Showing How Alice Was Punished.
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 up-stairs 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, good-bye. 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 be 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 the 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 the
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, to-day I received
your letter, and to-day 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 be 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 up-stairs,
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
to-night," 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 latest
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.