Can You Forgive Her? (10 page)

George Vavasor was rather low in stature, but well made, with small
hands and feet, but broad in the chest and strong in the loins. He was a fine horseman and a hard rider; and men who had known him well said that he could fence and shoot with a pistol as few men care to do in these peaceable days. Since volunteering had come up, he had become a captain of Volunteers, and had won prizes with his rifle at Wimbledon
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.

Such had been the life of George Vavasor, and
such was his character, and such his appearance. He had always lived alone in London, and did so at present; but just now his sister was much with him, as she was staying up in town with an aunt, another Vavasor by birth, with whom the reader will, if he persevere, become acquainted in course of time. I hope he will persevere a little, for of all the Vavasors Mrs Greenow was perhaps the best worth
knowing. But Kate Vavasor’s home was understood to be in her grandfather’s house in Westmoreland.

On the evening before they started for Switzerland, George and
Kate walked from Queen Anne Street, where they had been dining with Alice, to Mrs Greenow’s house. Everything had been settled about luggage, hours of starting, and routes as regarded their few first days; and the common purse had been
made over to George. That portion of Mr Grey’s letter had been read which alluded to the Paynims and the glasses of water, and everything had passed in the best of good-humour. ‘I’ll endeavour to get the cold water for you,’ George had said; ‘but as to the breakfasts, I can only hope you won’t put me to severe trials by any very early hours. When people go out for pleasure it should be pleasure.’

The brother and sister walked through two or three streets in silence, and then Kate asked a question.

‘George, I wonder what your wishes really are about Alice?’

‘That she shouldn’t want her breakfast too early while we are away.’

‘That means that I’m to hold my tongue, of course.’

‘No, it doesn’t’

‘Then it means that you intend to hold yours.’

‘No; not that either.’

‘Then what does it
mean?’

‘That I have no fixed wishes on the subject Of course she’ll marry this man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word about her.’

‘She will no doubt, if you don’t interfere. Probably she will whether you interfere or not. But if you wish to interfere –’

‘She’s got four hundred a year, and is not so good-looking as she was.’

‘Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more
handsome now than ever she was. I know that you think so; – and that you love her and love no one else – unless you have a sneaking fondness for me.’

‘I’ll leave you to judge of that last.’

‘And as for me, – I only love two people in the world; her and you. If ever you mean to try, you should try now.’

*          *          *

I
AM
not going to describe the Vavasors’ Swiss tour. It would not be fair on my readers. ‘Six Weeks in the Bernese Oberland, by party of three,’ would have but very small chance of success in the literary world at present
¹
, and I should consider myself to be dishonest if I attempt to palm off such matter on the public in the pages of a novel. It is true that I have
just returned from Switzerland
²
, and should find such a course of writing very convenient. But I dismiss the temptation, strong as it is. Retro age, Satanas. No living man or woman any longer wants to be told anything of the Grimsell or of the Gemini
³
. Ludgate Hill is now-a-days more interesting than the Jungfrau.

The Vavasors were not very energetic on their tour. As George had said, they had
gone out for pleasure and not for work. They went direct to Interlaken and then hung about between that place and Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen. It delighted him to sit still on some outer bench, looking at the mountains, with a cigar in his mouth, and it seemed to delight them to be with him. Much that Mr Grey prophesied had come true. The two girls were ministers to him, instead of having him
as their slave.

‘What fine fellows those Alpine club
⁴
men think themselves,’ he said on one of these occasions, ‘and how thoroughly they despise the sort of enjoyment I get from mountains. But they’re mistaken.’

‘I don’t see why either need be mistaken,’ said Alice.

‘But they are mistaken,’ he continued. ‘They rob the mountains of their poetry, which is or should be their greatest charm. Mont
Blanc can have no mystery for a man who has been up it half a dozen times. It’s like getting behind the scenes at a ballet, or making a conjuror explain his tricks.’

‘But is the exercise nothing?’ said Kate.

‘Yes; the exercise is very fine; – but that avoids the question.’

