CHAPTER XXXI.
Among the Fells.
Alice came down to breakfast on that Christmas morning at VavasorHall without making any sign as to the letter she had received. Theparty there consisted of her grandfather, her father, her cousinKate, and herself. They all made their Christmas salutations as isusual, and Alice received and made hers as did the others, withoutshowing that anything had occurred to disturb her tranquillity. Kateremarked that she had heard that morning from Aunt Greenow, andpromised to show Alice the letter after breakfast. But Alice said noword of her own letter.
"Why didn't your aunt come here to eat her Christmas dinner?" saidthe Squire.
"Perhaps, sir, because you didn't ask her," said Kate, standing closeto her grandfather,--for the old man was somewhat deaf.
"And why didn't you ask her;--that is, if she stands upon asking tocome to her old home?"
"Nay, sir, but I couldn't do that without your bidding. We Vavasorsare not always fond of meeting each other."
"Hold your tongue, Kate. I know what you mean, and you should be thelast to speak of it. Alice, my dear, come and sit next to me. I ammuch obliged to you for coming down all this way to see your oldgrandfather at Christmas. I am indeed. I only wish you had broughtbetter news about your sweetheart."
"She'll think better of it before long, sir," said her father.
"Papa, you shouldn't say that. You would not wish me to marry againstmy own judgement."
"I don't know much about ladies' judgements," said the old man. "Itdoes seem to me that when a lady makes a promise she ought to keepit."
"According to that," said Kate, "if I were engaged to a man, andfound that he was a murderer, I still ought to marry him."
"But Mr. Grey is not a murderer," said the Squire.
"Pray,--pray, don't talk about it," said Alice. "If you do I reallycannot sit and hear it."
"I have given over saying anything on the subject," said JohnVavasor, speaking as though he had already expended upon it a vastamount of paternal eloquence. He had, however, never said more thanhas been recorded in these pages. Alice during this conversation, satwith her cousin's letter in her pocket, and as yet had not even begunto think what should be the nature of her reply.
The Squire of Vavasor Hall was a stout old man, with a red face andgrey eyes, which looked fiercely at you, and with long grey hair, anda rough grey beard, which gave him something of the appearance of anold lion. He was passionate, unreasoning, and specially impatientof all opposition but he was affectionate, prone to forgive whenasked to do so, unselfish, and hospitable. He was, moreover, guidedstrictly by rules, which he believed to be rules of right. Hisgrandson George had offended him very deeply,--had offended himand never asked his pardon. He was determined that such pardonshould never be given, unless it were asked for with almost bendedknees; but, nevertheless, this grandson should be his heir. Thatwas his present intention. The right of primogeniture could not, inaccordance with his theory, be abrogated by the fact that it was, inGeorge Vavasor's case, protected by no law. The Squire could leaveVavasor Hall to whom he pleased, but he could not have hoped to restquietly in his grave should it be found that he had left it to anyone but the eldest son of his own eldest son. Though violent, andeven stern, he was more prone to love than to anger; and though noneof those around him dared to speak to him of his grandson, yet helonged in his heart for some opportunity of being reconciled to him.
The whole party went to church on this Christmas morning. The smallparish church of Vavasor, an unpretending wooden structure, with asingle bell which might be heard tinkling for a mile or two overthe fells, stood all alone about half a mile from the Squire's gate.Vavasor was a parish situated on the intermediate ground betweenthe mountains of the lake country and the plains. Its land wasunproductive, ill-drained, and poor, and yet it possessed little ornone of the beauty which tourists go to see. It was all amidst thefells, and very dreary. There were long skirtings of dark pinesaround a portion of the Squire's property, and at the back of thehouse there was a thick wood of firs running up to the top of whatwas there called the Beacon Hill. Through this there was a wild steepwalk which came out upon the moorland, and from thence there was atrack across the mountain to Hawes Water and Naddale, and on overmany miles to the further beauties of Bowness and Windermere. Theywho knew the country, and whose legs were of use to them, could findsome of the grandest scenery in England within reach of a walk fromVavasor Hall; but to others the place was very desolate. For myself,I can find I know not what of charm in wandering over open, unadornedmoorland. It must be more in the softness of the grass to the feet,and the freshness of the air to the lungs, than in anything thatmeets the eye. You might walk for miles and miles to the north-east,or east, or south-east of Vavasor without meeting any object toarrest the view. The great road from Lancaster to Carlisle crossedthe outskirts of the small parish about a mile from the church, andbeyond that the fell seemed to be interminable. Towards the northit rose, and towards the south it fell, and it rose and fell verygradually. Here and there some slight appearance of a valley mightbe traced which had been formed by the action of the waters; butsuch breakings of ground were inconsiderable, and did not suffice tointerrupt the stern sameness of the everlasting moorland.
