CHAPTER XI.
John Grey Goes to London.
And what was the whole truth? Alice Vavasor, when she declared toherself that she must tell her lover the whole truth, was expressingto herself her intention of putting an end to her engagement with Mr.Grey. She was acknowledging that that which had to be told was notcompatible with the love and perfect faith which she owed to the manwho was her affianced husband. And yet, why should it be so? She didnot intend to tell him that she had been false in her love to him.It was not that her heart had again veered itself round and givenitself to that wild cousin of hers. Though she might feel herselfconstrained to part from John Grey, George Vavasor could never be herhusband. Of that she assured herself fifty times during the two days'grace which had been allowed her. Nay, she went farther than thatwith herself, and pronounced a verdict against any marriage aspossible to her if she now decided against this marriage which hadfor some months past been regarded as fixed by herself and all herfriends.
People often say that marriage is an important thing, and should bemuch thought of in advance, and marrying people are cautioned thatthere are many who marry in haste and repent at leisure. I am notsure, however, that marriage may not be pondered over too much; nordo I feel certain that the leisurely repentance does not as oftenfollow the leisurely marriages as it does the rapid ones. That somerepent no one can doubt; but I am inclined to believe that most menand women take their lots as they find them, marrying as the birdsdo by force of nature, and going on with their mates with a general,though not perhaps an undisturbed satisfaction, feeling inwardlyassured that Providence, if it have not done the very best for them,has done for them as well as they could do for themselves with allthe thought in the world. I do not know that a woman can assure toherself, by her own prudence and taste, a good husband any more thanshe can add two cubits to her stature; but husbands have been madeto be decently good,--and wives too, for the most part, in ourcountry,--so that the thing does not require quite so much thinkingas some people say.
That Alice Vavasor had thought too much about it, I feel quite sure.She had gone on thinking of it till she had filled herself with acloud of doubts which even the sunshine of love was unable to drivefrom her heavens. That a girl should really love the man she intendsto marry,--that, at any rate, may be admitted. But love generallycomes easily enough. With all her doubts Alice never doubted her lovefor Mr. Grey. Nor did she doubt his character, nor his temper, nor hismeans. But she had gone on thinking of the matter till her mind hadbecome filled with some undefined idea of the importance to her ofher own life. What should a woman do with her life? There had arisenround her a flock of learned ladies asking that question, to whom itseems that the proper answer has never yet occurred. Fall in love,marry the man, have two children, and live happy ever afterwards.I maintain that answer has as much wisdom in it as any other thatcan be given;--or perhaps more. The advice contained in it cannot,perhaps, always be followed to the letter; but neither can the adviceof the other kind, which is given by the flock of learned ladies whoask the question.
A woman's life is important to her,--as is that of a man to him,--notchiefly in regard to that which she shall do with it. The chief thingfor her to look to is the manner in which that something shall bedone. It is of moment to a young man when entering life to decidewhether he shall make hats or shoes; but not of half the moment thatwill be that other decision, whether he shall make good shoes or bad.And so with a woman;--if she shall have recognised the necessity oftruth and honesty for the purposes of her life, I do not know thatshe need ask herself many questions as to what she will do with it.
Alice Vavasor was ever asking herself that question, and had bydegrees filled herself with a vague idea that there was a somethingto be done; a something over and beyond, or perhaps altogether besidethat marrying and having two children;--if she only knew what it was.She had filled herself, or had been filled by her cousins, with anundefined ambition that made her restless without giving her any realfood for her mind. When she told herself that she would have no scopefor action in that life in Cambridgeshire which Mr. Grey was preparingfor her, she did not herself know what she meant by action. Had anyone accused her of being afraid to separate herself from Londonsociety, she would have declared that she went very little intosociety and disliked that little. Had it been whispered to her thatshe loved the neighbourhood of the shops, she would have scorned thewhisperer. Had it been suggested that the continued rattle of the bigcity was necessary to her happiness, she would have declared that sheand her father had picked out for their residence the quietest streetin London because she could not bear noise;--and yet she told herselfthat she feared to be taken into the desolate calmness ofCambridgeshire.