‘And they all botanize,’ said Alice.

‘I don’t believe it. I believe that the most of them simply walk up the mountain
and down again. But if they did, that avoids the question also. The poetry and mystery of the mountains are lost to those who make themselves familiar with their details, not the less because such familiarity may have useful results. In this world things are beautiful only because they are not quite seen, or not perfectly understood. Poetry is precious chiefly because it suggests more than it declares.
Look in there, through that valley, where you just see the distant little peak at the end. Are you not dreaming of the unknown beautiful world that exists up there; – beautiful, as heaven is beautiful, because you know nothing of the reality? If you make your way up there and back tomorrow, and find out all about it, do you mean to say that it will be as beautiful to you when you come back?’

‘Yes; – I think it would,’ said Alice.

‘Then you’ve no poetry in you. Now I’m made up of poetry.’ After that they began to laugh at him and were very happy.

I think that Mr Grey was right in answering Alice’s letter as he did; but I think that Lady Macleod was also right in saying that Alice should not have gone to Switzerland in company with George Vavasor. A peculiar familiarity sprang up,
which, had all its circumstances been known to Mr Grey, would not have entirely satisfied him, even though no word was said which might in itself have displeased him. During the first weeks of their travelling no word was said which would have displeased him; but at last, when the time for their return was drawing nigh, when their happiness was nearly over, and that feeling of melancholy was coming
on them which always pervades the last hours of any period that has been pleasant, – then words became softer than they had been, and references were made to old days, – allusions which never should have been permitted between them.

Alice had been very happy, – more happy perhaps in that she had been a joint minister with Kate to her cousin George’s idle fantasies, than she would have been hurrying
about with him as her slave. They had tacitly agreed to spoil him with comforts; and girls are always happier in spoiling some man than in being spoiled by men. And he had taken it all well, doing his despotism
pleasantly, exacting much, but exacting nothing that was disagreeable. And he had been amusing always, as Alice thought without any effort. But men and women, when they show themselves
at their best, seldom do so without an effort If the object be near the heart the effort will be pleasant to him who makes it, and if it be made well, it will be hidden; but, not the less, will the effort be there. George Vavasor had on the present occasion done his very best to please his cousin.

They were sitting at Basle one evening in the balcony of the big hotel
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which overlooks the Rhine.
The balcony runs the length of the house, and is open to all the company; but it is spacious, and little parties can be formed there with perfect privacy. The swift broad Rhine runs underneath, rushing through from the bridge which here spans the river; and every now and then on summer evenings loud shouts come up from strong swimmers in the water, who are glorying in the swiftness of the current.
The three were sitting there, by themselves, at the end of the balcony. Coffee was before them on a little table, and George’s cigar, as usual, was in his mouth.

‘It’s nearly all over,’ said he, after they had remained silent for some minutes.

‘And I do think it has been a success,’ said Kate. ‘Always excepting about the money. I’m ruined for ever.’

‘I’ll make your money all straight,’ said
George.

‘Indeed you’ll do nothing of the kind,’ said Kate. ‘I’m ruined, but you are ruineder. But what signifies? It is such a great thing ever to have had six weeks’ happiness, that the ruin is, in point of fact, a good speculation. What do you say, Alice? Won’t you vote, too, that we’ve done it well?’

‘I think we’ve done it very well. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly.’

‘And now you’ve got
to go home to John Grey and Cambridgeshire! It’s no wonder you should be melancholy.’ That was the thought in Kate’s mind, but she did not speak it out on this occasion.

‘That’s good of you, Alice,’ said Kate. ‘Is it not, George? I like a person who will give a hearty meed of approbation.’

‘But I am giving the meed of approbation to myself.’

‘I like a person even to do that heartily,’ said
Kate. ‘Not that George and I are thankful for the compliment. We are prepared to admit that we owe almost everything to you, – are we not, George?’

‘I’m not; by any means,’ said George.