The daily life at Vavasor was melancholy enough for such a one as theSquire's son, who regarded London as the only place on the earth'ssurface in which a man could live with comfort. The moors offeredno charms to him. Nor did he much appreciate the homely comforts ofthe Hall; for the house, though warm, was old-fashioned and small,and the Squire's cook was nearly as old as the Squire himself. JohnVavasor's visits to Vavasor were always visits of duty rather than ofpleasure. But it was not so with Alice. She could be very happy therewith Kate; for, like herself, Kate was a good walker and loved themountains. Their regard for each other had grown and become strongbecause they had gone together o'er river and moor, and because theyhad together disregarded those impediments of mud and wet whichfrighten so many girls away from the beauties of nature.
On this Christmas Day they all went to church, the Squire beingaccompanied by Alice in a vehicle which in Ireland is called aninside jaunting-car, and which is perhaps the most uncomfortable kindof vehicle yet invented; while John Vavasor walked with his niece.But the girls had arranged that immediately after church they wouldstart for a walk up the Beacon Hill, across the fells, towards HawesWater. They always dined at the Hall at the vexatious hour of five;but as their church service, with the sacrament included, wouldbe completed soon after twelve, and as lunch was a meal which theSquire did not himself attend, they could have full four hours fortheir excursion. This had all been planned before Alice received herletter; but there was nothing in that to make her change her mindabout the walk.
"Alice, my dear," said the old man to her when they were together inthe jaunting-car, "you ought to get married." The Squire was hardof hearing, and under any circumstances an inside jaunting-car is abad place for conversation, as your teeth are nearly shaken out ofyour head by every movement which the horse makes. Alice thereforesaid nothing, but smiled faintly, in reply to her grandfather. Onreturning from church he insisted that Alice should again accompanyhim, telling her specially that he desired to speak to her. "My dearchild," he said, "I have been thinking a great deal about you, andyou ought to get married."
"Well, sir, perhaps I shall some day."
"Not if you quarrel with all your suitors," said the old man. "Youquarrelled with your cousin George, and now you have quarrelled withMr. Grey. You'll never get married, my dear, if you go on in thatway."
"Why should I be married more than Kate?"
"Oh, Kate! I don't know that anybody wants to marry Kate. I wishyou'd think of what I say. If you don't get married before long,perhaps you'll never get married at all. Gentlemen won't stand thatkind of thing for ever."
The two girls took a slice of cake each in her hand, and started ontheir walk. "We shan't be able to get to the lake," said Kate.
"N
o," said Alice; "but we can go as far as the big stone on SwindaleFell, where we can sit down and see it."
"Do you remember the last time we sat there?" said Kate. "It isnearly three years ago, and it was then that you told me that all wasto be over between you and George. Do you remember what a fool I was,and how I screamed in my sorrow? I sometimes wonder at myself and myown folly. How is it that I can never get up any interest about myown belongings? And then we got soaking wet through coming home."
"I remember that very well."
"And how dark it was! That was in September, but we had dined early.If we go as far as Swindale we shall have it very dark coming hometo-day;--but I don't mind that through the Beacon Wood, because Iknow my way so well. You won't be afraid of half an hour's dark?"
"Oh, no," said Alice.
"Yes; I do remember that day. Well; it's all for the best, I suppose.And now I must read you my aunt's letter." Then, while they werestill in the wood, Kate took out the letter from her aunt and readit, while they still walked slowly up the hill. It seemed thathitherto neither of her two suitors had brought the widow to terms.Indeed, she continued to write of Mr. Cheesacre as though thatgentleman were inconsolable for the loss of Kate, and gave her niecemuch serious advice as to the expedience of returning to Norfolk,in order that she might secure so eligible a husband. "You mustunderstand all the time, Alice," said Kate, pausing as she read theletter, "that the dear man has never given me the slightest groundfor the faintest hope, and that I know to a certainty that he makesan offer to her twice a week,--that is, on every market day. Youcan't enjoy half the joke if you won't bear that in mind." Alicepromised that she would bear it all in mind, and then Kate went onwith her reading. Poor Bellfield was working very hard at his drill,Mrs. Greenow went on to say; so hard that sometimes she really thoughtthe fatigue would be too much for his strength. He would come insometimes of an evening and just take a cup of tea;--generally onMondays and Thursdays. "These are not market days at Norwich," saidKate; "and thus unpleasant meetings are avoided." "He comes in," saidMrs. Greenow, "and takes a little tea; and sometimes I think thathe will faint at my feet." "That he kneels there on every occasion,"said Kate, "and repeats his offer also twice a week, I have not theleast doubt in the world."