When she did contrive to find any answer to that question as to whatshe should do with her life,--or rather what she would wish to dowith it if she were a free agent, it was generally of a politicalnature. She was not so far advanced as to think that women should belawyers and doctors, or to wish that she might have the privilege ofthe franchise for herself; but she had undoubtedly a hankering aftersome second-hand political manoeuvering. She would have liked, Ithink, to have been the wife of the leader of a Radical opposition,in the time when such men were put into prison, and to have kept upfor him his seditious correspondence while he lay in the Tower. Shewould have carried the answers to him inside her stays,--and havemade long journeys down into northern parts without any money, if thecause required it. She would have liked to have around her ardentspirits, male or female, who would have talked of "the cause," andhave kept alive in her some flame of political fire. As it was, shehad no cause. Her father's political views were very mild. LadyMacleod's were deadly conservative. Kate Vavasor was an aspiringRadical just now, because her brother was in the same line; butduring the year of the love-passages between George and Alice, GeorgeVavasor's politics had been as conservative as you please. He did notbecome a Radical till he had quarrelled with his grandfather. Now,indeed, he was possessed of very advanced views,--views with whichAlice felt that she could sympathize. But what would be the use ofsympathizing down in Cambridgeshire? John Grey had, so to speak, nopolitics. He had decided views as to the treatment which the RomanSenate received from Augustus, and had even discussed with Alice theconduct of the Girondists at the time of Robespierre's triumph; butfor Manchester and its cares he had no apparent solicitude, and haddeclared to Alice that he would not accept a seat in the BritishHouse of Commons if it were offered to him free of expense. Whatpolitical enthusiasm could she indulge with such a companion down inCambridgeshire?
She thought too much of all this,--and was, if I may say,over-prudent in calculating the chances of her happiness and ofhis. For, to give her credit for what was her due, she was quite asanxious on the latter head as on the former. "I don't care for theRoman Senate," she would say to herself. "I don't care much for theGirondists. How am I to talk to him day after day, night after night,when we shall be alone together?"
No doubt her tour in Switzerland with her cousin had had some effectin making such thoughts stronger now than they had ever been. She hadnot again learned to love her cousin. She was as firmly sure as everthat she could never love him more. He had insulted her love; andthough she had forgiven him and again enrolled him among her dearestfriends, she could never again feel for him that passion which awoman means when she acknowledges that she is in love. That, asregarded her and George Vavasor, was over. But, nevertheless, therehad been a something of romance during those days in Switzerlandwhich she feared she would regret when she found herself settledat Nethercoats. She envied Kate. Kate could, as his sister, attachherself on to George's political career, and obtain from it all thatexcitement of life which Alice desired for herself. Alice could notlove her cousin and marry him; but she felt that if she could do sowithout impropriety she would like to stick close to him like anothersister, to spend her money in aiding his career in Parliament as Katewould do, and trust herself and her career into the boat which he wasto comm
and. She did not love her cousin; but she still believed inhim,--with a faith which he certainly did not deserve.
As the two days passed over her, her mind grew more and more fixed asto its purpose. She would tell Mr. Grey that she was not fit to be hiswife--and she would beg him to pardon her and to leave her. It neveroccurred to her that perhaps he might refuse to let her go. She feltquite sure that she would be free as soon as she had spoken the wordwhich she intended to speak. If she could speak it with decision shewould be free, and to attain that decision she would school herselfwith her utmost strength. At one moment she thought of telling all toher father and of begging him to break the matter to Mr. Grey; but sheknew that her father would not understand her, and that he would bevery hostile to her,--saying hard, uncomfortable words, which wouldprobably be spared if the thing were done before he was informed. Norwould she write to Kate, whose letters to her at this time were fullof wit at the expense of Mrs. Greenow. She would tell Kate as soon asthe thing was done, but not before. That Kate would sympathize withher, she was quite certain.
