Can You Forgive Her? (55 page)

It was a terrible job; – perhaps the most difficult of all the
difficult tasks which her adverse fate had imposed upon her. She found when she did attempt it, that she could have done it
better if she had done it at the moment when she was writing the other letter to her cousin George. Then Kate had been near her, and she had been comforted by Kate’s affectionate happiness. She had been strengthened at that moment by a feeling that she was doing the best in her power, if not for herself, at any rate for others. All that comfort and all that strength had left her now. The atmosphere
of the fells had buoyed her up, and now the thick air of London depressed her. She sat for hours with the pen in her hand, and could not write the letter. She let a day go by and a night, and still it was not written. She hardly knew herself in her unnatural weakness. As the mental photographs of the two men forced themselves upon her, she could not force herself to forget those words – ‘Look here,
upon this picture – and on this.’
¹
How was it that she now knew how great was the difference between the two men, how immense the pre-eminence of him whom she had rejected; – and that she had not before been able to see this on any of those many previous occasions on which she had compared the two together? As she thought of her cousin George’s face when he left her room a few days since, and
remembered Mr Grey’s countenance when last he held her hand at Cheltenham, the quiet dignity of his beauty which would submit to show no consciousness of injury, she could not but tell herself that when Paradise had been opened to her, she had declared herself to be fit only for Pandemonium. In that was her chief misery; that now, – now when it was too late, – she could look at it aright

But
the letter must be written, and on the second day she declared to herself that she would not rise from her chair till it was done. The letter was written on that day and was posted. I will now ask the reader to go down with me to Nethercoats that we may be present with John Grey when he received it He was sitting at breakfast in his study there, and opposite to him, lounging in an arm-chair, with
a Quarterly
²
in his hand, was the most intimate of his friends, Frank Seward, a fellow of the college to which they had both belonged. Mr Seward was a clergyman, and the tutor of his college, and a man who worked
very hard at Cambridge. Ia the days of his leisure he spent much of his time at Nethercoats, and he was the only man to whom Grey had told anything of his love for Alice and of his disappointment.
Even to Seward he had not told the whole story. He had at first informed his friend that he was engaged to be married, and as he had told this as no secret, – having even said that he hated secrets on such matters, – the engagement had been mentioned in the common room of their college, and men at Cambridge knew that Mr Grey was going to take to himself a wife. Then Mr Seward had been
told that trouble had come, and that it was not improbable that there would be no such marriage. Even when saying this Mr Grey told none of the particulars, though he owned to his friend that a heavy blow had struck him. His intimacy with Seward was of that thorough kind which is engendered only out of such young and lasting friendship as had existed between them; but even to such a friend as this
Mr Grey could not open his whole heart It was only to a friend who should also be his wife that he could do that, – as he himself thoroughly understood. He had felt that such a friend was wanting to him, and he had made the attempt

‘Don’t speak of this as yet,’ he had said to Mr Seward. ’Of course when the matter is settled, those few people who know me must know it. But perhaps there may be
a doubt as yet, and as long as there is a doubt, it is better that it should not be discussed’

He had said no more than this, – had imputed no blame to Alice, – had told none of the circumstances; but Seward had known that the girl had jilted his friend, and had made up his mind that she must be heartless and false. He had known also that his friend would never look for any other such companion
for his home.

