Showing How George Vavasor Received a Visit.
We must go back for a few pages to scenes which happened in London
during this summer, so that the reader may understand Mr. Grey's
position when he reached Lucerne. He had undergone another quarrel
with George Vavasor, and something of the circumstances of that
quarrel must be told.
It has been already said that George Vavasor lost his election for
the Chelsea Districts, after all the money which he had spent,--money
which he had been so ill able to spend, and on which he had laid
his hands in a manner so disreputable! He had received two thousand
pounds from the bills which Alice had executed on his behalf,--or
rather, had received the full value of three out of the four bills,
and a part of the value of the fourth, on which he had been driven
to raise what immediate money he had wanted by means of a Jew
bill-discounter. One thousand pounds he had paid over at once into
the hands of Mr. Scruby, his Parliamentary election agent, towards
the expenses of his election; and when the day of polling arrived
had exactly in his hands the sum of five hundred pounds. Where
he was to get more when this was gone he did not know. If he
were successful,--if the enlightened constituents of the Chelsea
Districts, contented with his efforts on behalf of the River Bank,
should again send him to Parliament, he thought that he might still
carry on the war. A sum of ready money he would have in hand; and, as
to his debts, he would be grandly indifferent to any consideration
of them. Then there might be pickings in the way of a Member of
Parliament of his calibre. Companies,--mercantile companies,--would
be glad to have him as a director, paying him a guinea a day,
or perhaps more, for his hour's attendance. Railways in want of
vice-chairmen might bid for his services; and in the City he might
turn that "M.P." which belonged to him to good account in various
ways. With such a knowledge of the City world as he possessed, he
thought that he could pick up a living in London, if only he could
retain his seat in Parliament.
But what was he to do if he could not retain it? No sooner had Mr.
Scruby got the thousand pounds into his clutches than he pressed for
still more money. George Vavasor, with some show of justice on his
side, pointed out to this all-devouring agent that the sum demanded
had already been paid. This Mr. Scruby admitted, declaring that he
was quite prepared to go on without any further immediate remittance,
although by doing so might subject himself to considerable risk. But
another five hundred pounds, paid at once, would add greatly to the
safety of the seat; whereas eight hundred judiciously thrown in at
the present moment would make the thing quite secure. But Vavasor
swore to himself that he would not part with another shilling. Never
had he felt such love for money as he did for that five hundred
pounds which he now held in his pocket. "It's no use," he said to Mr.
Scruby. "I have done what you asked, and would have done more had you
asked for more at that time. As it is, I cannot make another payment
before the election." Mr. Scruby shrugged his shoulders, and said
that he would do his best. But George Vavasor soon knew that the
man was not doing his best,--that the man had, in truth, abandoned
his cause. The landlord of the "Handsome Man" jeered him when he
went there canvassing. "Laws, Mr. Vavasor!" said the landlord of
the "Handsome Man," "you're not at all the fellow for us chaps
along the river,--you ain't. You're afraid to come down with the
stumpy,--that's what you are." George put his hand upon his purse,
and acknowledged to himself that he had been afraid to come down with
the stumpy.
For the last five days of the affair George Vavasor knew that his
chance was gone. Mr. Scruby's face, manner, and words, told the result
of the election as plainly as any subsequent figures could do. He
would be absent when Vavasor called, or the clerk would say that he
was absent. He would answer in very few words, constantly shrugging
his shoulders. He would even go away and leave the anxious candidate
while he was in the middle of some discussion as to his plans. It was
easy to see that Mr. Scruby no longer regarded him as a successful
man, and the day of the poll showed very plainly how right Mr. Scruby
had been.
George Vavasor was rejected, but he still had his five hundred pounds
in his pocket. Of course he was subject to that mortification which a
man feels when he reflects that some little additional outlay would
have secured his object. Whether it might have been so, or not, who
can say? But there he was, with the gateway between the lamps barred
against him, ex-Member of Parliament for the Chelsea Districts, with
five hundred pounds in his pocket, and little or nothing else that he
could call his own. What was he to do with himself?
After trying to make himself heard upon the hustings when he was
rejected, and pledging himself to stand again at the next election,
he went home to his lodgings in Cecil Street, and endeavoured
to consider calmly his position in the world. He had lost his
inheritance. He had abandoned one profession after another, and was
now beyond the pale of another chance in that direction. His ambition
had betrayed him, and there were no longer possible to him any hopes
of political activity. He had estranged from himself every friend
that he had ever possessed. He had driven from him with violence the
devotion even of his sister. He had robbed the girl whom he intended
to marry of her money, and had so insulted her that no feeling of
amity between them was any longer possible. He had nothing now but
himself and that five hundred pounds, which he still held in his
pocket. What should he do with himself and his money? He thought
over it all with outer calmness for awhile, as he sat there in his
arm-chair.
