The Palliser Novels (21 page)

“Yes; Kate will know. I suppose she will stay here when she comes up from Norfolk. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Alice. I shall have fewer fits of that inward shivering that you spoke of, — many less, on account of what I have now heard. God bless you, Alice; good-bye.”

“Good-bye, George.”

As he went he took her hand and pressed it closely between his own. In those days when they were lovers, — engaged lovers, a close, long-continued pressure of her hand had been his most eloquent speech of love. He had not been given to many kisses, — not even to many words of love. But he would take her hand and hold it, even as he looked away from her, and she remembered well the touch of his palm. It was ever cool, — cool, and with a surface smooth as a woman’s, — a small hand that had a firm grip. There had been days when she had loved to feel that her own was within it, when she trusted in it, and intended that it should be her staff through life. Now she distrusted it; and as the thoughts of the old days came upon her, and the remembrance of that touch was recalled, she drew her hand away rapidly. Not for that had she driven from her as honest a man as had ever wished to mate with a woman. He, George Vavasor, had never so held her hand since the day when they had parted, and now on this first occasion of her freedom she felt it again. What did he think of her? Did he suppose that she could transfer her love in that way, as a flower may be taken from one buttonhole and placed in another? He read it all, and knew that he was hurrying on too quickly. “I can understand well,” he said in a whisper, “what your present feelings are; but I do not think you will be really angry with me because I have been unable to repress my joy at what I cannot but regard as your release from a great misfortune.” Then he went.

“My release!” she said, seating herself on the chair from which he had risen. “My release from a misfortune! No; — but my fall from heaven! Oh, what a man he is! That he should have loved me, and that I should have driven him away from me!” Her thoughts travelled off to the sweetness of that home at Nethercoats, to the excellence of that master who might have been hers; and then in an agony of despair she told herself that she had been an idiot and a fool, as well as a traitor. What had she wanted in life that she should have thus quarrelled with as happy a lot as ever had been offered to a woman? Had she not been mad, when she sent from her side the only man that she loved, — the only man that she had ever truly respected? For hours she sat there, all alone, putting out the candles which the servant had lighted for her, and leaving untasted the tea that was brought to her.

Poor Alice! I hope that she may be forgiven. It was her special fault, that when at Rome she longed for Tibur, and when at Tibur she regretted Rome. Not that her cousin George is to be taken as representing the joys of the great capital, though Mr Grey may be presumed to form no inconsiderable part of the promised delights of the country. Now that she had sacrificed her Tibur, because it had seemed to her that the sunny quiet of its pastures lacked the excitement necessary for the happiness of life, she was again prepared to quarrel with the heartlessness of Rome, and already was again sighing for the tranquillity of the country.

Sitting there, full of these regrets, she declared to herself that she would wait for her father’s return, and then, throwing herself upon his love and upon his mercy, would beg him to go to Mr Grey and ask for pardon for her. “I should be very humble to him,” she said; “but he is so good, that I may dare to be humble before him.” So she waited for her father. She waited till twelve, till one, till two; — but still he did not come. Later than that she did not dare to wait for him. She feared to trust him on such business returning so late as that, — after so many cigars; after, perhaps, some superfluous beakers of club nectar. His temper at such a moment would not be fit for such work as hers. But if he was late in coming home, who had sent him away from his home in unhappiness? Between two and three she went to bed, and on the following morning she left Queen Anne Street for the Great Western Station before her father was up.

Lady Macleod lived at No. 3, Paramount Crescent, in Cheltenham, where she occupied a very handsome first-floor drawing-room, with a bedroom behind it, looking over a stable-yard, and a small room which would have been the dressing-room had the late Sir Archibald been alive, but which was at present called the dining-room: and in it Lady Macleod did dine whenever her larger room was to be used for any purposes of evening company. The vicinity of the stable-yard was not regarded by the tenant as among the attractions of the house; but it had the effect of lowering the rent, and Lady Macleod was a woman who regarded such matters. Her income, though small, would have sufficed to enable her to live removed from such discomforts; but she was one of those women who regard it as a duty to leave something behind them, — even though it be left to those who do not at all want it; and Lady Macleod was a woman who wilfully neglected no duty. So she pinched herself, and inhaled the effluvia of the stables, and squabbled with the cabmen, in order that she might bequeath a thousand pounds or two to some Lady Midlothian, who cared, perhaps, little for her, and would hardly thank her memory for the money.