Letters were brought to each of them on this morning, and Seward’s attention was of course occupied by those which he received. Grey, as soon as the envelopes had touched his hand, became aware that one of them was from Alice, and this he at once opened. He did it very calmly, but without any of that bravado of indifference with which George Vavasor had received Alice’s
letter from
Westmoreland. ‘It is right that I should tell you at once,’ said Alice, rushing into the middle of her subject without even the formality of the customary address – ’It is right that I should tell you at once that – .’ Oh, the difficulty which she had encountered when her words had carried her as far as this! – ’that my cousin, George Vavasor, has repeated to me his offer of marriage, and that
I have accepted it. I tell you, chiefly in order that I may save you from the trouble which you purposed to take when I last saw you at Cheltenham. I will not tell you any of the circumstances of this engagement, because I have no right to presume that you will care to hear them. I hardly dare to ask you to believe of me that in all that I have done, I have endeavoured to act with truth and honesty.
That I have been very ignorant, foolish, -what you will that is bad, I know well; otherwise there could not have been so much in the last few years of my life on which I am utterly ashamed to look back. For the injury that I have done you, I can only express deep contrition. I do not dare to ask you to forgive me. – A
LICE
V
AVASOR
.’ She had tormented herself in writing this, – had so nearly driven
herself distracted with attempts which she had destroyed, that she would not even read once to herself these last words. ‘He’ll know it, and that is all that is necessary,’ she said to herself as she sent the letter away from her.

Mr Grey read it twice over, leaving die other letters unnoticed on the table by his tea-cup. He read it twice over, and the work of reading it was one to him of intense
agony. Hitherto he had fed himself with hope. That Alice should have been brought to think of her engagement with him in a spirit of doubt and with a mind so troubled, that she had been inclined to attempt an escape from it, had been very grievous to him; but it had been in his mind a fantasy, a morbid fear of himself, which might be cured by time. He, at any rate, would give all his energies
towards achieving such a cure. There had been one thing, however, which he most feared; – which he had chiefly feared, though he had forbidden himself to think that it could be probable, and this thing had now happened.

He had ever disliked and feared George Vavasor; – not from any
effect which the man had upon himself, for as we know his acquaintance with Vavasor was of the slightest; – but
he had feared and disliked his influence upon Alice. He had also feared the influence of her cousin Kate. To have cautioned Alice against her cousins would have been to him impossible. It was not his nature to express suspicion to one he loved. Is the tone of that letter remembered in which he had answered Alice when she informed him that her cousin George was to go with Kate and her to Switzerland?
He had written, with a pleasant joke, words which Alice had been able to read with some little feeling of triumph to her two friends. He had not so written because he liked what he knew of the man. He disliked all that he knew of him. But it had not been possible for him to show that he distrusted the prudence of her, whom, as his future wife, he was prepared to trust in all things.

I have said
that he read Alice’s letter with an agony of sorrow; as he sat with it in his hand he suffered as, probably, he had never suffered before. But there was nothing in his countenance to show that he was in pain. Seward had received some long epistle, crossed from end to end, – indicative, I should say, of a not far distant termination to that college tutorship
³
, – and was reading it with placid contentment.
It did not occur to him to look across at Grey, but had he done so, I doubt whether he would have seen anything to attract his attention. But Grey, though he was wounded, would not allow himself to be dismayed. There was less hope now than before, but there might still be hope; – hope for her, even though there might be none for him. Tidings had reached his ears also as to George Vavasor,
which had taught him to believe that the man was needy, reckless, and on the brink of ruin. Such a marriage to Alice Vavasor would be altogether ruinous. Whatever might be his own ultimate fate he would still seek to save her from that Her cousin, doubtless, wanted her money. Might it not be possible that he would be satisfied with her money, and that thus the woman might be saved?

‘Seward,’
he said at last, addressing his friend, who had not yet come to the end of the last crossed page.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ said Seward.

‘ Well; – yes; there is something a little wrong. I fear I must leave you, and go up to town today.’

‘Nobody ill, hope?’

‘ No; – nobody is ill. But I must go up to London. Mrs Bole will take care of you, and you must not be angry with me for leaving you?’

Seward assured him that he would not be in the least angry, and that he was thoroughly conversant with the capabilities and good intentions of Mrs Bole the housekeeper; but added, that as he was so near his own college, he would of course go back to Cambridge. He longed to say some word as to the purpose of Grey’s threatened journey; to make some inquiry as to this new trouble; but he knew that
Grey was a man who did not well bear close inquiries, and he was silent.