From the moment in which he had first become convinced that the
election would go against him, and that he was therefore ruined on
all sides, he had resolved that he would be calm amidst his ruin.
Sometimes he assumed a little smile, as though he were laughing at
his own position. Mr. Bott's day of rejection had come before his own,
and he had written to Mr. Bott a drolling note of consolation and mock
sympathy. He had shaken hands with Mr. Scruby, and had poked his fun
at the agent, bidding him be sure to send in his little bill soon. To
all who accosted him, he replied in a subrisive tone; and he bantered
Calder Jones, whose seat was quite sure, till Calder Jones began to
have fears that were quite unnecessary. And now, as he sat himself
down, intending to come to some final decision as to what he would
do, he maintained the same calmness. He smiled in the same way,
though there was no one there to see the smile. He laughed even
audibly once or twice, as he vainly endeavoured to persuade himself
that he was able to regard the world and all that belonged to it as a
bubble.
There came to him a moment in which he laughed out very audibly. "Ha!
ha!" he shouted, rising up from his chair, and he walked about the
room, holding a large paper-knife in his hand. "Ha! ha!" Then he
threw the knife away from him, and thrusting his hands into his
trousers-pockets, laughed again--"Ha! ha!" He stood still in the
centre of the room, and the laughter was very plainly visible on his
face, had there been anybody there to see it.
But suddenly there was a change upon his face, as he stood there all
alone, and his eyes became fierce, and the cicatrice that marred
his countenance grew to be red and ghastly, and he grinned with his
teeth, and he clenched his fists as he still held them within his
pockets. "Curse him!" he said out loud. "Curse him, now and for
ever!" He had broken down in his calmness, when he thought of that
old man who had opposed him during his life, and had ruined him at
his death. "May all the evils which the dead can feel cling to him
for ever and ever!" His laughter was all gone, and his assumed
tranquillity had deserted him. Walking across the room, he struck his
foot against a chair; upon this, he took the chair in his hands, and
threw it across the room. But he hardly arrested the torrent of his
maledictions as he did so. What good was it that he should lie to
himself by that mock tranquillity, or that false laughter? He lied
to himself no longer, but uttered a song of despair that was true
enough. What should he do? Where should he go? From what fountain
should he attempt to draw such small draughts of the water of comfort
as might support him at the present moment? Unless a man have some
such fountain to which he can turn, the burden of life cannot be
borne. For the moment, Vavasor tried to find such fountain in a
bottle of brandy which stood near him. He half filled a tumbler, and
then, dashing some water on it, swallowed it greedily. "By ----!" he
said, "I believe it is the best thing a man can do."
But where was he to go? to whom was he to turn himself? He went to
a high desk which stood in one corner of the room, and unlocking it,
took out a revolving pistol, and for a while carried it about with
him in his hand. He turned it up, and looked at it, and tried the
lock, and snapped it without caps, to see that the barrel went
round fairly. "It's a beggarly thing to do," he said, and then
he turned the pistol down again; "and if I do do it, I'll use it
first for another purpose." Then he poured out for himself more
brandy-and-water, and having drunk it, he threw himself upon the
sofa, and seemed to sleep.
But he did not sleep, and by-and-by there came a slight single knock
at the door, which he instantly answered. But he did not answer it
in the usual way by bidding the comer to come in. "Who's there?" he
said. Then the comer attempted to enter, turning the handle of the
door. But the door had been locked, and the key was on Vavasor's
side. "Who's there?" he asked again, speaking out loudly, but in an
angry voice. "It is I," said a woman's voice. "D----ation!" said
George Vavasor.
The woman heard him, but she made no sign of having heard him. She
simply remained standing where she was till something further should
be done within. She knew the man well, and knew that she must bide
his time. She was very patient,--and for the time was meek, though
it might be that there would come an end to her meekness. Vavasor,
when he had heard her voice, and knew who was there, had again thrown
himself on the sofa. There flashed across his mind another thought or
two as to his future career,--another idea about the pistol, which
still lay upon the table. Why should he let the intruder in, and
undergo the nuisance of a disagreeable interview, if the end of all
things might come in time to save him from such trouble? There he lay
for ten minutes thinking, and then the low single knock was heard
again. He jumped upon his feet, and his eyes were full of fire. He
knew that it was useless to bid her go and leave him. She would sit
there, if it were through the whole night. Should he open the door
and strangle her, and pass out over her with the pistol in his hand,
so that he might make that other reckoning which he desired to
accomplish, and then never come back any more?
He took a turn through the room, and then walked gently up to the
door, and undid the lock. He did not open the door, nor did he bid
his visitor enter, but having made the way easy for her if she chose
to come in, he walked back to the sofa and threw himself on it again.
