. There is a
special winter's light, which is very clear though devoid of all
brilliancy,--through which every object strikes upon the eye with
well-marked lines, and under which almost all forms of nature seem
graceful to the sight if not actually beautiful. But there is a
certain melancholy which ever accompanies it. It is the light of
the afternoon, and gives token of the speedy coming of the early
twilight. It tells of the shortness of the day, and contains even in
its clearness a promise of the gloom of night. It is absolute light,
but it seems to contain the darkness which is to follow it. I do not
know that it is ever to be seen and felt so plainly as on the wide
moorland, where the eye stretches away over miles, and sees at the
world's end the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselves
upon the horizon. Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, and
both the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the big
stone on Swindale Fell, from which they intended to look down upon
the loveliness of Hawes Water. As they went up through the wood there
had been some laughter between them over Aunt Greenow's letter; and
they had discussed almost with mirth the merits of Oileymead and
Mr. Cheesacre; but as they got further on to the fell, and as the
half-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, their words became
less light, and after a while they almost ceased to speak.
Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had placed it there
when she came down to breakfast, and had carried it with her since.
She had come to no resolution as yet as to her answer to it, nor had
she resolved whether or no she would show it to Kate. Kate had ever
been regarded by her as her steadfast friend. In all these affairs
she had spoken openly to Kate. We know that Kate had in part betrayed
her, but Alice suspected no such treason. She had often quarrelled
with Kate; but she had quarrelled with her not on account of any sin
against the faith of their friendship. She believed in her cousin
perfectly, though she found herself often called upon to disagree
with her almost violently. Why should she not show this letter to
Kate, and discuss it in all its bearings before she replied to it?
This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the fell.
The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclined
to give way, and to join her lot to that of her cousin George. Alas,
yes! The reader will be right in his surmise. And yet it was not her
love for the man that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. Had
it been so, I think that it would be easier to forgive her. She was
beginning to think that love,--the love of which she had once thought
so much,--did not matter. Of what use was it, and to what had it led?
What had love done for her friend Glencora? What had love done for
her? Had she not loved John Grey, and had she not felt that with
all her love life with him would have been distasteful to her? It
would have been impossible for her to marry a man whom personally she
disliked; but she liked her cousin George,--well enough, as she said
to herself almost indifferently.
Upon the whole it was a grievous task to her in these days,--this
having to do something with her life. Was it not all vain and futile?
As for that girl's dream of the joys of love which she had once
dreamed,--that had gone from her slumbers, never to return. How might
she best make herself useful,--useful in some sort that might gratify
her ambition;--that was now the question which seemed to her to be of
most importance.
Her cousin's letter to her had been very crafty. He had studied the
whole of her character accurately as he wrote it. When he had sat
down to write it he had been indifferent to the result; but he had
written it with that care to attain success which a man uses when he
is anxious not to fail in an attempt. Whether or no he cared to marry
his cousin was a point so little interesting to him that chance might
decide it for him; but when chance had decided that he did wish it,
it was necessary for his honour that he should have that for which he
condescended to ask.
His letter to her had been clever and very crafty. "At any rate he
does me justice," she said to herself, when she read those words
about her money, and the use which he proposed to make of it. "He is
welcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether he has
it as my friend or as my husband." Then she thought of Kate's promise
of her little mite, and declared to herself that she would not be
less noble than her cousin Kate. And would it not be well that she
should be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather? George
was the representative of the family,--of a family so old that no one
now knew which had first taken the ancient titular name of some old
Saxon landowner,--the parish, or the man. There had been in old days
some worthy Vavaseurs, as Chaucer calls them, whose rank and bearing
had been adopted on the moorland side. Of these things Alice thought
much, and felt that it should be her duty so to act, that future
Vavasors might at any rate not be less in the world than they who
had passed away. In a few years at furthest, George Vavasor must be
Vavasor of Vavasor. Would it not be right that she should help him to
make that position honourable?
They walked on, exchanging now and again a word or two, till the
distant Cumberland mountains began to form themselves in groups of
beauty before their eyes. "There's Helvellyn at last," said Kate.
"I'm always happy when I see that." "And isn't that Kidsty Pike?"
asked Alice. "No; you don't see Kidsty yet. But you will when you
get up to the bank there. That's Scaw Fell on the left;--the round
distant top. I can distinguish it, though I doubt whether you can."
Then they went on again, and were soon at the bank from whence the
sharp top of the mountain which Alice had named was visible. "And now
we are on Swindale, and in five minutes we shall get to the stone."
In less than five minutes they were there; and then, but not till
then, the beauty of the little lake, lying down below them in the
quiet bosom of the hills, disclosed itself. A lake should, I think,
be small, and should be seen from above, to be seen in all its glory.
The distance should be such that the shadows of the mountains on its
surface may just be traced, and that some faint idea of the ripple
on the waters may be present to the eye. And the form of the lakes
should be irregular, curving round from its base among the lower
hills, deeper and still deeper into some close nook up among the
mountains from which its head waters spring. It is thus that a lake
should be seen, and it was thus that Hawes Water was seen by them
from the flat stone on the side of Swindale Fell. The basin of the
lake has formed itself into the shape of the figure of 3, and the top
section of the figure lies embosomed among the very wildest of the
Westmoreland mountains. Altogether it is not above three miles long,
and every point of it was to be seen from the spot on which the girls
sat themselves down. The water beneath was still as death, and as
dark,--and looked almost as cold. But the slow clouds were passing
over it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed themselves
with gradual changes. And though no movement was visible, there
was ever and again in places a slight sheen upon the lake, which
indicated the ripple made by the breeze.
