 CHAPTER 51 BOLD SPECULATIONS ON MURDER George Ravisor was not in a very happy mood when he left Queen Anne Street after having flung his gift ring under the grate. Indeed, there was much in his condition as connected with the house which he was leaving, which could not but make him unhappy. Alice was engaged to be his wife, and had as yet said nothing to show that she meditated any breach of that engagement, but she had treated him in a way which made him long to throw her promise in her teeth. He was a man to whom any personal slight from a woman was unendurable. To slights from a man, unless they were of a nature to provoke offence, he was indifferent. There was no man living for whose liking or disliking George Ravisor cared anything. But he did care much for the good opinion, or rather for the personal favor, of any woman to whom he had endeavored to make himself agreeable. I will marry you, Alice had said to him, not in words, but in acts and looks which were plainer than words. I will marry you for certain reasons of my own which in my present condition make it seem that that arrangement will be more convenient to me than any other that I can make. But pray understand that there is no love mixed up with this. There is another man whom I love, only for those reasons above hinted. I do not care to marry him. It was thus that he read Alice's present treatment of him, and he was a man who could not endure this treatment with ease. But though he could throw his ring under the grate in his passion, he could not so dispose of her. That he would have done so had his hands been free we need not doubt. And he would have been clever enough to do so in some manner that would have been exquisitely painful to Alice, willing as she might be to be released from her engagement. But he could not do this to a woman whose money he had borrowed, and whose money he could not repay, to a woman more of whose money he intended to borrow immediately. Asked the latter part of it, he did say to himself over and over again that he would have no more of it. As he left the house in Queen Anne Street on that occasion he swore that under no circumstances would he be indebted to her for another shilling. But before he reached Great Marlborough Street, to which his steps took him, he had reminded himself that everything depended on a further advance. He was in Parliament, but Parliament would be dissolved within three months. Having sacrificed so much for his position, should he let it all fall from him now, now when success seemed to be within his reach? That wretched old man in Westmoreland, who seemed gifted almost with immortality, why could he not die and surrender his paltry acres to one who could use them? He turned away from Regent Street into Hanover Square before he crossed to Great Marlborough Street, giving vent to his passion rather than arranging his thoughts. As he walked the four sides of the square he considered how good it would be if some accident should befall the old man. How he would rejoice were he to hear to-morrow that one of the trees of the accursed place had fallen on the obstinate old idiot and put an end to him. I will not say that he meditated the murder of his grandfather. There was a firm conviction on his mind, as he thought of all this, that such a deed as that would never come in his way. But he told himself that if he chose to make the attempt he would certainly be able to carry it through without detection. Then he remembered Rush and Palmer, the openly bold murderer and the secret poisoner. Both of them in Vavasor's estimation were great men. He had often said so in company. He had declared that the courage of Rush had never been surpassed. Think of him, he would say with admiration, walking into a man's house with pistols sufficient to shoot everyone there and doing it as though he were killing rats. What was Nelson at Trafalgar to that? Nelson had nothing to fear. And of Palmer he declared that he was a man of genius as well as courage. He had looked the whole thing in the face, Vavasor would say, and told himself that all scruples and squeamish-nish are posh, child's tales. And so they are. Who lives as though they fear either heaven or hell? And if we do live without such fear or respect, what is the use of telling lies to ourselves? To throw it all to the dogs, as Palmer did, is more manly. And be hanged, some hearer of George's doctrine replied, yes and be hanged if such is your destiny, but you hear of the one who is hanged, but hear nothing of the twenty who are not. Vavasor walked round Hanover Square, nursing his hatred against the old squire. He did not tell himself that he would like to murder his grandfather, but he suggested to himself that if he desired to do so, he would have courage