Can You Forgive Her? (95 page)

Alice arrived, and, for a day or two, the three ladies lived very pleasantly together. Kate still wore her arm in a sting; but she was able to walk out, and would take long walks in spite of the doctor’s prohibition. Of course, they went up on the mountains. Indeed, all the walks from Vavasor Hall led to the mountains, unless one chose to take the road to
Shap. But they went up, across the beacon hill, as though by mutal consent There were no questions asked between them as to the route to be taken; and though they did not reach the stone on which they had once sat looking over upon Hawes water, they did reach the spot upon which Kate had encountered her accident. It was here I fell,’ she said; ‘and the last I saw of him was his back, as he made his
way down into the
valley, there. When I got upon my legs I could still see him. It was one of those evenings when the clouds are dark, but you can see all objects with a peculiar clearness through the air. I stood here ever so long, holding my arm, and watching him; but he never once turned to look back at me. Do you know, Alice, I fancy that I shall never see him again.’

‘Do you suppose that
he means to quarrel with you altogether?’

‘I can hardly tell you what I mean! He seemed to me to be going away from me, as though he went into another world. His figure against the light was quite clear, and he walked quickly, and on he went, till the slope of the hill hid him from me. Of course, I thought that he would return to the Hall. At one time I almost feared that he would come upon me
through the woods, as I went back myself. But yet, I had a feeling, – what people call a presentiment, that I should never see him again.’

‘He has never written?’

‘No; not a word. You must remember that he did not know that I had hurt myself. I am sure he will not write, and I am sure, also, that I shall not. If he wanted money I would send it to him, but I would not write to him.’

‘I fear
he will always want money, Kate.’

‘I fear he will. If you could know what I suffered when he made me write that letter to you! But, of course, I was a beast. Of course, I ought not to have written it.’

‘I thought it a very proper letter.’

‘It was a mean letter. The whole thing was mean! He should have starved in the street before he had taken your money. He should have given up Parliament,
and everything else! I had doubted much about him before, but it was that which first turned my heart against him. I had begun to fear that he was not such a man as I had always thought him,– as! had spoken of him to you.’

‘I had judged of him for myself,’ said Alice.

‘Of course you did. But I had endeavoured to make you judge kindly. Alice, dear! we have both suffered for him; you more than
I, perhaps; but I, too, have given up everything for him. My whole life has been at his service. I have been his creature, to do his
bidding, just as he might tell me. He made me do things that I knew to be wrong, – things that were foreign to my own nature; and yet I almost worshipped him. Even now, if he were to come back, I believe that I should forgive him everything.’

‘I should forgive him,
but I could never do more.’

‘But he will never come back. He will never ask us to forgive him, or even wish it. He has no heart’

‘He has longed for money till the Devil has hardened his heart,’ said Alice.

‘And yet how tender he could be in his manner when he chose it; – how soft he could make his words and his looks! Do you remember how he behaved to us in Switzerland? Do you remember that
balcony at Basle, and the night we sat there, when the boys were swimming down the river?’

‘Yes; – I remember.’

‘So do I! So do I! Alice, I would give all I have in the world, if I could recall that journey to Switzerland.’

‘If you mean for my sake, Kate –’

‘I do mean for your sake. It made no difference to me. Whether I stayed in Westmoreland or went abroad, I must have found out that my
god was made of bricks and clay instead of gold. But there was no need for you to be crushed in the ruins.’

‘I am not crushed, Kate!’

‘Of course, you are too proud to own it?’

‘If you mean about Mr Grey, that would have happened just the same, whether I had gone abroad or remained at home.’

‘Would it, dear?’

‘Just the same.’

There was nothing more than this said between them about Mr Grey.
Even to her cousin, Alice could not bring herself to talk freely on that subject. She would never allow herself to think, for a moment, that she had been persuaded by others to treat him as she had treated him. She was sure that she had acted on her own convictions of what was right and wrong; and now, though she had begun to feel that she had been wrong, she would hardly confess as much even to
herself.

They walked back, down the hill, to the Hall in silence for the
greater part of the way. Once or twice Kate repeated her conviction that she should never again see her brother. ‘I do not know what may happen to him,’ she said in answer to her cousin’s questions; ‘but when he was passing out of my sight into the valley, I felt that I was looking at him for the last time.’

