Showing How the Wild Beast Got Himself Back from the Mountains.
About eleven o'clock on that night,--the night of the day on which
Kate Vavasor's arm had been broken,--there came a gentle knock at
Kate's bedroom door. There was nothing surprising in this, as of all
the household Kate only was in bed. Her aunt was sitting at this time
by her bedside, and the doctor, who had been summoned from Penrith
and who had set her broken arm, was still in the house, talking
over the accident with John Vavasor in the dining-room, before he
proceeded back on his journey home.
"She will do very well," said the doctor. "It's only a simple
fracture. I'll see her the day after to-morrow."
"Is it not odd that such an accident should come from a fall whilst
walking?" asked Mr. Vavasor.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "One never can say how anything
may occur," said he. "I know a young woman who broke the os femoris
by just kicking her cat;--at least, she said she did."
"Indeed! I suppose you didn't take any trouble to inquire?"
"Not much. My business was with the injury, not with the way she got
it. Somebody did make inquiry, but she stuck to her story and nothing
came of it. Good night, Mr. Vavasor. Don't trouble her with questions
till she has had some hours' sleep, at any rate." Then the doctor
went, and John Vavasor was left alone, standing with his back to the
dining-room fire.
There had been so much trouble and confusion in the house since Kate
had fainted, almost immediately upon her reaching home, that Mr.
Vavasor had not yet had time to make up his mind as to the nature of
the accident which had occurred. Mrs. Greenow had at once ascertained
that the bone was broken, and the doctor had been sent for. Luckily
he had been found at home, and had reached the Hall a little before
ten o'clock. In the meantime, as soon as Kate recovered her senses,
she volunteered her account of what had occurred.
Her brother had quarrelled with her about the will, she said, and had
left her abruptly on the mountain. She had fallen, she went on to
say, as she turned from him, and had at once found that she had hurt
herself. But she had been too angry with him to let him know it; and,
indeed, she had not known the extent herself till he had passed out
of her sight. This was her story; and there was nothing in it that
was false by the letter, though there was much that was false in the
spirit. It was certainly true that George had not known that she was
injured. It was true that she had asked him for no help. It was true,
in one sense, that she had fallen, and it was true that she had not
herself known how severe had been the injury done to her till he had
gone beyond the reach of her voice. But she repressed all mention
of his violence, and when she was pressed as to the nature of the
quarrel, she declined to speak further on that matter.
Neither her uncle nor her aunt believed her. That was a matter of
course, and she knew that they did not believe her. George's absence,
their recent experience of his moods, and the violence by which her
arm must have been broken, made them certain that Kate had more to
tell if she chose to tell it. But in her present condition they could
not question her. Mrs. Greenow did ask as to the probability of her
nephew's return.
"I can only tell you," said Kate, "that he went away across the Fell
in the direction of Bampton. Perhaps he has gone on to Penrith. He
was very angry with us all; and as the house is not his own, he has
probably resolved that he will not stay another night under the roof.
But, who can say? He is not in his senses when he is angered."
John Vavasor, as he stood alone after the doctor's departure,
endeavoured to ascertain the truth by thinking of it. "I am sure,"
he said to himself, "that the doctor suspects that there has been
violence. I know it from his tone, and I can see it in his eye. But
how to prove it? and would there be good in proving it? Poor girl!
Will it not be better for her to let it pass as though we believed
her story?" He made up his mind that it would be better. Why should
he take upon himself the terrible task of calling this insane
relation to account for an act which he could not prove? The will
itself, without that trouble, would give him trouble enough. Then he
began to long that he was back at his club, and to think that the
signing-room in Chancery Lane was not so bad. And so he went up to
his bed, calling at Kate's door to ask after the patient.
In the meantime there had come a messenger to Mrs. Greenow, who had
stationed herself with her niece. One of the girls of the house
brought up a scrap of paper to the door, saying that a boy had
brought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was intended for
Miss Vavasor, and it was she who knocked at the sickroom door. The
note was open and was not addressed; indeed, the words were written
on a scrap of paper that was crumpled up rather than folded, and were
as follows: "Send me my clothes by the bearer. I shall not return to
the house." Mrs. Greenow took it in to Kate, and then went away to see
her nephew's things duly put into his portmanteau. This was sent away
in the cart, and Mr. Vavasor, as he went up-stairs, was told what had
been done.
