Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollope
CHAPTER IV.
George Vavasor, the Wild Man.
It will no doubt be understood that George Vavasor did not roam aboutin the woods unshorn, or wear leathern trappings and sandals, likeRobinson Crusoe, instead of coats and trousers. His wildness was ofanother kind. Indeed, I don't know that he was in truth at all wild,though Lady Macleod had called him so, and Alice had assented to heruse of the word.
George Vavasor had lived in London since he was twenty, and now, atthe time of the beginning of my story, he was a year or two overthirty. He was and ever had been the heir to his grandfather'sestate; but that estate was small, and when George first came toLondon his father was a strong man of forty, with as much promiseof life in him as his son had. A profession had therefore beenabsolutely necessary to him; and he had, at his uncle John'sinstance, been placed in the office of a parliamentary land agent.With this parliamentary land agent he had quarrelled to the knife,but not before he had by his talents made himself so useful thathe had before him the prospects of a lucrative partnership in thebusiness. George Vavasor had many faults, but idleness--absoluteidleness--was not one of them. He would occasionally postpone hiswork to pleasure. He would be at Newmarket when he should have beenat Whitehall. But it was not usual with him to be in bed when heshould be at his desk, and when he was at his desk he did not whittlehis ruler, or pick his teeth, or clip his nails. Upon the wholehis friends were pleased with the first five years of his life inLondon--in spite of his having been found to be in debt on more thanone occasion. But his debts had been paid; and all was going onswimmingly, when one day he knocked down the parliamentary agentwith a blow between the eyes, and then there was an end of that.He himself was wont to say that he had known very well what he wasabout, that it had behoved him to knock down the man who was to havebeen his partner, and that he regretted nothing in the matter. At anyrate the deed was looked upon with approving eyes by many men of goodstanding,--or, at any rate, sufficient standing to help George toanother position and within six weeks of the time of his leaving theoffice at Whitehall, he had become a partner in an established firmof wine merchants. A great-aunt had just then left him a couple ofthousand pounds, which no doubt assisted him in his views with thewine merchants.
In this employment he remained for another period of five years, andwas supposed by all his friends to be doing very well. And indeedhe did not do badly, only that he did not do well enough to satisfyhimself. He was ambitious of making the house to which he belongedthe first house in the trade in London, and scared his partners bythe boldness and extent of his views. He himself declared that ifthey would only have gone along with him he would have made themprinces in the wine market. But they were men either of more prudenceor of less audacity than he, and they declined to walk in hiscourses. At the end of the five years Vavasor left the house, nothaving knocked any one down on this occasion, and taking with him avery nice sum of money.
The two last of these five years had certainly been the best periodof his life, for he had really worked very hard, like a man, givingup all pleasure that took time from him,--and giving up also mostpleasures which were dangerous on account of their costliness. Hewent to no races, played no billiards, and spoke of Cremorne as achildish thing, which he had abandoned now that he was no longera child. It was during these two years that he had had his lovepassages with his cousin; and it must be presumed that he had, at anyrate, intended at one time to settle himself respectably as a marriedman. He had, however, behaved very badly to Alice, and the match hadbeen broken off.
He had also during the last two years quarrelled with hisgrandfather. He had wished to raise a sum of money on the Vavasorestate, which, as it was unentailed, he could only do with hisgrandfather's concurrence. The old gentleman would not hear ofit,--would listen with no patience to the proposition. It was invain that George attempted to make the squire understand that thewine business was going on very well, that he himself owed no mananything, that everything with him was flourishing;--but that histrade might be extended indefinitely by the use of a few thousandpounds at moderate interest. Old Mr. Vavasor was furious. No documentsand no assurances could make him lay aside a belief that the winemerchants, and the business, and his grandson were all ruined andruinous together. No one but a ruined man would attempt to raisemoney on the family estate! So they had quarrelled, and had neverspoken or seen each other since. "He shall have the estate for hislife," the squire said to his son John. "I don't think I have a rightto leave it away from him. It never has been left away from the heir.But I'll tie it up so that he shan't cut a tree on it." John Vavasorperhaps thought that the old rule of primogeniture might under suchcircumstances have been judiciously abandoned--in this one instance,in his own favour. But he did not say so. Nor would he have said ithad there been a chance of his doing so with success. He was a manfrom whom no very noble deed could be expected; but he was also onewho would do no ignoble deed.