‘That is simply
what people call a presentiment,’ Alice replied.

‘Exactly so; and presentiments, of course, mean nothing,’ said Kate.

Then they walked on towards the house without further speech; but when they reached the end of the little path which led out of the wood, on to the gravelled sweep before the front door, they were both arrested by a sight that met their eyes. There was a man standing, with a
cigar in his mouth, before them, swinging a little cane, and looking about him up at the wood. He had on his head a jaunty little straw-hat, and he wore a jacket with brass buttons, and white trousers. It was now nearly the middle of May, but the summer does not come to Westmoreland so early as that, and the man, as he stood there looking about him, seemed to be cold and almost uncomfortable. He had
not as yet seen the two girls, who stood at the end of the walk, arrested by the sight of him. ‘Who is it?’ asked Alice, in a whisper.

‘Captain Bellfield,’ said Kate, speaking with something very like dismay in her voice.

‘What! aunt Greenow’s Captain?’

‘yes; aunt Greenow’s Captain. I have been fearing this, and now, what on earth are we to do with him? Look at him. That’s what aunt Greenow
calls a sniff of the rocks and valleys.’

The Captain began to move, – just to move, as though it were necessary to do something to keep the life in his limbs. He had finished his cigar, and looked at the end of it with manifest regret. As he threw it away among a tuft of shrubs his eye fell upon the two ladies, and he uttered a little exclamation. Then he came forward, waving his little straw-hat
in his hand, and made his salutation. ‘Miss Vavasor, I am delighted,’ he said. ‘Miss Alice Vavasor, if I am not mistaken? I have been commissioned by my dear friend Mrs Greenow to go out and seek you, but, upon my word, the woods looked so black that I did not dare to
venture; – and then, of course, I shouldn’t have found you.’

Kate put out her left hand, and then introduced her cousin to the
Captain. Again he waved his little straw-hat, and strove to bear himself as though he were at home and comfortable. But he failed, and it was manifest that he failed. He was not the Bellfield who had conquered Mr Cheesacre on the sands at Yarmouth, though he wore the same jacket and waistcoat, and must now have enjoyed the internal satisfaction of feeling that his future maintenance in life was assured
to him. But he was not at his ease. His courage had sufficed to enable him to follow his quarry into Westmoreland, but it did not suffice to make him comfortable while he was there. Kate instantly perceived his condition, and wickedly resolved that she would make no effort to assist him. She went through some ceremony of introduction, and then expressed her surprise at seeing him so far north.

‘Well,’ said he; ‘I am a little surprised myself; – I am, indeed! But I had nothing to do in Norwich, – literally nothing; and your aunt had so often talked to me of the beauties of this place,’ – and he waved his hand round at the old house and the dark trees, – ‘that I thought I’d take the liberty of paying you a flying visit I didn’t mean to intrude in the way of sleeping; I didn’t indeed, Miss
Vavasor; only Mrs Greenow has been so kind as to say –’

‘We are so very far out of the world, Captain Bellfield, that we always give our visitors beds.’

‘I didn’t intend it; I didn’t indeed, miss!’ Poor Captain Bellfield was becoming very uneasy in his agitation. ‘I did just put my bag, with a change of things, into the gig, which brought me over, not knowing quite where I might go on to.’

‘We won’t send you any further today, at any rate,’ said Kate.

‘Mrs Greenow has been very kind, – very kind, indeed. She has asked me to stay till – Saturday!’

Kate bit her lips in a momentary fit of anger. The house was her house, and not her aunt’s. But she remembered that her aunt had been kind to her at Norwich and at Yarmouth, and she allowed this feeling to the away. ‘We shall be very glad
to see you,’ she said. ‘We are three women together here, and I’m afraid you will find us rather dull’

‘Oh dear, no, – dull with you! That would be impossible!’

‘And how have you left your friend, Mr Cheesacre?’

‘Quite well; – very well, thank you. That is to say, I haven’t seen him much lately. He and I did have a bit of a breeze
³
, you know.’

‘I can’t say that I did know, Captain Bellfield.’

‘I thought, perhaps, you had heard. He seemed to think that I was too particular in a certain quarter! Ha – ha – ha – ha! That’s only my joke, you know, ladies.’