Neither on that night or on the following day did Mrs. Greenow ask any
further questions; but on the morning after that, when the doctor had
left them with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity would
brook no further delay. And, indeed, indignation as well as curiosity
urged her on. In disposition she was less easy, and, perhaps, less
selfish, than her brother. If it were the case that that man had
ill-treated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring him
to punishment. "Kate," she said, when the doctor was gone, "I expect
that you will tell me the whole truth as to what occurred between you
and your brother when you had this accident."
"I have told you the truth."
"But not the whole truth."
"All the truth I mean to tell, aunt. He has quarrelled with me, as I
think, most unnecessarily, but you don't suppose that I am going to
give an exact account of the quarrel? We were both wrong, probably,
and so let there be an end of it."
"Was he violent to you when he quarrelled with you?"
"When he is angry he is always violent in his language."
"But, did he strike you?"
"Dear aunt, don't be angry with me if I say that I won't be
cross-examined. I would rather answer no more questions about it.
I know that questioning can do no good."
Mrs. Greenow knew her niece well enough to be aware that nothing
more would be told her, but she was quite sure now that Kate had not
broken her arm by a simple fall. She was certain that the injury had
come from positive violence. Had it not been so, Kate would not have
contented herself with refusing to answer the last question that had
been asked, but would also have repelled the charge made against her
brother with indignation.
"You must have it your own way," said Mrs. Greenow; "but let me just
tell you this, that your brother George had better keep out of my
way."
"It is probable that he will," said Kate. "Especially if you remain
here to nurse me."
Kate's conduct in answering all the questions made to her was not
difficult, but she found that there was much difficulty in planning
her own future behaviour towards her own brother. Must she abandon
him altogether from henceforth; divide herself from him, as it were;
have perfectly separate interests, and interests that were indeed
hostile? and must she see him ruined and overwhelmed by want of
money, while she had been made a rich woman by her grandfather's
will? It will be remembered that her life had hitherto been devoted
to him; that all her schemes and plans had had his success as their
object; that she had taught herself to consider it to be her duty to
sacrifice everything to his welfare. It is very sad to abandon the
only object of a life! It is very hard to tear out from one's heart
and fling away from it the only love that one has cherished! What was
she to say to Alice about all this--to Alice whom she had cheated of
a husband worthy of her, that she might allure her into the arms of
one so utterly unworthy? Luckily for Kate, her accident was of such a
nature that any writing to Alice was now out of the question.
But a blow! What woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwards
return to him with love? A wife may have to bear it and to return.
And she may return with that sort of love which is a thing of custom.
The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which they
eat and which she eats. Habit and the ways of the world require that
she should be careful in his interests, and that she should live with
him in what amity is possible to them. But as for love,--all that we
mean by love when we speak of it and write of it,--a blow given by
the defender to the defenceless crushes it all! A woman may forgive
deceit, treachery, desertion,--even the preference given to a rival.
She may forgive them and forget them; but I do not think that a woman
can forget a blow. And as for forgiveness,--it is not the blow that
she cannot forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.
Kate, as she thought of it, told herself that everything in life was
over for her. She had long feared her brother's nature,--had feared
that he was hard and heartless; but still there had been some hope
with her fear. Success, if he could be made to achieve it, would
soften him, and then all might be right. But now all was wrong, and
she knew that it was so. When he had compelled her to write to Alice
for money, her faith in him had almost succumbed. That had been very
mean, and the meanness had shocked her. But now he had asked her to
perjure herself that he might have his own way, and had threatened
to murder her, and had raised his hand against her because she
had refused to obey him. And he had accused her of treachery to
himself,--had accused her of premeditated deceit in obtaining this
property for herself!
"But he does not believe it," said Kate to herself. "He said that
because he thought it would vex me; but I know he does not think it."
Kate had watched her brother longing for money all his life,--had
thoroughly understood the intensity of his wish for it,--the agony
of his desire. But so far removed was she from any such longing on
her own account, that she could not believe that her brother would in
his heart accuse her of it. How often had she offered to give him, on
the instant, every shilling that she had in the world! At this moment
she resolved, in her mind, that she never wished to see him more; but
even now, had it been practicable, she would have made over to him,
without any drawback, all her interest in the Vavasor estate.