So the two days passed by and the time came at which John Grey was tobe there. As the minute hand on the drawing-room clock came round tothe full hour, she felt that her heart was beating with a violencewhich she could not repress. The thing seemed to her to assume biggerdimensions than it had hitherto done. She began to be aware that shewas about to be guilty of a great iniquity, when it was too late forher to change her mind. She could not bring herself to resolve thatshe would, on the moment, change her mind. She believed that shecould never pardon herself such weakness. But yet she felt herself tobe aware that her purpose was wicked. When the knock at the door wasat last heard she trembled and feared that she would almost be unableto speak to him. Might it be possible that there should yet be areprieve for her? No; it was his step on the stairs, and there he wasin the room with her.
"My dearest," he said, coming to her. His smile was sweet and lovingas it ever was, and his voice had its usual manly, genial, lovingtone. As he walked across the room Alice felt that he was a man ofwhom a wife might be very proud. He was tall and very handsome, withbrown hair, with bright blue eyes, and a mouth like a god. It was thebeauty of his mouth,--beauty which comprised firmness within itself,that made Alice afraid of him. He was still dressed in his morningclothes; but he was a man who always seemed to be well dressed. "Mydearest," he said, advancing across the room, and before she knew howto stop herself or him, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her.
He did not immediately begin about the letter, but placed her uponthe sofa, seating himself by her side, and looked into her face withloving eyes,--not as though to scrutinize what might be amiss there,but as though determined to enjoy to the full his privilege as alover. There was no reproach at any rate in his countenance;--none asyet; nor did it seem that he thought that he had any cause for fear.They sat in this way for a moment or two in silence, and during thosemoments Alice was summoning up her courage to speak. The palpitationat her heart was already gone, and she was determined that she wouldspeak.
"Though I am very glad to see you," she said, at last, "I am sorrythat my letter should have given you the trouble of this journey."
"Trouble!" he said. "Nay, you ought to know that it is no trouble. Ihave not enough to do down at Nethercoats to make the running up toyou at any time an unpleasant excitement. So your Swiss journey wentoff pleasantly?"
"Yes; it went off very pleasantly." This she said in that tone ofvoice which clearly implies that the speaker is not thinking of thewords spoken.
"And Kate has now left you?"
"Yes; she is with her aunt, at the seaside."
"So I understand;--and your cousin George?"
"I never know much of George's movements. He may be in Town, but Ihave not seen him since I came back."
"Ah! that is the way with friends living in London. Unlesscircumstances bring them together, they are in fact further apartthan if they lived fifty miles asunder in the country. And he managedto get through all the trouble without losing your luggage for youvery often?"
"If you were to say that we did not lose his, that would be nearerthe mark. But, John, you have come up to London in this sudden way tospeak to me about my letter to you. Is it not so?"
"Certainly it is so. Certainly I have."
"I have thought much, since, of what I then wrote, very much,--verymuch, indeed; and I have learned to feel sure that we had better--"
"Stop, Alice; stop a moment, love. Do not speak hurriedly. Shall Itell you what I learned from your letter?"
"Yes; tell me, if you think it better that you should do so."
"Perhaps it may be better. I learned, love, that something had beensaid or done during your journey,--or perhaps only something thought,that had made you melancholy, and filled your mind for a while withthose unsubstantial and indefinable regrets for the past which we areall apt to feel at certain moments of our life. There are few of uswho do not encounter, now and again, some of that irrational spiritof sadness which, when over-indulged, drives men to madness andself-destruction. I used to know well what it was before I knew you;but since I have had the hope of having you in my house, I havebanished it utterly. In that I think I have been stronger than you.Do not speak under the influence of that spirit till you have thoughtwhether you, too, cannot banish it."