enough to make his way into the old man's room and strangle him, and he explained to himself how he would be able to get down into Westmoreland without the world knowing that he had been there, how he would find an entrance into the house by a window with which he was acquainted, how he could cause the man to die as though those around him should think it was apoplexy, he, George Vavasor, having read something on that subject lately. All this he considered very fully, walking rapidly round Hanover Square, more than once or twice. If he were to become an active student in the Rush or Palmer school, he would so study the matter that he would not be the one that should be hung. He thought that he could, so far, trust his own ingenuity. But yet he did not meditate murder. Beastly old idiot, he said to himself, he must have his chance as other men have, I suppose, and then he went across Regent Street to Mr. Scrubby's office in Great Marlborough Street, not having, as yet, come to any positive conclusion as to what he would do in reference to Alice's money. But he soon found himself talking to Mr. Scrubby as though there were no doubts as to the forthcoming funds for the next elections. And Mr. Scrubby talked to him very plainly, as though those funds must be forthcoming before long. A stitch in time saves nine, said Mr. Scrubby, meaning to insinuate that a pound in time might have the same effect. And I'll tell you what, Mr. Vavasor, of course I have my outstanding bills for the last affair, that's no fault of yours, for the things come so sharp one on another that my fellows haven't had time to make it out. But if you'll put me in funds for what I must be out of pocket in June, will it be so soon as June? They are talking of June, why then I'll lump the two bills together when it's all over. In their discussion respecting money Mr. Scrubby injugiously mentioned the name of Mr. Tomb. No precise caution had been given to him, but he had become aware that the matter was being managed through an agency that was not recognized by his client. And as that agency was simply a vehicle of money which found its way into Mr. Scrubby's pocket, he should have held his tongue. But Mr. Tomb's name escaped from him, and Vavasor immediately questioned him. Scrubby, who did not often make such blunders, readily excused himself, shaking his head, and declaring that the name had fallen from his lips instead of that of another man. Vavasor accepted the excuse without further notice, and nothing more was said about Mr. Tomb while he was in Mr. Scrubby's office. But he had not heard the name in vain, and had unfortunately heard it before. Mr. Tomb was a remarkable man in his way. He wore powder to his hair, was very polite in his bearing, was somewhat asthmatic and wheezed in his talking, and was more over the most obedient of men, though it was said of him that he managed the whole income of the Eli Chapter just as he pleased. Being in these ways a man of note, John Gray had spoken of him to Alice, and his name had filtered through Alice and her cousin Kate to George Vavasor. George seldom forgot things or names, and when he heard Mr. Tomb's name mentioned in connection with his own money matters, he remembered that Mr. Tomb was John Gray's lawyer. As soon as he could escape out into the street he endeavored to put all these things together, and after a while resolved that he would go to Mr. Tomb. What if there should be an understanding between John Gray and Alice, and Mr. Tomb should be arranging his money matters for him? Would not anything be better than this, even that little tragedy down in Westmoreland for which his ingenuity and courage would be required? He could endure to borrow money from Alice. He might even endure it still, though that was very difficult after her treatment of him, but he could not endure to be the recipient of John Gray's money, by Heaven's no. And as he got into a cab and had himself driven off to the neighborhood of Doctor's Commons, he gave himself credit for such fine manly feeling. Mr. Tomb's chambers were found without difficulty, and as it happened Mr. Tomb was there. The lawyer rose from his chair as Vavasor entered, and bowed his powdered head very meekly as he asked his visitor to sit down. Mr. Vavasor, oh yes, he had heard the name, yes he was in the habit of acting for his very old friend Mr. John Gray. He had acted for Mr. John Gray, and for Mr. John Gray's father, he or his partner, he believed, he might say, for about half a century. There could not be a nicer gentleman than Mr. John Gray, and such a pretty child as he used to be. At every new sentence Mr. Tomb caught his poor asthmatic breath, and bowed his meek old head, and rubbed his hands together as though he hardly dared to keep his seat in