A Love Gift.
When Alice heard of her cousin's success, and understood that he was
actually Member of Parliament for the Chelsea Districts, she resolved
that she would be triumphant. She had sacrificed nearly everything
to her desire for his success in public life, and now that he had
achieved the first great step towards that success, it would have
been madness on her part to decline her share in the ovation. If
she could not rejoice in that, what source of joy would then be left
for her? She had promised to be his wife, and at present she was
under the bonds of that promise. She had so promised because she
had desired to identify her interests with his,--because she wished
to share his risks, to assist his struggles, and to aid him in his
public career. She had done all this, and he had been successful. She
strove, therefore, to be triumphant on his behalf, but she knew that
she was striving ineffectually. She had made a mistake, and the days
were coming in which she would have to own to herself that she had
done so in sackcloth, and to repent with ashes.
But yet she struggled to be triumphant. The tidings were first
brought to her by her servant, and then she at once sat down to
write him a word or two of congratulation. But she found the task
more difficult than she had expected, and she gave it up. She had
written no word to him since the day on which he had left her almost
in anger, and now she did not know how she was to address him. "I
will wait till he comes," she said, putting away from her the paper
and pens. "It will be easier to speak than to write." But she wrote
to Kate, and contrived to put some note of triumph into her letter.
Kate had written to her at length, filling her sheet with a loud pæan
of sincere rejoicing. To Kate, down in Westmoreland, it had seemed
that her brother had already done everything. He had already tied
Fortune to his chariot wheels. He had made the great leap, and had
overcome the only obstacle that Fate had placed in his way. In her
great joy she almost forgot whence had come the money with which the
contest had been won. She was not enthusiastic in many things;--about
herself she was never so; but now she was elated with an enthusiasm
which seemed to know no bounds. "I am proud," she said, in her letter
to Alice. "No other thing that he could have done would have made me
so proud of him. Had the Queen sent for him and made him an earl, it
would have been as nothing to this. When I think that he has forced
his way into Parliament without any great friend, with nothing to
back him but his own wit"--she had, in truth, forgotten Alice's money
as she wrote;--"that he has achieved his triumph in the metropolis,
among the most wealthy and most fastidious of the richest city in the
world, I do feel proud of my brother. And, Alice, I hope that you are
proud of your lover." Poor girl! One cannot but like her pride, nay,
almost love her for it, though it was so sorely misplaced. It must be
remembered that she had known nothing of Messrs. Grimes and Scruby,
and the River Bank, and that the means had been wanting to her of
learning the principles upon which some metropolitan elections are
conducted.
"And, Alice, I hope that you are proud of your lover!" "He is not
my lover," Alice said to herself. "He knows that he is not. He
understands it, though she may not." And if not your lover, Alice
Vavasor, what is he then to you? And what are you to him, if not his
love? She was beginning to understand that she had put herself in
the way of utter destruction;--that she had walked to the brink of
a precipice, and that she must now topple over it. "He is not my
lover," she said; and then she sat silent and moody, and it took her
hours to get her answer written to Kate.
On the same afternoon she saw her father for a moment or two. "So
George has got himself returned," he said, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes, he has been successful. I'm sure you must be glad, papa."
"Upon my word, I'm not. He has bought a seat for three months; and
with whose money has he purchased it?"
"Don't let us always speak of money, papa."
"When you discuss the value of a thing just purchased, you must
mention the price before you know whether the purchaser has done well
or badly. They have let him in for his money because there are only a
few months left before the general election. Two thousand pounds he
has had, I believe?"
"And if as much more is wanted for the next election he shall have
it."
"Very well, my dear;--very well, If you choose to make a beggar of
yourself, I cannot help it. Indeed, I shall not complain though he
should spend all your money, if you do not marry him at last." In
answer to this, Alice said nothing. On that point her father's wishes
were fast growing to be identical with her own.
"I tell you fairly what are my feelings and my wishes," he continued.
"Nothing, in my opinion, would be so deplorable and ruinous as such
a marriage. You tell me that you have made up your mind to take him,
and I know well that nothing that I can say will turn you. But I
believe that when he has spent all your money he will not take you,
and that thus you will be saved. Thinking as I do about him, you can
hardly expect that I should triumph because he has got himself into
Parliament with your money!"
Then he left her, and it seemed to Alice that he had been very cruel.
There had been little, she thought, nay, nothing of a father's loving
tenderness in his words to her. If he had spoken to her differently,
might she not even now have confessed everything to him? But herein
Alice accused him wrongfully. Tenderness from him on this subject
had, we may say, become impossible. She had made it impossible. Nor
could he tell her the extent of his wishes without damaging his own
cause. He could not let her know that all that was done was so done
with the view of driving her into John Grey's arms.