"I have tried, and it will not be banished."
"Try again, Alice. It is a damned spirit, and belongs neither toheaven nor to earth. Do not say to me the words that you were aboutto say till you have wrestled with it manfully. I think I know whatthose words were to be. If you love me, those words should not bespoken. If you do not--"
"If I do not love you, I love no one upon earth."
"I believe it. I believe it as I believe in my own love for you. Itrust your love implicitly, Alice. I know that you love me. I think Ican read your mind. Tell me that I may return to Cambridgeshire, andagain plead my cause for an early marriage from thence. I will nottake such speech from you to mean more than it says!"
She sat quiet, looking at him--looking full into his face. She had innowise changed her mind, but after such words from him, she did notknow how to declare to him her resolution. There was something in hismanner that awed her,--and something also that softened her.
"Tell me," said he, "that I may see you again to-morrow morning inour usual quiet, loving way, and that I may return home to-morrowevening. Pronounce a yea to that speech from me, and I will ask fornothing further."
"No; I cannot do so," she said. And the tone of her voice, as shespoke, was different to any tone that he had heard before from hermouth.
"Is that melancholy fiend too strong for you?" He smiled as he saidthis, and as he smiled, he took her hand. She did not attempt towithdraw it, but sat by him in a strange calmness, looking straightbefore her into the middle of the room. "You have not struggled withit. You know, as I do, that it is a bad fiend and a wicked one,--afiend that is prompting you to the worst cruelty in the world. Alice!Alice! Alice! Try to think of all this as though some other personwere concerned. If it were your friend, what advice would you giveher?"
"If it were your friend, what advice would you giveher?"]
"I would bid her tell the man who had loved her,--that is, if he werenoble, good, and great,--that she found herself to be unfit to be hiswife; and then I would bid her ask his pardon humbly on her knees."As she said this, she sank before him on to the floor, and looked upinto his face with an expression of sad contrition which almost drewhim from his purposed firmness.
He had purposed to be firm,--to yield to her in nothing, resolvingto treat all that she might say as the hallucination of a sickenedimagination,--as the effect of absolute want of health, for whichsome change in her mode of life would be the best cure. She mightbid him begone in what language she would. He knew well that suchwas her intention. But he would not allow a word coming from her insuch a way to disturb arrangements made for the happiness of theirjoint lives. As a loving husband would
treat a wife, who, in someexceptionable moment of a melancholy malady, should declare herselfunable to remain longer in her home, so would he treat her. As foraccepting what she might say as his dismissal, he would as soon thinkof taking the fruit-trees from the southern wall because the sunsometimes shines from the north. He could not treat either hisinterests or hers so lightly as that.
"But what if he granted no such pardon, Alice? I will grant nonesuch. You are my wife, my own, my dearest, my chosen one. You are allthat I value in the world, my treasure and my comfort, my earthlyhappiness and my gleam of something better that is to come hereafter.Do you think that I shall let you go from me in that way? No, love.If you are ill I will wait till your illness is gone by; and, if youwill let me, I will be your nurse."
"I am not ill."
"Not ill with any defined sickness. You do not shake with ague, nordoes your head rack you with aching; but yet you may be ill. Think ofwhat has passed between us. Must you not be ill when you seek to putan end to all that without any cause assigned."
"You will not hear my reasons,"--she was still kneeling before himand looking up into his face.
"I will hear them if you will tell me that they refer to any supposedfaults of my own."
"No, no, no!"
"Then I will not hear them. It is for me to find out your faults, andwhen I have found out any that require complaint, I will come andmake it. Dear Alice, I wish you knew how I long for you." Then he puthis hand upon her hair, as though he would caress her.
But this she would not suffer, so she rose slowly, and stood with herhand upon the table in the middle of the room. "Mr. Grey--" she said.
"If you will call me so, I shall think it only a part of yourmalady."
