Can You Forgive Her?

  CHAPTER LXI.

  The Bills Are Made All Right.

  Mr. Vavasor was at his wits' end about his daughter. She had put hername to four bills for five hundred pounds each, and had demandedfrom him, almost without an apology, his aid in obtaining money tomeet them. And she might put her name to any other number of bills,and for any amount! There was no knowing how a man ought to behaveto such a daughter. "I don't want her money," the father said tohimself; "and if she had got none of her own, I would make her ascomfortable as I could with my own income. But to see her throw hermoney away in such a fashion as this is enough to break a man'sheart."

  Mr. Vavasor went to his office in Chancery Lane, but he did not go tothe chambers of Mr. Round, the lawyer. Instead of calling on Mr. Roundhe sent a note by a messenger to Suffolk Street, and the answer tothe note came in the person of Mr. Grey. John Grey was living in townin these days, and was in the habit of seeing Mr. Vavasor frequently.Indeed, he had not left London since the memorable occasion on whichhe had pitched his rival down the tailor's stairs at his lodgings. Hehad made himself pretty well conversant with George Vavasor's career,and had often shuddered as he thought what might be the fate of anygirl who might trust herself to marry such a man as that.

  He had been at home when Mr. Vavasor's note had reached his lodgings,and had instantly walked off towards Chancery Lane. He knew his wayto Mr. Vavasor's signing-office very accurately, for he had acquireda habit of calling there, and of talking to the father about hisdaughter. He was a patient, persevering man, confident in himself,and apt to trust that he would accomplish those things which heattempted, though he was hardly himself aware of any such aptitude.He had never despaired as to Alice. And though he had openlyacknowledged to himself that she had been very foolish,--or rather,that her judgement had failed her,--he had never in truth beenangry with her. He had looked upon her rejection of himself, andher subsequent promise to her cousin, as the effects of a mentalhallucination, very much to be lamented,--to be wept for, perhaps,through a whole life, as a source of terrible sorrow to himselfand to her. But he regarded it all as a disease, of which the curewas yet possible,--as a disease which, though it might never leavethe patient as strong as she was before, might still leave heraltogether. And as he would still have clung to his love had she beenattacked by any of those illnesses for which doctors have well-knownnames, so would he cling to her now that she was attacked by a maladyfor which no name was known. He had already heard from Mr. Vavasorthat Alice had discovered how impossible it was that she should marryher cousin, and, in his quiet, patient, enduring way, was beginningto feel confident that he would, at last, carry his mistress off withhim to Nethercoats.

  It was certainly a melancholy place, that signing-office, in whichMr. John Vavasor was doomed to spend twelve hours a week, during everyterm time, of his existence. Whether any man could really pass anexistence of work in such a workshop, and not have gone mad,--couldhave endured to work there for seven hours a day, every week-day ofhis life, I am not prepared to say. I doubt much whether any victimsare so doomed. I have so often wandered through those gloomy passageswithout finding a sign of humanity there,--without hearing anyslightest tick of the hammer of labour, that I am disposed to thinkthat Lord Chancellors have been anxious to save their subordinatesfrom suicide, and have mercifully decreed that the whole staff oflabourers, down to the very message boys of the office, should besent away to green fields or palatial clubs during, at any rate, amoiety of their existence.

  The dismal set of chambers, in which the most dismal room had beenassigned to Mr. Vavasor, was not actually in Chancery Lane. Openingoff from Chancery Lane are various other small lanes, quiet, dingynooks, some of them in the guise of streets going no whither,some being thoroughfares to other dingy streets beyond, in whichsponging-houses abound, and others existing as the entrances toso-called Inns of Court,--inns of which all knowledge has for yearsbeen lost to the outer world of the laity, and, as I believe, lostalmost equally to the inner world of the legal profession. Who hasever heard of Symonds' Inn? But an ancestral Symonds, celebrated, nodoubt, in his time, did found an inn, and there it is to this day. OfStaples' Inn, who knows the purposes or use? Who are its members, andwhat do they do as such? And Staples' Inn is an inn with pretensions,having a chapel of its own, or, at any rate, a building which, inits external dimensions, is ecclesiastical, having a garden andarchitectural proportions; and a facade towards Holborn, somewhatdingy, but respectable, with an old gateway, and with a decidedcharacter of its own.