As he did so, he passed his hand across the table so as to bring the
pistol near to himself at the place where he would be lying. She
paused a moment after she had heard the sound of the key, and then
she made her way into the room. He did not at first speak to her. She
closed the door very gently, and then, looking around, came up to the
foot of the sofa. She paused a moment, waiting for him to address
her; but as he said nothing, but lay there looking at her, she was
the first to speak. "George," she said, "what am I to do?"
She was a woman of about thirty years of age, dressed poorly, in old
garments, but still with decency, and with some attempt at feminine
prettiness. There were flowers in the bonnet on her head, though
the bonnet had that unmistakable look of age which is quite as
distressing to bonnets as it is to women, and the flowers themselves
were battered and faded. She had long black ringlets on each cheek,
hanging down much below her face, and brought forward so as to hide
in some degree the hollowness of her jaws. Her eyes had a peculiar
brightness, but now they left on those who looked at her cursorily
no special impression as to their colour. They had been blue,--that
dark violet blue, which is so rare, but is sometimes so lovely. Her
forehead was narrow, her mouth was small, and her lips were thin;
but her nose was perfect in its shape, and, by the delicacy of its
modelling, had given a peculiar grace to her face in the days when
things had gone well with her, when her cheeks had been full with
youth and good living, and had been dimpled by the softness of love
and mirth. There were no dimples there now, and all the softness
which still remained was that softness which sorrow and continual
melancholy give to suffering women. On her shoulders she wore a light
shawl, which was fastened to her bosom with a large clasp brooch. Her
faded dress was supported by a wide crinoline, but the under garment
had lost all the grace of its ancient shape, and now told that
woman's tale of poverty and taste for dress which is to be read in
the outward garb of so many of Eve's daughters. The whole story was
told so that those who ran might read it. When she had left her home
this afternoon, she had struggled hard to dress herself so that
something of the charm of apparel might be left to her; but she had
known of her own failure at every twist that she had given to her
gown, and at every jerk with which she had settled her shawl. She
had despaired at every push she had given to her old flowers, vainly
striving to bring them back to their old forms; but still she had
persevered. With long tedious care she had mended the old gloves
which would hardly hold her fingers. She had carefully hidden the
rags of her sleeves. She had washed her little shrivelled collar, and
had smoothed it out painfully. It had been a separate grief to her
that she could find no cuffs to put round her wrists;--and yet she
knew that no cuffs could have availed her anything. Nothing could
avail her now. She expected nothing from her visit; yet she had come
forth anxiously, and would have waited there throughout the whole
night had access to his room been debarred to her. "George," she
said, standing at the bottom of the sofa, "what am I to do?"
As he lay there with his face turned towards her, the windows were at
her back, and he could see her very plainly. He saw and appreciated
the little struggles she had made to create by her appearance some
reminiscence of her former self. He saw the shining coarseness of
the long ringlets which had once been softer than silk. He saw the
sixpenny brooch on her bosom where he had once placed a jewel, the
price of which would now have been important to him. He saw it all,
and lay there for a while, silently reading it.
"Don't let me stand here," she said, "without speaking a word to me."
"I don't want you to stand there," he said.
"That's all very well, George. I know you don't want me to stand
here. I know you don't want to see me ever again."
"Never."
"I know it. Of course I know it. But what am I to do? Where am I to
go for money? Even you would not wish that I should starve?"
"That's true, too. I certainly would not wish it. I should be
delighted to hear that you had plenty to eat and plenty to drink, and
plenty of clothes to wear. I believe that's what you care for the
most, after all."
"It was only for your sake,--because you liked it."
"Well;--I did like it; but that has come to an end, as have all my
other likings. You know very well that I can do nothing more for you.
What good do you do yourself by coming here to annoy me? Have I not
told you over and over again that you were never to look for me here?
Is it likely that I should give you money now, simply because you
have disobeyed me!"
"Where else was I to find you?"
"Why should you have found me at all? I don't want you to find me. I
shall give you nothing;--not a penny. You know very well that we've
had all that out before. When I put you into business I told you that
we were to see no more of each other."
"Business!" she said. "I never could make enough out of the shop to
feed a bird."
"That wasn't my fault. Putting you there cost me over a hundred
pounds, and you consented to take the place."
"I didn't consent. I was obliged to go there because you took my
other home away from me."
"Have it as you like, my dear. That was all I could do for you;--and
more than most men would have done, when all things are considered."
Then he got up from the sofa, and stood himself on the hearthrug,
with his back to the fireplace. "At any rate, you may be sure of
this, Jane;--that I shall do nothing more. You have come here to
torment me, but you shall get nothing by it."
"I have come here because I am starving."