After that George Vavasor had become a stockbroker, and a stockbrokerhe was now. In the first twelve months after his leaving the winebusiness,--the same being the first year after his breach withAlice,--he had gone back greatly in the estimation of men. He hadlived in open defiance of decency. He had spent much money and hadapparently made none, and had been, as all his friends declared, onthe high road to ruin. Aunt Macleod had taken her judgement from thisperiod of his life when she had spoken of him as a man who never didanything. But he had come forth again suddenly as a working man; andnow they who professed to know, declared that he was by no meanspoor. He was in the City every day; and during the last two years hadearned the character of a shrewd fellow who knew what he was about,who might not perhaps be very mealy-mouthed in affairs of business,but who was fairly and decently honourable in his money transactions.In fact, he stood well on 'Change.
And during these two years he had stood a contest for a seat inParliament, having striven to represent the metropolitan borough ofChelsea, on the extremely Radical interest. It is true that he hadfailed, and that he had spent a considerable sum of money in thecontest. "Where on earth does your nephew get his money?" men said toJohn Vavasor at his club. "Upon my word I don't know," said Vavasor."He doesn't get it from me, and I'm sure he doesn't get it from myfather." But George Vavasor, though he failed at Chelsea, did notspend his money altogether fruitlessly. He gained reputation by thestruggle, and men came to speak of him as though he were one whowould do something. He was a stockbroker, a thorough-going Radical,and yet he was the heir to a fine estate, which had come down fromfather to son for four hundred years! There was something captivatingabout his history and adventures, especially as just at the time ofthe election he became engaged to an heiress, who died a month beforethe marriage should have taken place. She died without a will, andher money all went to some third cousins.
George Vavasor bore this last disappointment like a man, and it wasat this time that he again became fully reconciled to his cousin.Previous to this they had met; and Alice, at her cousin Kate'sinstigation, had induced her father to meet him. But at first therehad been no renewal of real friendship. Alice had given her cordialassent to her cousin's marriage with the heiress, Miss Grant, tellingKate that such an engagement was the very thing to put him thoroughlyon his feet. And then she had been much pleased by his spirit at thatChelsea election. "It was grand of him, wasn't it?" said Kate, hereyes brimming full of tears. "It was very spirited," said Alice. "Ifyou knew all, you would say so. They could get no one else to standbut that Mr. Travers, and he wouldn't come forward, unless they wouldguarantee all his expenses." "I hope it didn't cost George much,"said Alice. "It did, though; nearly all he had got. But what matters?Money's nothing to him, except for its uses. My own little mite ismy own now, and he shall have every farthing of it for the nextelection, even though I should go out as a housemaid the next day."There must have been something great about George Vavasor, or hewould not have been so idolized by such a girl as his sister Kate.
Early in the present spring, before the arrangeme
"I grieved for her," he said, "greatly."
"I'm sure you did, George."
"Yes, I did;--for her, herself. Of course the world has given mecredit for lamenting the loss of her money. But the truth is, that asregards both herself and her money, it is much better for me that wewere never married."
"Do you mean even though she should have lived?"
"Yes;--even had she lived."
"And why so? If you liked her, her money was surely no drawback."
"No; not if I had liked her."
"And did you not like her?"
"No."
"Oh, George!"
"I did not love her as a man should love his wife, if you mean that.As for my liking her, I did like her. I liked her very much."
"But you would have loved her?"
"I don't know. I don't find that task of loving so very easy. Itmight have been that I should have learned to hate her."
"If so, it is better for you, and better for her, that she has gone."
"It is better. I am sure of it. And yet I grieve for her, and inthinking of her I almost feel as though I were guilty of her death."
"But she never suspected that you did not love her?"
"Oh no. But she was not given to think much of such things. She tookall that for granted. Poor girl! she is at rest now, and her moneyhas gone, where it should go, among her own relatives."
"Yes; with such feelings as yours are about her, her money would havebeen a burden to you."
"I would not have taken it. I hope, at least, that I would not havetaken it. Money is a sore temptation, especially to a poor man likeme. It is well for me that the trial did not come in my way."
"But you are not such a very poor man now, are you, George? I thoughtyour business was a good one."
"It is, and I have no right to be a poor man. But a man will be poorwho does such mad things as I do. I had three or four thousand poundsclear, and I spent every shilling of it on the Chelsea election.Goodness knows whether I shall have a shilling at all when anotherchance comes round; but if I have I shall certainly spend it, andif I have not, I shall go in debt wherever I can raise a hundredpounds."
"I hope you will be successful at last."
"I feel sure that I shall. But, in the mean time, I cannot but knowthat my career is perfectly reckless. No woman ought to join her lotto mine unless she has within her courage to be as reckless as I am.You know what men do when they toss up for shillings?"