  The building in which Mr. John Vavasor had a room and a desk waslocated in one of these side streets, and had, in its infantine days,been regarded with complacency by its founder. It was stone-faced,and strong, and though very ugly, had about it that air of importancewhich justifies a building in assuming a special name of itself. Thisbuilding was called the Accountant-General's Record Office, and veryprobably, in the gloom of its dark cellars, may lie to this day therecords of the expenditure of many a fair property which has gottenitself into Chancery, and has never gotten itself out again. It wasentered by a dark hall, the door of which was never closed; andwhich, having another door at its further end leading into anotherlane, had become itself a thoroughfare. But the passers through itwere few in number. Now and then a boy might be seen there carryingon his head or shoulders a huge mass of papers which you wouldpresume to be accounts, or some clerk employed in the purlieus ofChancery Lane who would know the shortest possible way from thechambers of some one attorney to those of some other. But this hall,though open at both ends, was as dark as Erebus; and any who lingeredin it would soon find themselves to be growing damp, and would smellmildew, and would become naturally affected by the exhalationsarising from those Chancery records beneath their feet.

  Up the stone stairs, from this hall, John Grey passed to Mr. Vavasor'ssigning-room. The stairs were broad, and almost of noble proportions,but the darkness and gloom which hung about the hall, hung also aboutthem,--a melancholy set of stairs, up and down which no man can walkwith cheerful feet. Here he came upon a long, broad passage, in whichno sound was, at first, to be heard. There was no busy noise of doorsslamming, no rapid sound of shoes, no passing to and fro of menintent on their daily bread. Pausing for a moment, that he mightlook round about him and realize the deathlike stillness of thewhole, John Grey could just distinguish the heavy breathing of a man,thereby learning that there was a captive in, at any rate, one ofthose prisons on each side of him. As he drew near to the door of Mr.Vavasor's chamber he knew that the breathing came from thence.

  On the door there were words inscribed, which were just legible inthe gloom--"Signing Room. Mr. Vavasor."

  How John Vavasor did hate those words! It seemed to him that theyhad been placed there with the express object of declaring hisdegradation aloud to the world. Since his grandfather's will hadbeen read to him he had almost made up his mind to go down thosemelancholy stairs for the last time, to shake the dust off his feetas he left the Accountant-General's Record Office for ever, andcontent himself with half his official income. But how could he giveup so many hundreds a year while his daughter was persisting inthrowing away thousands as fast as, or faster than, she could lay herhands on them?

  John Grey entered the room and found Mr. Vavasor sitting all alone inan arm-chair over the fire. I rather think that that breathing hadbeen the breathing of a man asleep. He was resting himself amidst thelabours of his signing. It was a large, dull room, which could nothave been painted, I should think, within the memory of man, lookingout backwards into some court. The black wall of another buildingseemed to stand up close to the window,--so close that no direct rayof the sun ever interrupted the signing-clerk at his work. In themiddle of the room there was a large mahogany-table, on which lay apile of huge papers. Across the top of them there was placed a bitof blotting-paper, with a quill pen, the two only tools which werenecessary to the performance of the signing-clerk's work. On thetable there stood a row of official books, placed lengthways ontheir
edges: the "Post-Office Directory," the "Court Circular,"a "Directory to the Inns of Court," a dusty volume of Acts ofParliament, which had reference to Chancery accounts,--a volume whichMr. Vavasor never opened; and there were some others; but there wasno book there in which any Christian man or woman could take delight,either for amusement or for recreation. There were three or fourchairs round the wall, and there was the one arm-chair which theoccupant of the chamber had dragged away from its sacred place to thehearth-rug. There was also an old Turkey carpet on the floor. Otherfurniture there was none. Can it be a matter of surprise to any onethat Mr. Vavasor preferred his club to his place of business? He wasnot left quite alone in this deathlike dungeon. Attached to his ownlarge room there was a small closet, in which sat the signing-clerk'sclerk,--a lad of perhaps seventeen years of age, who spent thegreatest part of his time playing tit-tat-to by himself upon officialblotting-paper. Had I been Mr. Vavasor I should have sworn a bosomfriendship with that lad, have told him all my secrets, and joinedhis youthful games.

  "Come in!" Mr. Vavasor had cried when John Grey disturbed his slumberby knocking at the door. "I'm glad to see you,--very. Sit down; won'tyou? Did you ever see such a wretched fire? The coals they give youin this place are the worst in all London. Did you ever see suchcoals?" And he gave a wicked poke at the fire.

  It was now the 1st of May, and Grey, who had walked from SuffolkStreet, was quite warm. "One hardly wants a fire at all, such weatheras this," he said.