"And will she accept him at last?"
"Really I don't know what to think of it. Sometimes I fancy thatshe likes the fun of the thing, but that she is too wide-awake toput herself in any man's power. I have no doubt she lends him money,because he wants it sadly and she is very generous. She gives himmoney, I feel sure, but takes his receipt on stamped paper for everyshilling. That's her character all over."
The letter then went on to say that the writer had made up her mindto remain at Norwich certainly through the winter and spring, andthat she was anxiously desirous that her dear Kate should go back toher. "Come and have one other look at Oileymead," said the letter,"and then, if you make up your mind that you don't like it or him, Iwon't ask you to think of them ever again. I believe him to be a veryhonest fellow." "Did you ever know such a woman?" said Kate; "withall her faults I believe she would go through fire and water to serveme. I think she'd lend me money without any stamped paper." Then AuntGreenow's letter was put up, and the two girls had come out upon theopen fell.
It was a delicious afternoon for a winter's walk. The air was clearand cold, but not actually frosty. The ground beneath their feetwas dry, and the sky, though not bright, had that appearance ofenduring weather which gives no foreboding of rain. There is aspecial winter's light, which is very clear though devoid of allbrilliancy,--through which every object strikes upon the eye withwell-marked lines, and under which almost all forms of nature seemgraceful to the sight if not actually beautiful. But there is acertain melancholy which ever accompanies it. It is the light ofthe afternoon, and gives token of the speedy coming of the earlytwilight. It tells of the shortness of the day, and contains even inits clearness a promise of the gloom of night. It is absolute light,but it seems to contain the darkness which is to follow it. I do notknow that it is ever to be seen and felt so plainly as on the widemoorland, where the eye stretches away over miles, and sees at theworld's end the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselvesupon the horizon. Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, andboth the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the bigstone on Swindale Fell, from which they intended to look down uponthe loveliness of Hawes Water. As they went up through the wood therehad been some laughter between them over Aunt Greenow's letter; andthey had discussed almost with mirth the merits of Oileymead andMr. Cheesacre; but as they got further on to the fell, and as thehalf-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, their words becameless light, and after a while they almost ceased to speak.
Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had placed it therewhen she came down to breakfast, and had carried it with her since.She had come to no resolution as yet as to her answer to it, nor hadshe resolved whether or no she would show it to Kate. Kate had everbeen regarded by her as her steadfast friend. In all these affairsshe had spoken openly to Kate. We know that Kate had in part betrayedher, but Alice suspected no such treason. She had often quarrelledwith Kate; but she had quarrelled with her not on account of any sinagainst the faith of their friendship. She believed in her cousinperfectly, though she found herself often called upon to disagreewith her almost violently. Why should she not show this letter toKate, and discuss it in all its bearings before she replied to it?This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the fell.
The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclinedto give way, and to join her lot to that of her cousin George. Alas,yes! The reader will be right in his surmise. And yet it was not herlove for the man that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. Hadit been so, I think that it would be easier to forgive her. She wasbeginning to think that love,--the love of which she had once thoughtso much,--did not matter. Of what use was it, and to what had it led?What had love done for her friend Glencora? What had love done forher? Had she not loved John Grey, and had she not felt that withall her love life with him would have been distasteful to her? Itwould have been impossible for her to marry a man whom personally shedisliked; but she liked her cousin George,--well enough, as she saidto herself almost indifferently.
Upon the whole it was a grievous task to her in these days,--thishaving to do something with her life. Was it not all vain and futile?As for that girl's dream of the joys of love which she had oncedreamed,--that had gone from her slumbers, never to return. How mightshe best make herself useful,--useful in some sort that might gratifyher ambition--that was now the question which seemed to her to be ofmost importance.
Her cousin's letter to her had been very crafty. He had studied thewhole of her character accurately as he wrote it. When he had satdown to write it he had been indifferent to the result; but he hadwritten it with that care to attain success which a man uses when heis anxious not to fail in an attempt. Whether or no he cared to marryhis cousin was a point so little interesting to him that chance mightdecide it for him; but when chance had decided that he did wish it,it was necessary for his honour that he should have that for which hecondescended to ask.