"I have nothing for you. Now go;" and he pointed to the door.
Nevertheless, for more than three years of his life this woman had
been his closest companion, his nearest friend, the being with whom
he was most familiar. He had loved her according to his fashion of
loving, and certainly she had loved him. "Go," he said repeating the
word very angrily. "Do as I bid you, or it will be the worse for
you."
"Will you give me a sovereign?"
"No;--I will give you nothing. I have desired you not to come to me
here, and I will not pay for you coming."
"Then I will not go;" and the woman sat down upon a chair at the foot
of the table. "I will not go till you have given me something to buy
food. You may put me out of the room if you can, but I will lie at
the door of the stairs. And if you get me out of the house, I will
sit upon the door-step."
"If you play that game, my poor girl, the police will take you."
"Let them. It has come to that with me, that I care for nothing. Out
of this I will not go till you give me money--unless I am put out."
And for this she had dressed herself with so much care, mending her
gloves, and darning her little fragments of finery! He stood looking
at her, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets,--looking at her
and thinking what he had better do to rid himself of her presence. If
he even quite resolved to take that little final journey of which we
have spoken, with the pistol in his hand, why should he not go and
leave her there? Or, for the matter of that, why should he not make
her his heir to all remainder of his wealth? What he still had left
was sufficient to place her in a seventh heaven of the earth. He
cared but little for her, and was at this moment angry with her; but
there was no one for whom he cared more, and no friend with whom he
was less angry. But then his mind was not quite made up as to that
final journey. Therefore he desired to rid himself and his room of
the nuisance of her presence.
"Jane," he said, looking at her again with that assumed tranquillity
of which I have spoken, "you talk of starving and of being ruined,--"
"I am starving. I have not a shilling in the world."
"Perhaps it may be a comfort to you in your troubles to know that
I am, at any rate, as badly off as you are? I won't say that I am
starving, because I could get food to eat at this moment if I wanted
it; but I am utterly ruined. My property,--what should have been
mine,--has been left away from me. I have lost the trumpery seat
in Parliament for which I have paid so much. All my relations have
turned their backs upon me--"
"Are you not going to be married?" she said, rising quickly from her
chair and coming close to him.
"Married! No;--but I am going to blow my brains out. Look at that
pistol, my girl. Of course you won't think that I am in earnest,--but
I am."
She looked up into his face piteously. "Oh! George," she said, "you
won't do that?"
[Illustration: "Oh! George," she said, "you won't do that?"]
"But I shall do that. There is nothing else left for me to do. You
talk to me about starving. I tell you that I should have no objection
to be starved, and so be put an end to in that way. It's not so bad
as some other ways when it comes gradually. You and I, Jane, have not
played our cards very well. We have staked all that we had, and we've
been beaten. It's no good whimpering after what's lost. We'd better
go somewhere else and begin a new game."
"Go where?" said she.
"Ah!--that's just what I can't tell you."
"George," she said, "I'll go anywhere with you. If what you say is
true,--if you're not going to be married, and will let me come to
you, I will work for you like a slave. I will indeed. I know I'm
poorly looking now--"
"My girl, where I'm going, I shall not want any slave; and as for
your looks--when you go there too,--they'll be of no matter, as far
as I am able to judge."
"But, George, where are you going?"
"Wherever people do go when their brains are knocked out of them; or,
rather, when they have knocked out their own brains,--if that makes
any difference."
"George,"--she came up to him now, and took hold of him by the front
of his coat, and for the moment he allowed her to do so,--"George,
you frighten me. Do not do that. Say that you will not do that!"
"But I am just saying that I shall."
"Are you not afraid of God's anger? You and I have been very wicked."
"I have, my poor girl. I don't know much about your wickedness. I've
been like Topsy;--indeed I am a kind of second Topsy myself. But
what's the good of whimpering when it's over?"
"It isn't over; it isn't over,--at any rate for you."
"I wish I knew how I could begin again. But all this is nonsense,
Jane, and you must go."
"You must tell me, first, that you are not going to--kill yourself."
"I don't suppose I shall do it to-night,--or, perhaps, not to-morrow.
Very probably I may allow myself a week, so that your staying here
can do no good. I merely wanted to make you understand that you are
not the only person who has come to grief."
"And you are not going to be married?"
"No; I'm not going to be married, certainly."
"And I must go now?"
"Yes; I think you'd better go now." Then she rose and went, and he
let her leave the room without giving her a shilling! His bantering
tone, in speaking of his own position, had been successful. It had
caused her to take herself off quietly. She knew enough of his usual
manner to be aware that his threats of self destruction were probably
unreal; but, nevertheless, what he had said had created some feeling
in her heart which had induced her to yield to him, and go away in
peace.