"Yes, I suppose I do."
"I am tossing up every day of my life for every shilling that Ihave."
"Do you mean that you're--gambling?"
"No. I have given that up altogether. I used to gamble, but I neverdo that now, and never shall again. What I mean is this,--that I holdmyself in readiness to risk everything at any moment, in order togain any object that may serve my turn. I am always ready to lead aforlorn hope. That's what I mean by tossing up every day for everyshilling that I have."
Alice did not quite understand him, and perhaps he did not intendthat she should. Perhaps his object was to mystify her imagination.She did not understand him, but I fear that she admired the kind ofcourage which he professed. And he had not only professed it: in thatmatter of the past election he had certainly practised it.
In talking of beauty to his sister he had spoken of himself as beingugly. He would not generally have been called ugly by women, had notone side of his face been dreadfully scarred by a cicatrice, which inhealing, had left a dark indented line down from his left eye to hislower jaw. That black ravine running through his cheek was certainlyugly. On some occasions, when he was angry or disappointed, it wasvery hideous; for he would so contort his face that the scar would,as it were, stretch itself out, revealing all its horrors, and hiscountenance would become all scar. "He looked at me like the devilhimself--making the hole in his face gape at me," the old squirehad said to John Vavasor in describing the interview in which thegrandson had tried to bully his grandfather into assenting to his ownviews about the mortgage. But in other respects George's face was notugly, and might have been thought handsome by many women. His hairwas black, and was parted in the front. His forehead, though low,was broad. His eyes were dark and bright, and his eyebrows were veryfull, and perfectly black. At those periods of his anger, all hisface which was not scar, was eye and eyebrow. He wore a thick blackmoustache, which covered his mouth, but no whiskers. People said ofhim that he was so proud of his wound that he would not grow a hairto cover it. The fact, however, was that no whisker could be made tocome sufficiently forward to be of service, and therefore he worenone.
The story of that wound should be told. When he was yet hardly morethan a boy, before he had come up to London, he was living in ahouse in the country which his father then occupied. At the timehis father was absent, and he and his sister only were in the housewith the maid-servants. His sister had a few jewels in her room, andan exaggerated report of them having come to the ears of certainenterprising burglars, a little plan was arranged for obtaining them.A small boy was hidden in the house, a window was opened, and at theproper witching hour of night a stout individual crept up-stairs inhis stocking-feet, and was already at Kate Vavasor's door,--when,in the dark, dressed only in his nightshirt, wholly unarmed, GeorgeVavasor flew at the fellow's throat. Two hours elapsed before thehorror-stricken women of the house could bring men to the place.George's face had then been ripped open from the eye downwards, withsome chisel, or house-breaking instrument. But the man was dead.George had wrenched from him his own tool, and having first jabbedhim all over with insufficient wounds, had at last driven the steelthrough his windpipe. The small boy escaped, carrying with him twoshillings and threepence which Kate had left upon the drawing-roommantelpiece.
George Vavasor was rather low in stature, but well made, with smallhands and feet, but broad in the chest and strong in the loins. Hewas a fine horseman and a hard rider; and men who had known him wellsaid that he could fence and shoot with a pistol as few men care todo in these peaceable days. Since volunteering had come up, he hadbecome a captain of Volunteers, and had won prizes with his rifle atWimbledon.
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 didso at present; but just now his sister was much with him, as she wasstaying up in town with an aunt, another Vavasor by birth, with whomthe reader will, if he persevere, become acquainted in course oftime. I hope he will persevere a little, for of all the Vavasors Mrs.Greenow was perhaps the best worth knowing. But Kate Vavasor's homewas understood to be in her grandfather's house in Westmoreland.
On the evening before they started for Switzerland, George and Katewalked 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 ofMr. Grey's letter had been read which alluded to the Paynims andthe glasses of water, and everything had passed in the best ofgood-humour. "I'll endeavour to get the cold water for you," Georgehad said; "but as to the breakfasts, I can only hope you won't putme to severe trials by any very early hours. When people go out forpleasure it should be pleasure."
The brother and sister walked through two or three streets insilence, and then Kate asked a question.
"George, I wonder what your wishes really are about Alice?"
"That she shouldn't
"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 marrythis man John Grey, and then no one will hear another word abouther."
"She will no doubt, if you don't interfere. Probably she will whetheryou interfere or not. But if you wish to interfere--"
"She's got four hundred a year, and is not so good-looking as shewas."
"Yes; she has got four hundred a year, and she is more handsome nowthan ever she was. I know that you think so;--and that you love herand 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. Ifever you mean to try, you should try now."