Can You Forgive Her?

  CHAPTER X.

  Nethercoats.

  We will leave Mrs. Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth,and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr. Grey at hisplace in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded byall the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer ruralbeauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it isnot well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very largeportion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply byditches--not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, welladapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to ruralbeauty. Mr. Grey's residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshirein which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It wasin the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town,on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fieldsfor miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place wasNethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, andhere he intended to live throughout his life.

  His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendalstalls were worth more than they are at present, and having alsobeen possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed aconsiderable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchasedthe property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in whichhis son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wifesoon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built inhis own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and haddied there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back tohis residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had thehome of his youth. He had been brought up under his father's eye,having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge,had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly atthis time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left tohim an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sathimself down, near to his college friends, near also to the oldcathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built.

  But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though thecountry around it was in truth as uninteresting as any countrycould be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was asexcellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means astaste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettierrooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and thedining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, andall opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which wasthe largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled asto make it well known in the University as one of the best privatecollections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens ofNethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spaciousand excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out withthat knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as agarden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden ofNethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor wasit possible that there should have been any such. Nor could therebe a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rockslying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and donot of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoatswere of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their presentplaces to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had beenspared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect intheir kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive thatJohn Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he hadtoo much of them.

  It must be understood that there were no grounds, according tothe meaning usually given to that word, belonging to the house atNethercoats. Between the garden and the public road there was apaddock belonging to the house, along the side of which, but dividedfrom it by a hedge and shrubbery, ran the private carriageway up tothe house. This swept through the small front flower-garden, dividingit equally; but the lawns and indeed the whole of that which madethe beauty of the place lay on the back of the house, on which sideopened the windows from the three sitting-rooms. Down on the publicroad there stood a lodge at which lived one of the gardeners. Therewas another field of some six or seven acres, to which there wasa gate from the corner of the front paddock, and which went roundtwo sides of the garden. This was Nethercoats, and the whole estatecovered about twelve acres.

  It was not a place for much bachelor enjoyment of that sort generallypopular with bachelors; nevertheless Mr. Grey had been constant in hisresidence there for the seven years which had now elapsed since hehad left his college. His easy access to Cambridge had probably donemuch to mitigate what might otherwise have been the too great tediumof his life; and he had, prompted thereto by early associations,found most of his society in the Close of Ely Cathedral. But, withall the delight he could derive from these two sources, there hadstill been many solitary hours in his life, and he had graduallylearned to feel that he of all men wanted a companion in his home.

  His visits to London had generally been short and far between,occasioned probably by some need in the library, or by the necessityof some slight literary transaction with the editor or publisher of aperiodical. In one of these visits he had met Alice Vavasor, and hadremained in Town,--I will not say till Alice had promised to sharehis home in Cambridgeshire, but so long that he had resolved beforehe went that he would ask her to do so. He had asked her, and weknow that he had been successful. He had obtained her promise, andfrom that moment all his life had been changed for him. Hitherto atNethercoats his little smoking-room, his books, and his plants hadbeen everything to him. Now he began to surround himself with aninfinity of feminine belongings, and to promise himself an infinityof feminine blessings, wondering much that he should have beencontent to pass so long a portion of his life in the dull seclusionwhich he had endured. He was not by nature an impatient man; but nowhe became impatient, longing for the fruition of his new idea ofhappiness,--longing to have that as his own which he certainly lovedbeyond all else in the world, and which, perhaps, was all he had everloved with the perfect love of equality. But though impatient, andfully aware of his own impatience, he acknowledged to himself thatAlice could not be expected to share it. He could plan nothingnow,--could have no pleasure in life that she was not expected toshare. But as yet it could not be so with her. She had her housein London, her town society, and her father. And, inasmuch as thechange for her would be much greater than it would be for him, it wasnatural that she should require some small delay. He had not pressedher. At least he had not pressed her with that eager pressure whicha girl must resist with something of the opposition of a contest,if she resist it at all. But in truth his impatience was now waxingstrong, and during the absence in Switzerland of which we havespoken, he resolved that a marriage very late in the autumn,--that amarriage even in winter, would be better than a marriage postponedtill the following year. It was not yet late in August when the partyreturned from their tour. Would not a further delay of two monthssuffice for his bride?

  Alice had written to him occasionally from Switzerland, and herfirst two letters had been very charming. They had referred almostexclusively to the tour, and had been made pleasant with someslightly coloured account of George Vavasor's idleness, and of Kate'sobedience to her brother's behests. Alice had never written much oflove in her love-letters, and Grey was well enough contented with herstyle, though it was not impassioned. As for doubting her love, itwas not in the heart of the man to do so after it had been onceassured to him by her word. He could not so slightly respect himselfor her as to leave room for such a doubt in his bosom. He was a manwho could never have suggested to himself that a woman loved him tillthe fact was there before him; but who having ascertained, as hemight think, the fact, could never suggest to himself that her lovewould fail him. Her first two letters from Switzerland had been verypleasant; but after that there had seemed to have crept over her amelancholy which she unconsciously transferred to her words, andwhich he could not but taste in them,--at first unconsciously, also,but soon with so plain a flavour tha
t he recognised it, and made it amatter of mental inquiry. During the three or four last days of thejourney, while they were at Basle and on their way home, she had notwritten. But she did write on the day after her arrival, having thenreceived from Mr. Grey a letter, in which he told her how very muchshe would add to his happiness if she would now agree that theirmarriage should not be postponed beyond the end of October. Thisletter she found in her room on her return, and this she answered atonce. And she answered it in such words that Mr. Grey resolved that hewould at once go to her in London. I will give her letter at length,as I shall then be best able to proceed with my story quickly.