His letter to her had been clever and very crafty. "At any rate hedoes me justice," she said to herself, when she read those wordsabout her money, and the use which he proposed to make of it. "He iswelcome to it all if it will help him in his career, whether he hasit as my friend or as my husband." Then she thought of Kate's promiseof her little mite, and declared to herself that she would not beless noble than her cousin Kate. And would it not be well that sheshould be the means of reconciling George to his grandfather? Georgewas the representative of the family,--of a family so old that no onenow knew which had first taken the ancient titular name of some oldSaxon landowner,--the parish, or the man. There had been in old dayssome worthy Vavaseurs, as Chaucer calls them, whose rank and bearinghad been adopted on the moorland side. Of these things Alice thoughtmuch, an
d felt that it should be her duty so to act, that futureVavasors might at any rate not be less in the world than they whohad passed away. In a few years at furthest, George Vavasor must beVavasor of Vavasor. Would it not be right that she should help him tomake that position honourable?
They walked on, exchanging now and again a word or two, till thedistant Cumberland mountains began to form themselves in groups ofbeauty before their eyes. "There's Helvellyn at last," said Kate."I'm always happy when I see that." "And isn't that Kidsty Pike?"asked Alice. "No; you don't see Kidsty yet. But you will when youget up to the bank there. That's Scaw Fell on the left;--the rounddistant top. I can distinguish it, though I doubt whether you can."Then they went on again, and were soon at the bank from whence thesharp top of the mountain which Alice had named was visible. "And nowwe are on Swindale, and in five minutes we shall get to the stone."
In less than five minutes they were there; and then, but not tillthen, the beauty of the little lake, lying down below them in thequiet bosom of the hills, disclosed itself. A lake should, I think,be small, and should be seen from above, to be seen in all its glory.The distance should be such that the shadows of the mountains on itssurface may just be traced, and that some faint idea of the rippleon the waters may be present to the eye. And the form of the lakesshould be irregular, curving round from its base among the lowerhills, deeper and still deeper into some close nook up among themountains from which its head waters spring. It is thus that a lakeshould be seen, and it was thus that Hawes Water was seen by themfrom the flat stone on the side of Swindale Fell. The basin of thelake has formed itself into the shape of the figure of 3, and the topsection of the figure lies embosomed among the very wildest of theWestmoreland mountains. Altogether it is not above three miles long,and every point of it was to be seen from the spot on which the girlssat themselves down. The water beneath was still as death, and asdark,--and looked almost as cold. But the slow clouds were passingover it, and the shades of darkness on its surface changed themselveswith gradual changes. And though no movement was visible, therewas ever and again in places a slight sheen upon the lake, whichindicated the ripple made by the breeze.
"I'm so glad I've come here," said Alice, seating herself. "I cannotbear the idea of coming to Vavasor without seeing one of the lakes atleast."
"We'll get over to Windermere one day," said Kate.
"I don't think we shall. I don't think it possible that I should staylong. Kate, I've got a letter to show you." And there was that in thetone of her voice which instantly put Kate upon her mettle.
Kate seated herself also, and put up her hand for the letter. "Is itfrom Mr. Grey?" she asked.
"No," said Alice; "it is not from Mr. Grey." And she gave hercompanion the paper. Kate before she had touched it had seen that itwas from her brother George; and as she opened it looked anxiouslyinto Alice's face. "Has he offended you?" Kate asked.
Swindale Fell.]
"Read it," said Alice, "and then we'll talk of it afterwards,--as wego home." Then she got up from the stone and walked a step or twotowards the brow of the fell, and stood there looking down upon thelake, while Kate read the letter. "Well!" she said, when she returnedto her place.
"Well," said Kate. "Alice, Alice, it will, indeed, be well if youlisten to him. Oh, Alice, may I hope? Alice, my own Alice, mydarling, my friend! Say that it shall be so." And Kate knelt at herfriend's feet upon the heather, and looked up into her face with eyesfull of tears. What shall we say of a woman who could be as false asshe had been, and yet could be so true?
Alice made no immediate answer, but still continued to gaze down overher friend upon the lake. "Alice," continued Kate, "I did not thinkI should be made so happy this Christmas Day. You could not have theheart to bring me here and show me this letter in this way, and bidme read it so calmly, and then tell me that it is all for nothing.No; you could not do that? Alice, I am so happy. I will so love thisplace. I hated it before." And then she put her face down upon theboulder-stone and kissed it. Still Alice said nothing, but she beganto feel that she had gone further than she had intended. It wasalmost impossible for her now to say that her answer to George mustbe a refusal.