‘Why not stay here?’ said Grey, after a minute’s pause. ‘I wish you would, old fellow; I do, indeed.’ There was a tone of special affection in his voice which struck Seward at once. ’If I can be of the slightest service or comfort to you, I will of course.’

Grey again sat silent for a little while. ‘I wish you would; I
do, indeed.’

‘Then I will.’ And again there was a pause.

‘I have got a letter here from – Miss Vavasor,’ said Grey.

‘May I hope that – ’

‘ No; – it does not bring good news to me. I do not know that I can tell it you all I would if I could, but the whole story is one not to be told in a hurry. I should leave false impressions. There are things which a man cannot tell.’

‘Indeed there are,’
said Seward.

‘I wish with all my heart that you knew it all as I know it; but that is impossible. There are things which happen in a day which it would take a lifetime to explain.’ Then there was another pause. ‘I have heard bad news this morning, and I must go up to London at once. I shall go into Ely so as to be there by twelve; and if you will, you shall drive me over. I may be back in a day;
certainly in less than a week; but it will be a comfort to me to know that I shall find you here.’

The matter was so arranged, and at eleven they started. During
the first two miles not a word was spoken between them. ‘Seward,’ Grey said at last, ‘if I fail in what I am going to attempt, it is probable that you will never hear Alice Vavasor’s name mentioned by me again; but I want you always
to bear this in mind; -that at no moment has my opinion of her ever been changed nor must you in such case imagine from my silence that it has changed. Do you understand me?’

‘I think I do’

‘To my thinking she is the finest of God’s creatures that I have known. It may be that in her future life she will be severed from me altogether; but I shall not, therefore, think the less well of her; and
I wish that you, as my friend, should know that I so esteem her, even though her name should never be mentioned between us.’ Seward, in some few words, assured him that it should be so, and then they finished their journey in silence.

From the station at Ely, Grey sent a message by the wires up to John Vavasor, saying that he would call on him that afternoon at his office in Chancery Lane. The
chances were always much against finding Mr Vavasor at his office; but on this occasion the telegram did reach him there, and he remained till the unaccustomed hour of half past four to meet the man who was to have been his son-in-law.

‘Have you heard from her?’ he asked as soon as Grey entered the dingy little room, not in Chancery Lane, but in its neighbour hood, which was allocated to him
for his signing purposes.

‘Yes,’ – said Grey; ‘she has written to me.’

‘And told you about her cousin George. I tried to hinder her from writing, but she is very willful.’

‘Why should you have hindered her? If the thing was to be told, it is better that it should be done at once.’

‘But I hoped that there might be an escape. I don’t know what you think of all this, Grey, but to me it is the
bitterest misfortune that I have known. And I’ve had some bitter things, too,’ he added, – thinking of that period of his life, when the work of which he was ashamed was first ordained as his future task.

‘What is the escape that you hoped?’ asked Grey.

‘I hardly know. The whole thing seems to me to be so mad, that
I partly trusted that she would see the madness of it I am not sure whether you
know anything of my nephew George?’ asked Mr Vavasor.

‘Very little’ said Grey.

‘I believe him to be utterly an adventurer, – a man without means and without principle, – upon the whole about as bad a man as you may meet. I give you my word, Grey, that I don’t think I know a worse man. He’s going to marry her for her money; then he will beggar her, after that he’ll ill-treat her, and yet what
can I do?’

‘Prevent the marriage.’

‘But how, my dear fellow? Prevent it! It’s all very well to say that, and it’s the very thing I want to do. But how am I to prevent it? She’s as much her own master as you are yours. She can give him every shilling of her fortune tomorrow. How am I to prevent her from marrying him?’

‘Let her give him every shilling of her fortune tomorrow,’ said Grey.

‘And
what is she to do then?’ asked Mr Vavasor.

‘Then – then, – then, – then let her come to me,’ said John Grey; and as he spoke there was the fragment of a tear in his eye, and the hint of quiver in his voice.