They then went into the house, and the Captain straggled in after them. Mrs Greenow was in neither of the two sitting-rooms which they usually occupied. She, too, had been driven somewhat out of the ordinary composure of her manner by
the arrival of her lover, – even though she had expected it, and had retired to her room, thinking that she had better see Kate in private before they met in the presence of the Captain. ‘I suppose you have seen my aunt since you have been here?’ said Kate.

‘Oh dear, yes. I saw her, and she suggested that I had better walk out and find you. I did find you, you know, though I didn’t walk very
far.’

‘And have you seen your room?’

‘Yes; – yes. She was land enough to show me my room. Very nice indeed, thank you; – looking out into the front, and all that kind of thing.’ The poor fellow was no doubt thinking how much better was his lot at Vavasor Hall than it had been at Oileymead. ‘I shan’t stay long. Miss Vavasor, – only just a night or so; but I did want to see your aunt again, –
and you, too, upon my word.’

‘My aunt is the attraction, Captain Bellfield. We all know that.’

He actually simpered, – simpered like a young girl who is half elated and half ashamed when her lover is thrown in her teeth. He fidgeted with the things on the table, and moved himself about uneasily from one leg to the other. Perhaps he was remembering that though he had contrived to bring himself
to Vavasor Hall he had not money enough left to take him back to Norwich. The two girls left him and went to their rooms. ‘I will go to my aunt at once,’ said Kate, ‘and find out what is to be done.’

‘I suppose she means to marry him?’

‘Oh, yes; she means to marry him, and the sooner the better now. I knew this was coining, but I did so hope it would not be while you were here. It makes me feel
so ashamed of myself that you should see it’

Kate boldly knocked at her aunt's door, and her aunt received her with a conscious smile. ‘I was waiting for you to come,’ said Mrs Greenow.

‘Here I am, aunt; and, what is more to the purpose, there is Captain Bellfield in the drawing-room.’

‘Stupid man! I told him to take himself away about the place till dinner-time. I've half a mind to send him
back to Shap at once;- upon my word I have.’

‘Don't do that, aunt; it would be inhospitable.’

‘But he is such an oaf. I hope you understand, my dear, that I couldn't help it?’

‘But you do mean to - to marry him, aunt; don't you?’

‘Well, Kate, I really think I do. Why shouldn't I? It's a lonely sort of life being by myself; and, upon my word, I don't think there's very much harm in him.’

‘I am not saying anything against him; only in that case you can't very well turn him out of the house.’

‘Could not I, though? I could in a minute; and, if you wish it, you shall see if I can't do it.’

‘The rocks and valleys would not allow that, aunt.’

‘It's all very well for you to laugh, my dear. If laughing would break my bones I shouldn't be as whole as I am now. I might have had Cheesacre
if I liked, who is a substantial man, and could have kept a carriage for me; but it was the rocks and valleys that prevented that; - and perhaps a little feeling that I might do some good to a poor fellow who has nobody in the world to look after him.’ Mrs Greenow, as she said this, put her handkerchief up to her eyes, and wiped away the springing moisture. Tears were always easy with her, but
on this occasion Kate almost respected her tears. ‘I'm sure I hope you'll be happy, aunt,’

‘If he makes me unhappy he shall pay for it;’ and Mrs Greenow,
having done with the tears, shook her head, as though upon this occasion she quite meant all that she said.

At dinner they were not very comfortable. Either the gloomy air of the place and the neighbourhood of the black pines had depressed
the Captain, or else the glorious richness of the prospects before him had made him thoughtful. He had laid aside the jacket with the brass buttons, and had dressed himself for dinner very soberly. And he behaved himself at dinner and after dinner with a wonderful sobriety, being very unlike the Captain who had sat at the head of the table at Mrs Greenow’s picnic. When left to himself after dinner
he barely swallowed two glasses of the old Squire’s port wine before he sauntered out into the garden to join the ladies, whom he had seen there; and when pressed by Kate to light a dgar he positively declined.

On the following morning Mrs Greenow had recovered her composure, but Captain Bellfield was still in a rather disturbed state of mind. He knew that his efforts were to be crowned with
success, and that he was sure of his wife, but he did not know how the preliminary difficulties were to be overcome, and he did not know what to do with himself at the Hall. After breakfast he fidgeted about in the parlour, being unable to contrive for himself a mode of escape, and was absolutely thrown upon his beam-ends when the widow asked him what he meant to do with himself between that and dinner.