Had Alice consented to live with her, she would have merged that duty of leaving money behind her in that other duty of finding a home for her adopted niece. But Alice had gone away, and therefore the money was due to Lady Midlothian rather than to her. The saving, however, was postponed whenever Alice would consent to visit Cheltenham; and a bedroom was secured for her which did not look out over the stables. Accommodation was also found for her maid much better than that provided for Lady Macleod’s own maid. She was a hospitable, good old woman, painfully struggling to do the best she could in the world. It was a pity that she was such a bore, a pity that she was so hard to cabmen and others, a pity that she suspected all tradesmen, servants, and people generally of a rank of life inferior to her own, a pity that she was disposed to condemn for ever and ever so many of her own rank because they played cards on week days, and did not go to church on Sundays, — and a pity, as I think above all, that while she was so suspicious of the poor she was so lenient to the vices of earls, earl’s sons, and such like.

Alice, having fully considered the matter, had thought it most prudent to tell Lady Macleod by letter what she had done in regard to Mr Grey. There had been many objections to the writing of such a letter, but there appeared to be stronger objection to that telling it face to face which would have been forced upon her had she not written. There would in such case have arisen on Lady Macleod’s countenance a sternness of rebuke which Alice did not choose to encounter. The same sternness of rebuke would come upon the countenance on receipt of the written information; but it would come in its most aggravated form on the immediate receipt of the letter, and some of its bitterness would have passed away before Alice’s arrival. I think that Alice was right. It is better for both parties that any great offence should be confessed by letter.

But Alice trembled as the cab drew up at No. 3, Paramount Crescent. She met her aunt, as was usual, just inside the drawing-room door, and she saw at once that if any bitterness had passed away from that face, the original bitterness must indeed have been bitter. She had so timed her letter that Lady Macleod should have no opportunity of answering it. The answer was written there in the mingled anger and sorrow of those austere features.

“Alice!” she said, as she took her niece in her arms and kissed her; “oh, Alice, what is this?”

“Yes, aunt; it is very bad, I know,” and poor Alice tried to make a jest of it. “Young ladies are very wicked when they don’t know their own minds. But if they haven’t known them and have been wicked, what can they do but repent?”

“Repent!” said Lady Macleod. “Yes; I hope you will repent. Poor Mr Grey; — what must he think of it?”

“I can only hope, aunt, that he won’t think of it at all for very long.”

“That’s nonsense, my dear, Of course he’ll think of it, and of course you’ll marry him.”

“Shall I, aunt?”

“Of course you will. Why, Alice, hasn’t it been all settled among families? Lady Midlothian knew all the particulars of it just as well as I did. And is not your word pledged to him? I really don’t understand what you mean. I don’t see how it is possible you should go back. Gentlemen when they do that kind of thing are put out of society; — but I really think it is worse in a woman.”

“Then they may if they please put me out of society; — only that I don’t know that I’m particularly in it.”

“And the wickedness of the thing, Alice! I’m obliged to say so.”

“When you talk to me about society, aunt, and about Lady Midlothian, I give up to you, willingly; — the more willingly, perhaps, because I don’t care much for one or the other.” Here Lady Macleod tried to say a word; but she failed, and Alice went on, boldly looking up into her aunt’s face, which became a shade more bitter than ever. “But when you tell me about wickedness and my conscience, then I must be my own judge. It is my conscience, and the fear of committing wickedness, that has made me do this.”

“You should submit to be guided by your elders, Alice.”

“No; my elders in such a matter as this cannot teach me. It cannot be right that I should go to a man’s house and be his wife, if I do not think that I can make him happy.”

“Then why did you accept him?”