But what words were those for a father to speak to a daughter! Had
she brought herself to such a state that her own father desired to
see her deserted and thrown aside? And was it probable that this wish
of his should come to pass? As to that, Alice had already made up
her mind. She thought that she had made up her mind that she would
never become her cousin's wife. It needed not her father's wish to
accomplish her salvation, if her salvation lay in being separated
from him.
On the next morning George went to her. The reader will, perhaps,
remember their last interview. He had come to her after her letter to
him from Westmoreland, and had asked her to seal their reconciliation
with a kiss; but she had refused him. He had offered to embrace her,
and she had shuddered before him, fearing his touch, telling him by
signs much more clear than any words, that she felt for him none of
the love of a woman. Then he had turned from her in anger, declaring
to her honestly that he was angry. Since that he had borrowed her
money,--had made two separate assaults upon her purse,--and was now
come to tell her of the results. How was he to address her? I beg
that it may be also remembered that he was not a man to forget the
treatment he had received. When he entered the room, Alice looked
at him, at first, almost furtively. She was afraid of him. It must
be confessed that she already feared him. Had there been in the man
anything of lofty principle he might still have made her his slave,
though I doubt whether he could ever again have forced her to love
him. She looked at him furtively, and perceived that the gash on his
face was nearly closed. The mark of existing anger was not there. He
had come to her intending to be gentle, if it might be possible. He
had been careful in his dress, as though he wished to try once again
if the rôle of lover might be within his reach.
Alice was the first to speak. "George, I am so glad that you have
succeeded! I wish you joy with my whole heart."
"Thanks, dearest. But before I say another word, let me acknowledge
my debt. Unless you had aided me with your money, I could not have
succeeded."
"Oh, George! pray don't speak of that!"
"Let me rather speak of it at once, and have done. If you will think
of it, you will know that I must speak of it sooner or later." He
smiled and looked pleasant, as he used to do in those Swiss days.
"Well, then, speak and have done."
"I hope you have trusted me in thus giving me the command of your
fortune?"
"Oh, yes."
"I do believe that you have. I need hardly say that I could not have
stood for this last election without it; and I must try to make you
understand that if I had not come forward at this vacancy, I should
have stood no chance for the next; otherwise, I should not have been
justified in paying so dearly for a seat for one session. You can
understand that; eh, Alice?"
"Yes; I think so.
"Anybody, even your father, would tell you that; though, probably,
he regards my ambition to be a Member of Parliament as a sign of
downright madness. But I was obliged to stand now, if I intended to
go on with it, as that old lord died so inopportunely. Well, about
the money! It is quite upon the cards that I may be forced to ask for
another loan when the autumn comes."
"You shall have it, George."
"Thanks, Alice. And now I will tell you what I propose. You know
that I have been reconciled,--with a sort of reconciliation,--to my
grandfather? Well, when the next affair is over, I propose to tell
him exactly how you and I then stand."
"Do not go into that now, George. It is enough for you at present to
be assured that such assistance as I can give you is at your command.
I want you to feel the full joy of your success, and you will do so
more thoroughly if you will banish all these money troubles from your
mind for a while."
"They shall, at any rate, be banished while I am with you," said he.
"There; let them go!" And he lifted up his right hand, and blew at
the tips of his fingers. "Let them vanish," said he. "It is always
well to be rid of such troubles for a time."
It is well to be rid of them at any time, or at all times, if only
they can be banished without danger. But when a man has overused his
liver till it will not act for him any longer, it is not well for him
to resolve that he will forget the weakness of his organ just as he
sits down to dinner.
It was a pretty bit of acting, that of Vavasor's, when he blew away
his cares; and, upon the whole, I do not know that he could have
done better. But Alice saw through it, and he knew that she did so.
The whole thing was uncomfortable to him, except the fact that he
had the promise of her further moneys. But he did not intend to
rest satisfied with this. He must extract from her some meed of
approbation, some show of sympathy, some spark of affection, true or
pretended, in order that he might at least affect to be satisfied,
and be enabled to speak of the future without open embarrassment. How
could even he take her money from her, unless he might presume that
he stood with her upon some ground that belonged mutually to them
both?
"I have already taken my seat," said he.
"Yes; I saw that in the newspapers. My acquaintance among Members of
Parliament is very small, but I see that you were introduced, as they
call it, by one of the few men that I do know. Is Mr. Bott a friend of
yours?"
"No,--certainly not a friend. I may probably have to act with him in
public."
"Ah, that's just what they said of Mr. Palliser when they felt ashamed
of his having such a man as his guest. I think if I were in public
life I should try to act with people that I could like."
"Then you dislike Mr. Bott?"
"I do not like him, but my feelings about him are not violent."
"He is a vulgar ass," said George, "with no more pretensions to rank
himself a gentleman than your footman."
"If I had one."
"But he will get on in Parliament, to a certain extent."