  Queen Anne Street, -- August, 186--.

  DEAREST JOHN,--

  We reached home yesterday tired enough, as we came through from Paris without stopping. I may indeed say that we came through from Strasbourg, as we only slept in Paris. I don't like Strasbourg. A steeple, after all, is not everything, and putting the steeple aside, I don't think the style is good. But the hotel was uncomfortable, which goes for so much;--and then we were saturated with beauty of a better kind.

  I got your letter directly I came in last night, and I suppose I had better dash at it at once. I would so willingly delay doing so, saying nice little things the while, did I not know that this would be mere cowardice. Whatever happens I won't be a coward, and therefore I will tell you at once that I cannot let you hope that we should be married this year. Of course you will ask me why, as you have a right to do, and of course I am bound to answer. I do not know that I can give any answer with which you will not have a right to complain. If it be so, I can only ask your pardon for the injury I am doing you.

  Marriage is a great change in life,--much greater to me than to you, who will remain in your old house, will keep your old pursuits, will still be your own master, and will change in nothing,--except in this, that you will have a companion who probably may not be all that you expect. But I must change everything. It will be to me as though I were passing through a grave to a new world. I shall see nothing that I have been accustomed to see, and must abandon all the ways of life that I have hitherto adopted. Of course I should have thought of this before I accepted you; and I did think of it. I made up my mind that, as I truly loved you, I would risk the change;--that I would risk it for your sake and for mine, hoping that I might add something to your happiness, and that I might secure my own. Dear John, do not suppose that I despair that it may be so; but, indeed, you must not hurry me. I must tune myself to the change that I have to make. What if I should wake some morning after six months living with you, and tell you that the quiet of your home was making me mad?

  You must not ask me again till the winter shall have passed away. If in the meantime I shall find that I have been wrong, I will humbly confess that I have wronged you, and ask you to forgive me. And I will freely admit this. If the delay which I now purpose is so contrary to your own plans as to make your marriage, under such circumstances, not that which you had expected, I know that you are free to tell me so, and to say that our engagement shall be over. I am well aware that I can have no right to bind you to a marriage at one period which you had only contemplated as to take place at another period. I think I may promise that I will obey any wish you may express in anything,--except in that one thing which you urged in your last letter.

  Kate is going down to Yarmouth with Mrs. Greenow, and I shall see no more of her probably till next year, as she will be due in Westmoreland after that. George left me at the door when he brought me home, and declared that he intended to vanish out of London. Whether in town or out, he is never to be seen at this period of the year. Papa offers to go to Ramsgate for a fortnight, but he looks so wretched when he makes the offer, that I shall not have the heart to hold him to it. Lady Macleod very much wants me to go to Cheltenham. I very much want not to go, simply because I can never agree with her about anything; but it will probably end in my going there for a week or two. Over and beyond that, I have no prospects before Christmas which are not purely domestic. There is a project that we shall all eat our Christmas dinner at Vavasor Hall,--of course not including George,--but this project is quite in the clouds, and, as far as I am concerned, will remain there.

  Dear John, let me hear that this letter does not make you unhappy.

  Most affectionately yours,

  ALICE VAVASOR.

  At Nethercoats, the post was brought in at breakfast-time, and Mr.Grey was sitting with his tea and eggs before him, when he readAlice's letter. He read it twice before he began to think what hewould do in regard to it, and then referred to one or two otherswhich he had received from Switzerland,--reading them also verycarefully. After that, he took up the slouch hat which he had beenwearing in the garden before he was called to his breakfast, and,with the letters in his hand, sauntered down among the shrubs andlawns.

  He knew, he thought he knew, that there was more in Alice's mind thana mere wish for delay. There was more in it than that hesitation totake at once a step which she really desired to take, if not now,then after some short interval. He felt that she was unhappy, andunhappy because she distrusted the results of her marriage; but itnever for a moment occurred to him that, therefore, the engagementbetween them should be broken. In the first place he loved her toowell to allow of his admitting such an idea without terrible sorrowto himself. He was a constant, firm man, somewhat reserved, andunwilling to make new acquaintances, and, therefore, speciallyunwilling to break away from those which he had made. Undoubtedly,had he satisfied himself that Alice's happiness demanded such asacrifice of himself, he would have made it, and made it without aword of complaint. The blow would not have prostrated him, but thebruise would have remained on his heart, indelible, not to be healedbut by death. He would have submitted, and no man would have seenthat he had been injured. But it did not once occur to him that sucha proceeding on his part would be beneficial to Alice. Without beingaware of it, he reckoned himself to be the nobler creature of thetwo, and now thought of her as of one wounded, and wanting a cure.Some weakness had fallen on her, and strength must be given to herfrom another. He did not in the least doubt her love, but he knewthat she had been associated, for a few weeks past, with two personswhose daily conversation would be prone to weaken the tone of hermind. He no more thought of giving her up than a man thinks of havinghis leg cut off because he has sprained his sinews. He would go up totown and see her, and would not even yet abandon all hope that shemight be found sitting at his board when Christmas should come. Bythat day's post he wrote a short note to her.

  "Dearest Alice," he said, "I have resolved to go to London at once. Iwill be with you in the evening at eight, the day after to-morrow.

  "Yours, J. G."

  There was no more in the letter than that.

  "And now," she said, when she received it, "I must dare to tell himthe whole truth."