“Because I was mistaken. I am not going to defend that. If you choose to scold me for that, you may do so, aunt, and I will not answer you. But as to marrying him or not marrying him now, — as to that, I must judge for myself.”

“It was a pity you did not know your own mind earlier.”

“It was a pity, — a great pity. I have done myself an injury that is quite irretrievable; — I know that, and am prepared to bear it. I have done him, too, an injustice which I regret with my whole heart. I can only excuse myself by saying that I might have done him a worse injustice.”

All this was said at the very moment of her arrival, and the greeting did not seem to promise much for the happiness of the next month; but perhaps it was better for them both that the attack and the defence should thus be made suddenly, at their first meeting. It is better to pull the string at once when you are in the shower-bath, and not to stand shivering, thinking of the inevitable shock which you can only postpone for a few minutes. Lady Macleod in this case had pulled the string, and thus reaped the advantage of her alacrity.

“Well, my dear,” said her ladyship, “I suppose you will like to go up-stairs and take off your bonnet. Mary shall bring you some tea when you come down.” So Alice escaped, and when she returned to the comfort of her cup of tea in the drawing-room, the fury of the storm had passed away. She sat talking of other things till dinner; and though Lady Macleod did during the evening make one allusion to “poor Mr Grey,” the subject was allowed to drop. Alice was very tender as to her aunt’s ailments, was more than ordinarily attentive to the long list of Cheltenham iniquities which was displayed to her, and refrained from combating any of her aunt’s religious views. After a while they got upon the subject of Aunt Greenow, for whose name Lady Macleod had a special aversion, — as indeed she had for all the Vavasor side of Alice’s family; and then Alice offered to read, and did read to her aunt many pages out of one of those terrible books of wrath, which from time to time come forth and tell us that there is no hope for us. Lady Macleod liked to be so told; and as she now, poor woman, could not read at nights herself, she enjoyed her evening.

Lady Macleod no doubt did enjoy her niece’s sojourn at Cheltenham, but I do not think it could have been pleasant to Alice. On the second day nothing was said about Mr Grey, and Alice hoped that by her continual readings in the book of wrath her aunt’s heart might be softened towards her. But it seemed that Lady Macleod measured the periods of respite, for on the third day and on the fifth she returned to the attack. “Did John Grey still wish that the match should go on?” she asked, categorically. It was in vain that Alice tried to put aside the question, and begged that the matter might not be discussed. Lady Macleod insisted on her right to carry on the examination, and Alice was driven to acknowledge that she believed he did wish it. She could hardly say otherwise, seeing that she had at that moment a letter from him in her pocket, in which he still spoke of his engagement as being absolutely binding on him, and expressed a hope that this change from London to Cheltenham would bring her round and set everything to rights. He certainly did, in a fashion, wave his hand over her, as Kate had said of him. This letter Alice had resolved that she would not answer. He would probably write again, and she would beg him to desist. Instead of Cheltenham bringing her round, Cheltenham had made her firmer than ever in her resolution. I am inclined to think that the best mode of bringing her round at this moment would have been a course of visits from her cousin George, and a series of letters from her cousin Kate. Lady Macleod’s injunctions would certainly not bring her round.

After ten days, ten terrible days, devoted to discussions on matrimony in the morning, and to the book of wrath in the evening, — relieved by two tea-parties, in which the sins of Cheltenham were discussed at length, — Lady Macleod herself got a letter from Mr Grey. Mr Grey’s kindest compliments to Lady Macleod. He believed that Lady Macleod was aware of the circumstances of his engagement with Miss Vavasor. Might he call on Miss Vavasor at Lady Macleod’s house in Cheltenham? and might he also hope to have the pleasure of making Lady Macleod’s acquaintance? Alice had been in the room when her aunt received this letter, but her aunt had said nothing, and Alice had not known from whom the letter had come. When her aunt crept away with it after breakfast she had suspected nothing, and had never imagined that Lady Macleod, in the privacy of her own room looking out upon the stables, had addressed a letter to Nethercoats. But such a letter had been addressed to Nethercoats, and Mr Grey had been informed that he would be received in Paramount Crescent with great pleasure.