But any such making over was impossible. John Vavasor remained in
Westmoreland for a week, and during that time many discussions were,
of course, held about the property. Mr. Round came down from London,
and met Mr. Gogram at Penrith. As to the validity of the will Mr. Round
said that there was no shadow of a doubt. So an agent was appointed
for receiving the rents, and it was agreed that the old Hall should
be let in six months from that date. In the meantime Kate was to
remain there till her arm should become strong, and she could make
her plans for the future. Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hall
for the present, and offered, indeed, indefinite services for the
future, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield. Of
Mr. Cheesacre she was not forgetful, for she still continued to speak
of that gentleman to Kate, as though he were Kate's suitor. But she
did not now press upon her niece the acceptance of Mr. Cheesacre's
hand as an absolute duty. Kate was mistress of a considerable
fortune, and though such a marriage might be comfortable, it was no
longer necessary. Mrs. Greenow called him poor Cheesacre, pointing
out how easily he might be managed, and how indubitable were his
possessions; but she no longer spoke of Kate's chances in the
marriage market as desperate, even though she should decline the
Cheesacre alliance.
"A young woman, with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty
nearly what she pleases," said aunt Greenow. "It's better than having
ten years' grace given you."
"And will last longer, certainly," said Kate.
Kate's desire was that Alice should come down to her for a while in
Westmoreland, before the six months were over, and this desire she
mentioned to her uncle. He promised to carry the message up to Alice,
but could not be got to say more than that upon the subject. Then Mr.
Vavasor went away, leaving the aunt and niece together at the Hall.
"What on earth shall we do if that wild beast shows himself suddenly
among us women?" asked Mrs. Greenow of her brother.
The brother could only say, "that he hoped the wild beast would keep
his distance."
And the wild beast did keep his distance, at any rate as long as Mrs.
Greenow remained at the Hall. We will now go back to the wild beast,
and tell how he walked across the mountains, in the rain, to Bampton,
a little village at the foot of Haweswater. It will be remembered
that after he had struck his sister, he turned away from her, and
walked with quick steps down the mountain-side, never turning back
to look at her. He had found himself to be without any power of
persuasion over her, as regarded her evidence to be given, if the
will were questioned. The more he threatened her the steadier she had
been in asserting her belief in her grandfather's capacity. She had
looked into his eye and defied him, and he had felt himself to be
worsted. What was he to do? In truth, there was nothing for him to
do. He had told her that he would murder her; and in the state of
mind to which his fury had driven him, murder had suggested itself
to him as a resource to which he might apply himself. But what could
he gain by murdering her,--or, at any rate, by murdering her then,
out on the mountain-side? Nothing but a hanging! There would be
no gratification even to his revenge. If, indeed, he had murdered
that old man, who was now, unfortunately, gone beyond the reach of
murder;--if he could have poisoned the old man's cup before that last
will had been made--there might have been something in such a deed!
But he had merely thought of it, letting "I dare not wait upon I
would"--as he now told himself, with much self-reproach. Nothing was
to be got by killing his sister. So he restrained himself in his
passion, and walked away from her, solitary, down the mountain.
The rain soon came on, and found him exposed on the hill-side. He
thought little about it, but buttoned his coat, as I have said
before, and strode on. It was a storm of rain, so that he was forced
to hold his head to one side, as it hit him from the north. But with
his hand to his hat, and his head bent against the wind, he went on
till he had reached the valley at the foot, and found that the track
by which he had been led thither had become a road. He had never
known the mountains round the Hall as Kate had known them, and was
not aware whither he was going. On one thing only had he made up his
mind since he had left his sister, and that was that he would not
return to the house. He knew that he could do nothing there to serve
his purpose; his threats would be vain impotence; he had no longer
any friend in the house. He could hardly tell himself what line of
conduct he would pursue, but he thought that he would hurry back
to London, and grasp at whatever money he could get from Alice. He
was still, at this moment, a Member of Parliament; and as the rain
drenched him through and through, he endeavoured to get consolation
from the remembrance of that fact in his favour.