‘Well, I am, and I expect to have something pretty said to me in return. Have I been cross once, Alice?’

‘No; I don’t think you have. You are never cross, though you are often ferocious.’

‘But I haven’t been
once ferocious, – nor has George.’

‘He would have been the most ungrateful man alive if he had,’ said Alice. ‘We’ve done nothing since we’ve started but realize from him that picture in “Punch” of the young gentleman at Jeddo who had a dozen ladies to wait upon him.’

‘And now he has got to go home to his lodgings, and wait upon himself again. Poor fellow! I do pity you, George.’

‘No, you don’t;
– nor does Alice. I believe girls always think that a bachelor in London has the happiest of all lives. It’s because they think so that they generally want to put an end to the man’s condition.’

‘It’s envy that makes us want to get married, – not love,’ said Kate.

‘It’s the devil in some shape, as often as not,’ said he. ‘With a man, marriage always seems to him to be an evil at the instant’

‘Not always,’ said Alice.

‘Almost always; – but he does it, as he takes physic, because something worse will come if he don’t. A man never likes having his tooth pulled out, but all men do have their teeth pulled out, –and they who delay it too long suffer the very mischief.’

‘I do like George’s philosophy,’ said Kate, getting up from her chair as she spoke; ‘it is so sharp, and has such a pleasant
add taste about it; and then we all know that it means nothing. Alice, I’m going upstairs to begin the final packing.’

‘I’ll come with you, dear.’

‘No, don’t To tell the truth I’m only going into that man’s
room because he won’t put up a single thing of his own decently. We’ll do ours, of course, when we go up to bed. Whatever you disarrange tonight, Master George, you must rearrange for yourself
tomorrow morning, for I promise I won’t go into your room at five o’clock.’

‘How I do hate that early work,’ said George.

‘I’ll be down again very soon,’ said Kate. Then we’ll take one turn on the bridge and go to bed.’

Alice and George were left together sitting in the balcony. They had been alone together before many times since their travels had commenced; but they both of them felt that
there was something to them in the present moment different from any other period of their journey. There was something that each felt to be sweet, undefinable, and dangerous. Alice had known that it would be better for her to go upstairs with Kate; but Kate’s answer had been of such a nature that had she gone she would have shown that she had some special reason for going. Why should she show such
a need? Or why, indeed, should she entertain it?

Alice was seated quite at the end of the gallery, and Kate’s chair was at her feet in the corner. When Alice and Kate had seated themselves, the waiter had brought a small table for the coffeecups, and George had placed his chair on the other side of that. So that Alice was, as it were, a prisoner. She could not slip away without some special preparation
for going, and Kate had so placed her chair in leaving, that she must actually have asked George to move it before she could escape. But why should she wish to escape? Nothing could be more lovely and enticing than the scene before her. The night had come on, with quick but still unperceived approach, as it does in those parts; for the twilight there is not prolonged as it is with us more
northern folk. The night had come on, but there was a rising moon, which just sufficed to give a sheen to the water beneath her. The air was deliriously soft; – of that softness which produces no sensation either of warmth or cold, but which just seems to touch one with loving tenderness, as though the unseen spirits of the air kissed one’s forehead as they passed on their wings. The Rhine was
running at her feet, so near, that in the soft half light it seemed as
though she might step into its ripple. The Rhine was running by with that delicious sound of rapidly moving waters, that fresh refreshing gurgle of the river, which is so delicious to the ear at all times. If you be talking, it wraps up your speech, keeping it for yourselves, making it difficult neither to her who listens nor
to him who speaks. If you would sleep, it is of all lullabies the sweetest. If you are alone and would think, it aids all your thoughts. If you are alone, and, alas! would not think, – if thinking be too painful, – it will dispel your sorrow, and give the comfort which music alone can give. Alice felt that the air kissed her, that the river sang for her its sweetest song, that the moon shone for
her with its softest light, – that light which lends the poetry of halfd-eveloped beauty to everything that it touches. Why should she leave it?