Vavasor's presence, without the support of some such motion, and wheezed apologetically, and seemed to ask pardon of his visitor, for not knowing intuitively what was the nature of that visitor's business. But he was a sly old fox, was Mr. Tomb, and was considering all this time how much it would be well that he should tell Mr. Vavasor, and how much it would be well that he should conceal. The fat had gotten to the fire as he told his old wife when he got home that evening. He told his old wife everything, and I don't know that any of his clients were the worst for his doing so. But while he was wheezing and coughing and apologizing, he made up his mind that if George Vavasor were to ask him certain questions, it would be best that he should answer them truly. If Vavasor did ask those questions, he would probably do so upon certain knowledge, and if so, why in that case lying would be of no use. Lying would not put the fat back into the frying pan, and even though such questions might be asked without any absolute knowledge, they would at any rate show that the questioner had the means of ascertaining the truth. He would tell as little as he could, but he decided during his last wheeze that he could not lie in the matter with any chance of benefitting his client. The prettiest child I ever saw, Mr. Vavasor, said Tomb, and then he coughed violently. Some people who knew Mr. Tomb declared that he nursed his cough. I dare say, said George, yes indeed. Can you tell me, Mr. Tomb, whether either you or he, have anything to do with the payment of certain sums to my credit at Messer's Hawk and Blocks? Messer's Hawk and Blocks, the bankers in Lombard Street, said Mr. Tomb, taking a little more time. Yes, I banked there, said Vavasor sharply, a most respectable house. Has any money been paid there to my credit by you, Mr. Tomb? May I ask why you put the question to me, Mr. Vavasor? Well I don't think you may. That is to say, my reason for asking it can have nothing to do with yours for replying to it. If you have had no hand in any such payment, there is an end of it, and I need not take up your time by saying anything more on the subject. I am not prepared to go that length, Mr. Vavasor, not altogether to that length. Then will you tell me what you have done in the matter? Well, upon my word, you have taken me a little by surprise. Let me see. Pinkle! Pinkle! Pinkle was the clerk who sat in an inner room, and Mr. Tomb's effort to call him seemed to be most ineffectual. But Pinkle understood the sound and came. Pinkle, didn't we pay some money into hawken blocks a few weeks since to the credit of Mr. George Vavasor? Did we, sir? said Pinkle, who probably knew that his employer was an old fox, and who, perhaps, had caught something of the fox nature himself. I think we did. Just look, Pinkle! And Pinkle, see the date, and let me know all about it. It's fine bright weather for this time of year, Mr. Vavasor, but these easterly winds— Vavasor found himself sitting for an apparently interminable number of minutes in Mr. Tomb's dingy chamber, and was coughed at and wheezed at till he begun to be tired of his position. Moreover, when tired, he showed his impatience. Perhaps you'll let us write you a line when we have looked into the matter, suggested Mr. Tomb. I'd rather know it once, said Vavasor. I don't suppose it can take you very long to find out whether you have paid money to my account by order of Mr. Gray. At any rate, I must know before I go away. Pinkle! Pinkle! screamed the old man through his coughing, and again, Pinkle came. Well, Pinkle, was anything of the kind done, or is my memory deceiving me? Mr. Tomb was, no doubt, lying shamefully, for, of course, he remembered all about it, and, indeed, George Vavasor had learned already quite enough for his own purposes. I was going to look, said Pinkle, and Pinkle again went away. I am sorry to give your clerk so much trouble, said Vavasor, in an angry voice, and I think it must be unnecessary. Surely you know whether Mr. Gray has commissioned you to pay money for me? We have so many things to do, Mr. Vavasor, and so many clients. We have indeed. You see, it isn't only one gentleman's affairs, but I think there was something done. I do, indeed. What is Mr. John Gray's address, said Vavasor, very sharply. Number 5 Suffolk Street, Paul Mall East, said Mr. Tomb. Herein Mr. Tomb somewhat committed himself. His client, Mr. Gray, was, in fact, in town, but Vavasor had not known or imagined that such was the case. Had Mr. Tomb given the usual address of nethercoats, nothing further would have been demanded from him on the subject. But he had foolishly presumed that the question had been based on special information as to his client's visit in London, and he had told the plain