  "Oh; don't you?" said the signing-clerk. "If you had to sit here allday, you'd see if you didn't want a fire. It's the coldest building Iever put my foot in. Sometimes in winter I have to sit here the wholeday in a great-coat. I only wish I could shut old Sugden up here fora week or two, after Christmas." The great lawyer whom he had namedwas the man whom he supposed to have inflicted on him the terribleinjury of his life, and he was continually invoking small misfortuneson the head of that tyrant.

  "How is Alice?" said Grey, desiring to turn the subject from theten-times-told tale of his friend's wrongs.

  Mr. Vavasor sighed. "She is well enough, I believe," he said.

  "Is anything the matter in Queen Anne Street?"

  "You'll hardly believe it when I tell you; and, indeed, I hardly knowwhether I ought to tell you or not."

  "As you and I have gone so far together, I think that you ought totell me anything that concerns her nearly."

  "That's just it. It's about her money. Do you know, Grey, I'mbeginning to think that I've been wrong in allowing you to advancewhat you have done on her account?"

  "Why wrong?"

  "Because I foresee there'll be a difficulty about it. How are we tomanage about the repayment?"

  "If she becomes my wife there will be no management wanted."

  "But how if she never becomes your wife? I'm beginning to thinkshe'll never do anything like any other woman."

  "I'm not quite sure that you understand her," said Grey; "though ofcourse you ought to do so better than any one else."

  "Nobody can understand her," said the angry father. "She told me theother day, as you know, that she was going to have nothing more to dowith her cousin--"

  "Has she--has she become friends with him again?" said Grey. As heasked the question there came a red spot on each cheek, showing thestrong mental anxiety which had prompted it.

  "No; I believe not;--that is, certainly not in the way you mean. Ithink that she is beginning to know that he is a rascal."

  "It is a great blessing that she has learned the truth before it wastoo late."

  "But would you believe it;--she has given him her name to bills fortwo thousand pounds, payable at two weeks' sight? He sent to her onlythis morning a fellow that he called his clerk, and she has been foolenough to accept them. Two thousand pounds! That comes of leavingmoney at a young woman's own disposal."

  "But we expected that, you know," said Grey, who seemed to take thenews with much composure.

  "Expected it?"

  "Of course we did. You yourself did not suppose that what he hadbefore would have been the last."

  "But after she had quarrelled with him!"

  "That would make no difference with her. She had promised him hermoney, and as it seems that he will be content with that, let herkeep her promise."

  "And give him everything! Not if I can help it. I'll expose him. Iwill indeed. Such a pitiful rascal as he is!"

  "You will do nothing, Mr. Vavasor, that will injure your daughter. I'mvery sure of that."

  "But, by heavens--. Such sheer robbery as that! Two thousand poundsmore in fourteen days!" The shortness of the date at which the billswere drawn seemed to afflict Mr. Vavasor almost as keenly as theamount. Then he described the whole transaction as accurately as hecould do so, and also told how Alice had declared her purpose ofgoing to Mr. Round the lawyer, if her father would not undertake toprocure the money for her by the time the bills should become due."Mr. Round, you know, has heard nothing about it," he continued. "Hedoesn't dream of any such thing. If she would take my advice, shewould leave the bills, and let them be dishonoured. As it is, I thinkI shall call at Drummonds', and explain the whole transaction."

  "You must not do that," said Grey. "I will call at Drummonds',instead, and see that the money is all right for the bills. As far asthey go, let him have his plunder."

  "And if she won't take you, at last, Grey? Upon my word, I don'tthink she ever will. My belief is she'll never get married. She'llnever do anything like any other woman."

  "The money won't be missed by me if I never get married," said Grey,with a smile. "If she does marry me, of course I shall make her payme."

  "No, by George! that won't do," said Vavasor. "If she were yourdaughter you'd know that she could not take a man's money in thatway."

  "And I know it now, though she is not my daughter. I was only joking.As soon as I am certain,--finally certain,--that she can never becomemy wife, I will take back my money. You need not be afraid. Thenature of the arrangement we have made shall then be explained toher."

  In this way it was settled; and on the following morning the fatherinformed the daughter that he had done her bidding, and that themoney would be placed to her credit at the bankers' before the billscame due. On that Saturday, the day which her cousin had named in hisletter, she trudged down to Drummonds', and was informed by a verycourteous senior clerk in that establishment, that due preparationfor the bills had been made.

  So far, I think we may say that Mr. George Vavasor was notunfortunate.