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand what are the requisites for
Parliamentary success, or indeed of what it consists. Is his
ambition, do you suppose, the same as yours?"
"His ambition, I take it, does not go beyond a desire to be
Parliamentary flunkey to a big man,--with wages, if possible, but
without, if the wages are impossible."
"And yours?"
"Oh, as to mine;--there are some things, Alice, that a man does not
tell to any one."
"Are there? They must be very terrible things."
"The schoolboy, when he sits down to make his rhymes, dares not say,
even to his sister, that he hopes to rival Milton; but he nurses such
a hope. The preacher, when he preaches his sermon, does not whisper,
even to his wife, his belief that thousands may perhaps be turned
to repentance by the strength of his words; but he thinks that the
thousand converts are possible."
"And you, though you will not say so, intend to rival Chatham, and to
make your thousand converts in politics."
"I like to hear you laugh at me,--I do, indeed. It does me good to
hear your voice again with some touch of satire in it. It brings back
the old days,--the days to which I hope we may soon revert without
pain. Shall it not be so, dearest?"
Her playful manner at once deserted her. Why had he made this foolish
attempt to be tender? "I do not know," she said, gloomily.
For a few minutes he sat silent, fingering some article belonging to
her which was lying on the table. It was a small steel paper-knife,
of which the handle was cast and gilt; a thing of no great value, of
which the price may have been five shillings. He sat with it, passing
it through his fingers, while she went on with her work.
"Who gave you this paper-cutter?" he said, suddenly.
"Goodness me, why do you ask? and especially, why do you ask in that
way?"
"I asked simply because if it is a present to you from any one, I
will take up something else."
"It was given me by Mr. Grey."
He let it drop from his fingers on to the table with a noise, and
then pushed it from him, so that it fell on the other side, near to
where she sat.
"George," she said, as she stooped and picked it up, "your violence
is unreasonable; pray do not repeat it."
"I did not mean it," he said, "and I beg your pardon. I was simply
unfortunate in the article I selected. And who gave you this?" In
saying which he took up a little ivory foot-rule that was folded up
so as to bring it within the compass of three inches.
"It so happens that no one gave me that; I bought it at a stupid
bazaar."
"Then this will do. You shall give it me as a present, on the renewal
of our love."
"It is too poor a thing to give," said she, speaking still more
gloomily than she had done before.
"By no means; nothing is too poor, if given in that way. Anything
will do; a ribbon, a glove, a broken sixpence. Will you give me
something that I may take, and, taking it, may know that your heart
is given with it?"
"Take the rule, if you please," she said.
"And about the heart?" he asked.
He should have been more of a rascal or less. Seeing how very much of
a rascal he was already, I think it would have been better that he
should have been more,--that he should have been able to content his
spirit with the simple acquisition of her money, and that he should
have been free from all those remains of a finer feeling which made
him desire her love also. But it was not so. It was necessary for
his comfort that she should, at any rate, say she loved him. "Well,
Alice, and what about the heart?" he asked again.
"I would so much rather talk about politics, George," said she.
The cicatrice began to make itself very visible in his face, and the
debonair manner was fast vanishing. He had fixed his eyes upon her,
and had inserted his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat.
"Alice, that is not quite fair," he said.
"I do not mean to be unfair."
"I am not so sure of that. I almost think that you do mean it. You
have told me that you intend to become my wife. If, after that, you
wilfully make me miserable, will not that be unfair?"
"I am not making you miserable,--certainly not wilfully."
"Did that letter which you wrote to me from Westmoreland mean
anything?"
"George, do not strive to make me think that it meant too much."
"If it did, you had better say so at once."
But Alice, though she would have said so had she dared, made no
answer to this. She sat silent, turning her face away from his gaze,
longing that the meeting might be over, and feeling that she had lost
her own self-respect.
"Look here, Alice," he said, "I find it very hard to understand you.
When I look back over all that has passed between us, and to that
other episode in your life, summing it all up with your conduct to me
at present, I find myself at a loss to read your character."
"I fear I cannot help you in the reading of it."