"Mr. Grey," she continued, "I can only hope that you will take me atmy word."
"Oh, but I will not; certainly I will not, if that would be adverseto my own interests."
"I am thinking of your interests; I am, indeed;--at any rate as muchas of my own. I feel quite sure that I should not make you happy asyour wife,--quite sure; and feeling that, I think that I am right,even after all that has passed, to ask your forgiveness, and to begthat our engagement may be over."
"No, Alice, no; never with my consent. I cannot tell you with whatcontentment I would marry you to-morrow,--to-morrow, or next month,or the month after. But if it cannot be so, then I will wait. Nothingbut your marriage with some one else would convince me."
"I cannot convince you in that way," she said, smiling.
"You will convince me in no other. You have not spoken to your fatherof this as yet?"
"Not as yet."
"Do not do so, at any rate for the present. You will own that itmight be possible that you would have to unsay what you had said."
"No; it is not possible."
"Give yourself and me the chance. It can do no harm. And, Alice, Iask you now for no reasons. I will not ask your reasons, or evenlisten to them, because I do not believe that they will long haveeffect even on yourself. Do you still think of going to Cheltenham?"
"I have decided nothing as yet."
"If I were you, I would go. I think a change of air would be good foryou."
"Yes; you treat me as though I were partly silly, and partly insane;but it is not so. The change you speak of should be in my nature, andin yours."
He shook his head and still smiled. There was something in theimperturbed security of his manner which almost made her angry withhim. It seemed as though he assumed so great a superiority that hefelt himself able to treat any resolve of hers as the petulance ofa child. And though he spoke in strong language of his love, and ofhis longing that she should come to him, yet he was so well ableto command his feelings, that he showed no sign of grief at thecommunication she had made to him. She did not doubt his love, butshe believed him to be so much the master of his love,--as he was themaster of everything else, that her separation from him would causehim no uncontrollable grief. In that she utterly failed to understandhis character. Had she known him better, she might have been surethat such a separation now would with him have carried its mark tothe grave. Should he submit to her decision, he would go home andsettle himself to his books the next day; but on no following daywould he be again capable of walking forth among his flowers with aneasy heart. He was a strong, constant man, perhaps over-conscious ofhis own strength; but then his strength was great. "He is perfect!"Alice had said to herself often. "Oh that he were less perfect!"
He did not stay with her long after the last word that has beenrecorded. "Perhaps," he said, as for a moment he held her hand atparting, "I had better not come to-morrow."
"No, no; it is better not."
"I advise you not to tell your father of this, and doubtless you willthink of it before you do so. But if you do tell him, let me knowthat you have done so."
"Why that?"
"Because in such case I also must see him. God bless you, Alice! Godbless you, dearest, dearest Alice!" Then he went, and she sat thereon the sofa without moving, till she heard her father's feet as hecame up the stairs.
"What, Alice, are you not in bed yet?"
"Not yet, papa."
"And so John Grey has been here. He has left his stick in the hall. Ishould know it among a thousand."
"Yes; he has been here."
"Is anything the matter, Alice?"
"No, papa, nothing is the matter."
"He has not made himself disagreeable, has he?"
"Not in the least. He never does anything wrong. He may defy man orwoman to find fault with him."
"So that is it, is it? He is just a shade too good. Well, I havealways thought that myself. But it's a fault on the right side."
"It's no fault, Papa. If there be any fault, it is not with him. ButI am yawning and tired, and I will go to bed."
"Is he to be here to-morrow?"
"No; he returns to Nethercoats early. Good night, papa."
Mr. Vavasor, as he went up to his bedroom, felt sure that there hadbeen something wrong between his daughter and her lover. "I don'tknow how she'll ever put up with him," he said to himself, "he is soterribly conceited. I shall never forget how he went on about CharlesKemble, and what a fool he made of himself."
Alice, before she went to bed, sat down and wrote a letter to hercousin Kate.