"I'm so glad I've come here," said Alice, seating herself. "I cannot
bear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes at
least."
"We'll get over to Windermere one day," said Kate.
"I don't think we shall. I don't think it possible that I should stay
long. Kate, I've got a letter to show you." And there was that in the
tone of her voice which instantly put Kate upon her mettle.
Kate seated herself also, and put up her hand for the letter. "Is it
from Mr. Grey?" she asked.
"No," said Alice; "it is not from Mr. Grey." And she gave her
companion the paper. Kate before she had touched it had seen that it
was from her brother George; and as she opened it looked anxiously
into Alice's face. "Has he offended you?" Kate asked.
[Illustration: Swindale Fell.]
"Read it," said Alice, "and then we'll talk of it afterwards,--as we
go home." Then she got up from the stone and walked a step or two
towards the brow of the fell, and stood there looking down upon the
lake, while Kate read the letter. "Well!" she said, when she returned
to her place.
"Well," said Kate. "Alice, Alice, it will, indeed, be well if you
listen to him. Oh, Alice, may I hope? Alice, my own Alice, my
darling, my friend! Say that it shall be so." And Kate knelt at her
friend's feet upon the heather, and looked up into her face with eyes
full of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false as
she had been, and yet could be so true?
Alice made no immediate answer, but still continued to gaze down over
her friend upon the lake. "Alice," continued Kate, "I did not think
I should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have the
heart to bring me here and show me this letter in this way, and bid
me read it so calmly, and then tell me that it is all for nothing.
No; you could not do that? Alice, I am so happy. I will so love this
place. I hated it before." And then she put her face down upon the
boulder-stone and kissed it. Still Alice said nothing, but she began
to feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It was
almost impossible for her now to say that her answer to George must
be a refusal.
Then Kate again went on speaking. "But is it not a beautiful letter?
Say, Alice,--is it not a letter of which if you were his brother you
would feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proud
of him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage,
who will yet do manly things. Here out on the mountain, with nobody
near us, with Nature all round us, I ask you on your solemn word as a
woman, do you love him?"
"Love him!" said Alice.
"Yes;--love him: as a woman should love her husband. Is not your
heart his? Alice, there need be no lies now. If it be so, it should
be your glory to say so, here, to me, as you hold that letter in your
hand."
"I can have no such glory, Kate. I have ever loved my cousin; but not
so passionately as you seem to think."
"Then there can be no passion in you."
"Perhaps not, Kate. I would sometimes hope that it is so. But come;
we shall be late; and you will be cold sitting there."
"I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would be as
I would have it. But, Alice, at any rate you shall tell me before I
move what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; but
make me happy by saying so with your own lips."
"I cannot tell you before you move, Kate."
"And why not?"
"Because I have not as yet resolved."
"Ah, that is impossible. That is quite impossible. On such a subject
and under such circumstances a woman must resolve at the first
moment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read the
letter;--though, perhaps, it may not suit you to say so."
"You are quite mistaken. Come along and let us walk, and I will tell
you all." Then Kate arose, and they turned their back to the lake,
and began to make their way homewards. "I have not made up my mind as
to what answer I will give him; but I have shown you his letter in
order that I might have some one with whom I might speak openly. I
knew well how it would be, and that you would strive to hurry me into
an immediate promise."
"No;--no; I want nothing of the kind."
"But yet I could not deny myself the comfort of your friendship."
"No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do not
wish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Has
it not been the longing of all my life? Have I not passed my time
plotting and planning and thinking of it till I have had time to
think of nothing else? Do you know what I suffered when, through
George's fault, the engagement was broken off? Was it not martyrdom
to me,--that horrid time in which your Crichton from Cambridgeshire
was in the ascendant? Did I not suffer the tortures of purgatory
while that went on;--and yet, on the whole, did I not bear them with
patience? And, now, can you be surprised that I am wild with joy when
I begin to see that everything will be as I wish;--for it will be as
I wish, Alice. It may be that you have not resolved to accept him.
But you would have resolved to refuse him instantly had that been
your destined answer to his letter." There was but little more said
between them on the subject as they were passing over the fell, but
when they were going down the path through the Beacon Wood, Kate
again spoke: "You will not answer him without speaking to me first?"
said Kate.
"I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you," said
Alice.
"And you will let me see it?"
"Nay," said Alice; "I will not promise that. But if it is
unfavourable I will show it you."
"Then I shall never see it," said Kate, laughing. "But that is quite
enough for me. I by no means wish to criticise the love-sweet words
in which you tell him that his offences are all forgiven. I know how
sweet they will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him!"
Then they were at home; and the old man met them at the front door,
glowering at them angrily from out his old leonine eyes, because the
roast beef was already roasted. He had his great uncouth silver watch
in his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and he
pointed at it fiercely, showing them the minute hand at ten minutes
past the hour.
"But, grandpapa, you are always too fast," said Kate.
"And you are always too slow, miss," said the hungry old squire.
"Indeed, it is not five yet. Is it, Alice?"
"And how long are you going to be dressing?"
"Not ten minutes;--are we, Alice? And, grandpapa, pray don't wait."
"Don't wait! That's what they always say," he muttered, peevishly.
"As if one would be any better waiting for them after the meat is
on the table." But neither Kate nor Alice heard this, as they were
already in their rooms.
Nothing more was said that evening between Alice and Kate about the
letter; but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night inside her
bedroom door, spoke to her just one word--"Pray for him to-night,"
she said, "as you pray for those you love best." Alice made no
answer, but we may believe that she did as she was desired to do.