Then Kate again went on speaking. "But is it not a beautiful letter?Say, Alice,--is it not a letter of which if you were his brother youwould feel proud if another girl had shown it to you? I do feel proudof him. I know that he is a man with a manly heart and manly courage,who will yet do manly things. Here out on the mountain, with nobodynear us, with Nature all round us, I ask you on your solemn word as awoman, do you love him?"
"Love him!" said Alice.
"Yes;--love him: as a woman should love her husband. Is not yourheart his? Alice, there need be no lies now. If it be so, it shouldbe your glory to say so, here, to me, as you hold that letter in yourhand."
"I can have no such glory, Kate. I have ever loved my cousin; but notso passionately as you seem to think."
"Then there can be no passion in you."
"Perhaps not, Kate. I would sometimes hope that it is so. But come;we shall be late; and you will be cold sitting there."
"I would sit here all night to be sure that your answer would be asI would have it. But, Alice, at any rate you shall tell me before Imove what your answer is to be. I know you will not refuse him; butmake me happy by saying so with your own lips."
"I cannot tell you before you move, Kate."
"And why not?"
"Because I have not as yet resolved."
"Ah, that is impossible. That is quite impossible. On such a subjectand under such circumstances a woman must resolve at the firstmoment. You had resolved, I know, before you had half read theletter;--though, perhaps, it may not suit you to say so."
"You are quite mistaken. Come along and let us walk, and I will tellyou all." Then Kate arose, and they turned their back to the lake,and began to make their way homewards. "I have not made up my mind asto what answer I will give him; but I have shown you his letter inorder that I might have some one with whom I might speak openly. Iknew well how it would be, and that you would strive to hurry me intoan immediate promise."
"No;--no; I want nothing of the kind."
"But yet I could not deny myself the comfort of your friendship."
"No, Alice, I will not hurry you. I will do nothing that you do notwish. But you cannot be surprised that I should be very eager. Hasit not been the longing of all my life? Have I not passed my timeplotting and planning and thinking of it till I have had time tothink of nothing else? Do you know what I suffered when, throughGeorge's fault, the engagement was broken off? Was it not martyrdomto me,--that horrid time in which your Crichton from Cambridgeshirewas in the ascendant? Did I not suffer the tortures of purgatorywhile that went on--and yet, on the whole, did I not bear them withpatience? And, now, can you be surprised that I am wild with joy whenI begin to see that everything will be as I wish;--for it will be asI wish, Alice. It may be that you have not resolved to accept him.But you would have resolved to refuse him instantly had that beenyour destined answer to his letter." There was but little more saidbetween them on the subject as they were passing over the fell, butwhen they were going down the path through the Beacon Wood, Kateagain spoke: "You will not answer him without speaking to me first?"said Kate.
"I will, at any rate, not send my answer without telling you," saidAlice.
"And you will let me see it?"
"Nay," said Alice; "I will not promise that. But if it isunfavourable I will show it you."
"Then I shall never see it," said Kate, laughing. "But that is quiteenough for me. I by no means wish to criticise the love-sweet wordsin which you tell him that his offences are all forgiven. I know howsweet they will be. Oh, heavens! how I envy him!"
Then they were at home; and the old man met them at the front door,glowering at them angrily from out his old leonine eyes, because theroast beef was already roasted. He had his great uncouth silver watchin his hand, which was always a quarter of an hour too fast, and hepointed at it fiercely
, showing them the minute hand at ten minutespast the hour.
"But, grandpapa, you are always too fast," said Kate.
"And you are always too slow, miss," said the hungry old squire.
"Indeed, it is not five yet. Is it, Alice?"
"And how long are you going to be dressing?"
"Not ten minutes;--are we, Alice? And, grandpapa, pray don't wait."
"Don't wait! That's what they always say," he muttered, peevishly."As if one would be any better waiting for them after the meat ison the table." But neither Kate nor Alice heard this, as they werealready in their rooms.
Nothing more was said that evening between Alice and Kate about theletter; but Kate, as she wished her cousin good night inside herbedroom door, spoke to her just one word--"Pray for him to-night,"she said, "as you pray for those you love best." Alice made noanswer, but we may believe that she did as she was desired to do.