As he got near the village he overtook a shepherd boy coming down
from the hills, and learned his whereabouts from him. "Baampton,"
said the boy, with an accent that was almost Scotch, when he was
asked the name of the place. When Vavasor further asked whether a
gig were kept there, the boy simply stared at him, not knowing a
gig by that name. At last, however, he was made to understand the
nature of his companion's want, and expressed his belief that "John
Applethwaite, up at the Craigs yon, had got a mickle cart." But the
Craigs was a farm-house, which now came in view about a mile off, up
across the valley; and Vavasor, hoping that he might still find a
speedier conveyance than John Applethwaite's mickle cart, went on to
the public-house in the village. But, in truth, neither there, nor
yet from John Applethwaite, to whom at last an application was sent,
could he get any vehicle; and between six and seven he started off
again, through the rain, to make his weary way on foot to Shap. The
distance was about five miles, and the little byways, lying between
walls, were sticky, and almost glutinous with light-coloured, chalky
mud. Before he started he took a glass of hot rum-and-water, but the
effect of that soon passed away from him, and then he became colder
and weaker than he had been before.
Wearily and wretchedly he plodded on. A man may be very weary in such
a walk as that, and yet be by no means wretched. Tired, hungry, cold,
wet, and nearly penniless, I have sat me down and slept among those
mountain tracks,--have slept because nature refused to allow longer
wakefulness. But my heart has been as light as my purse, and there
has been something in the air of the hills that made me buoyant and
happy in the midst of my weariness. But George Vavasor was wretched
as well as weary, and every step that he took, plodding through the
mud, was a new misfortune to him. What are five miles of a walk to
a young man, even though the rain be falling and the ways be dirty?
what, though they may come after some other ten that he has already
traversed on his feet? His sister Kate would have thought nothing
of the distance. But George stopped on his way from time to time,
leaning on the loose walls, and cursing the misfortune that had
brought him to such a pass. He cursed his grandfather, his uncle, his
sister, his cousin, and himself. He cursed the place in which his
forefathers had lived, and he cursed the whole county. He cursed the
rain, and the wind, and his town-made boots, which would not keep
out the wet slush. He cursed the light as it faded, and the darkness
as it came. Over and over again he cursed the will that had robbed
him, and the attorney that had made it. He cursed the mother that
had borne him and the father that had left him poor. He thought
of Scruby, and cursed him, thinking how that money would be again
required of him by that stern agent. He cursed the House of Commons,
which had cost him so much, and the greedy electors who would not
send him there without his paying for it. He cursed John Grey, as he
thought of those two thousand pounds, with double curses. He cursed
this world, and all worlds beyond; and thus, cursing everything, he
made his way at last up to the inn at Shap.
It was nearly nine when he got there. He had wasted over an hour at
Bampton in his endeavour to get John Applethwaite's cart to carry him
on, and he had been two hours on his walk from Bampton to Shap,--two
hours amidst his cursing. He ordered supper and brandy-and-water,
and, as we know, sent off a Mercury for his clothes. But the
Mercuries of Westmoreland do not move on quick wings, and it was past
midnight before he got his possessions. During all this time he had,
by no means, ceased from cursing, but continued it over his broiled
ham and while he swallowed his brandy-and-water. He swore aloud, so
that the red-armed servant at the inn could not but hear him, that
those thieves at the Hall intended to rob him of his clothes;--that
they would not send him his property. He could not restrain himself,
though he knew that every word he uttered would injure his cause, as
regarded the property in Westmoreland, if ever he could make a cause.
He knew that he had been mad to strike his sister, and cursed himself
for his madness. Yet he could not restrain himself. He told himself
that the battle for him was over, and he thought of poison for
himself. He thought of poison, and a pistol,--of the pistols he had
ever loaded at home, each with six shots, good for a life apiece. He
thought of an express train, rushing along at its full career, and of
the instant annihilation which it would produce. But if that was to
be the end of him, he would not go alone. No, indeed! why should he
go alone, leaving those pistols ready loaded in his desk? Among them
they had brought him to ruin and to death. Was he a man to pardon his
enemies when it was within his power to take them with him, down,
down, down--? What were the last words upon his impious lips, as with
bloodshot eyes, half drunk, and driven by the Fury, he took himself
off to the bed prepared for him, cursing aloud the poor red-haired
girl as he went, I may not utter here.