"When you first loved me;--for you did love me. I understood that
well enough. There is no young man who in early life does not read
with sufficient clearness that sweetest morsel of poetry.--And when
you quarrelled with me, judging somewhat harshly of my offences, I
understood that also; for it is the custom of women to be hard in
their judgement on such sins. When I heard that you had accepted the
offer made to you by that gentleman in Cambridgeshire, I thought that
I understood you still,--knowing how natural it was that you should
seek some cure for your wound. I understood it, and accused myself,
not you, in that I had driven you to so fatal a remedy." Here Alice
turned round towards him sharply, as though she were going to
interrupt him, but she said nothing, though he paused for her to
speak; and then he went on. "And I understood it well when I heard
that this cure had been too much for you. By heavens, yes! there was
no misunderstanding that. I meant no insult to the man when I upset
his little toy just now. I have not a word to say against him. For
many women he would make a model husband, but you are not one of
them. And when you discovered this yourself, as you did, I understood
that without difficulty. Yes, by heavens! if ever woman had been
driven to a mistake, you had been driven to one there." Here she
looked at him again, and met his eyes. She looked at him with
something of his own fierceness in her face, as though she were
preparing herself to fight with him; but she said nothing at the
moment, and then he again went on. "And, Alice, I understood it
also when you again consented to be my wife. I thought that I still
understood you then. I may have been vain to think so, but surely it
was natural. I believed that the old love had come back upon you, and
again warmed your heart. I thought that it had been cold during our
separation, and I was pleased to think so. Was that unnatural? Put
yourself in my place, and say if you would not have thought so. I
told myself that I understood you then, and I told myself that in
all that you had done you had acted as a true, and good, and loving
woman. I thought of you much, and I saw that your conduct, as a
whole, was intelligible and becoming." The last word grated on
Alice's ears, and she showed her anger by the motion of her foot upon
the floor. Her cousin noted it all, but went on as though he had
not noted it. "But now your present behaviour makes all the rest a
riddle. You have said that you would be my wife, declaring thereby
that you had forgiven my offences, and, as I suppose, reassuring me
of your love; and yet you receive me with all imaginable coldness.
What am I to think of it, and in what way would you have me behave to
you? When last I was here I asked you for a kiss." As he said this he
looked at her with all his eyes, with his mouth just open, so as to
show the edges of his white teeth, with the wound down his face all
wide and purple. The last word came with a stigmatizing hiss from
his lips. Though she did not essay to speak, he paused again, as if
he were desirous that she might realize the full purport of such a
request. I think that, in the energy of his speaking, a touch of true
passion had come upon him; that he had forgotten his rascaldom, and
his need of her money, and that he was punishing her with his whole
power of his vengeance for the treatment which he had received from
her. "I asked you for a kiss. If you are to be my wife you can have
no shame in granting me such a request. Within the last two months
you have told me that you would marry me. What am I to think of such
a promise if you deny me all customary signs of your affection?" Then
he paused again, and she found that the time had come in which she
must say something to him.
[Illustration: "I asked you for a kiss."]
"I wonder you cannot understand," she said, "that I have suffered
much."
"And is that to be my answer?"
"I don't know what answer you want."
"Come, Alice, do not be untrue; you do know what answer I want, and
you know also whether my wanting it is unreasonable."
"No one ever told me that I was untrue before," she said.
"You do know what it is that I desire. I desire to learn that the
woman who is to be my wife, in truth, loves me."
She was standing up, and so was he also, but still she said nothing.
He had in his hand the little rule which she had told him that he
might take, but he held it as though in doubt what he would do with
it. "Well, Alice, am I to hear anything from you?"
"Not now, George; you are angry, and I will not speak to you in your
anger."
"Have I not cause to be angry? Do you not know that you are treating
me badly?"
"I know that my head aches, and that I am very wretched. I wish you
would leave me."
"There, then, is your gift," said he, and he threw the rule over on
to the sofa behind her. "And there is the trumpery trinket which I
had hoped you would have worn for my sake." Whereupon something which
he had taken from his waistcoat-pocket was thrown violently into the
fender, beneath the fire-grate. He then walked with quick steps to
the door; but when his hand was on the handle, he turned. "Alice," he
said, "when I am gone, try to think honestly of your conduct to me."
Then he went, and she remained still, till she heard the front door
close behind him.
When she was sure that he was gone, her first movement was made in
search of the trinket. I fear that this was not dignified on her
part; but I think that it was natural. It was not that she had any
desire for the jewel, or any curiosity even to see it. She would very
much have preferred that he should have brought nothing of the kind
to her. But she had a feminine reluctance that anything of value
should be destroyed without a purpose. So she took the shovel, and
poked among the ashes, and found the ring which her cousin had thrown
there. It was a valuable ring, bearing a ruby on it between two small
diamonds. Such at least, she became aware, had been its bearing; but
one of the side stones had been knocked out by the violence with
which the ring had been flung. She searched even for this, scorching
her face and eyes, but in vain. Then she made up her mind that the
diamond should be lost for ever, and that it should go out among
the cinders into the huge dust-heaps of the metropolis. Better that,
though it was distasteful to her feminine economy, than the other
alternative of setting the servants to search, and thereby telling
them something of what had been done.
When her search was over, she placed the ring on the mantelpiece; but
she knew that it would not do to leave it there,--so she folded it up
carefully in a new sheet of note-paper, and put it in the drawer of
her desk. After that she sat herself down at the table to think what
she would do; but her head was, in truth, racked with pain, and on
that occasion she could bring her thoughts to no conclusion.