truth in a very simple way. Number 5 Suffolk Street, said Vavasor, writing down the address. Perhaps it will be better that I should go to him, as you do not seem inclined to give me any information. Then he took up his hat and, hardly bowing to Mr. Tomb, left the chambers. Mr. Tomb, as he did so, rose from his chair, and bent his head meekly down upon the table. Pinkle! Pinkle! Weezed Mr. Tomb. Never mind! Never mind! Pinkle didn't mind, and we may say that he had not minded. For up to that moment he had taken no steps toward a performance of the order which had been given him. You forgive her, by Anthony Trollope, Chapter 52. What occurred in Suffolk Street, Paul Mall. Mr. Tomb had gained nothing for the cause by his crafty silence. George Vavasor felt perfectly certain, as he walked out from the little street, which runs at the back of Doctor's Commons, that the money which he had been using had come, in some shape, through the hands of John Gray. He did not care much to calculate whether the payments had been made from the personal funds of his rival, or whether that rival had been employed to dispense Alice's fortune. Under either view of the case, his position was sufficiently bitter. The truth never for a moment occurred to him. He never dreamed that there might be a conspiracy in the matter, of which Alice was as ignorant as he himself had been. He never reflected that his Uncle John, together with John, the lover whom he so hated, might be conspirators. To him it seemed to be certain that Alice and Mr. Gray were in league, and if they were in league, what must he think of Alice and of her engagement with himself? There are men who rarely think well of women, who hardly think well of any women. They put their mothers and sisters into the background, as though they belong to some sex or race apart, and then declare to themselves and to their friends that all women are false, that no women can be trusted unless her ugliness protect her, and that every woman may be attacked as fairly as may game in a cover or deer in a mountain. What man does not know men who have so thought? I cannot say that such had been Vaviser's creed, not entirely such. There had been periods of his life when he had believed implicitly in his cousin Alice. But then there had been other moments in which he had ridiculed himself for his quixotism in believing in any woman. And as he had grown older, the moments of his quixotism had become more rare. There would have been no such quixotism left with him now, had not the various circumstances which I have attempted to describe filled him during the last twelve months with a renewed desire to marry his cousin. Every man tries to believe in the honesty of his future wife, and therefore Vaviser had tried, and had in his way believed. He had flattered himself, too, that Alice, Alice's heart, had in truth been more prone to him than to that other suitor, Gray, as he thought, had been accepted by her cold prudence. But he thought also that she had found her prudence to be too cold, and had therefore returned where she had truly loved. Vaviser, though he did not love much himself, was willing enough to be the object of love. This idea of his, however, had been greatly shaken by Alice's treatment of himself personally. But still he had not hitherto believed that she was false to him. Now what could he believe of her? What was there within the compass of such a one to believe? As he walked out into St. Paul's churchyard, he called her by every name, which is most offensive to a woman's ears. He hated her at this moment, with even a more bitter hatred than that which he felt towards John Gray. She must have deceived him with an unparalleled hypocrisy, and lied to him and to his sister Kate, as hardly any woman had ever lied before. Or could it be that Kate also was lying to him? If so, Kate also should be included in the punishment. But why should they have conspired to feed him with these monies? There had been no deceit at any rate in reference to the pound sterling which Scrooby had already swallowed. They had been supplied, whatever had been the motives of the suppliers, and he had no doubt that more would be supplied if he would only keep himself quiet. He was still walking westward, as he thought of this, down Ludgate Hill, on his direct line toward Suffolk Street, and he tried to persuade himself that it would be well that he should hide his wrath till after provision should have been made for this other election. They were his enemies, Alice and Mr. Gray, and why should he keep any terms with his enemies? It was still a trouble to him to think that he should have been in any way beholden to John Gray, but the terrible thing had been done, the evil had occurred. What would he gain by staying his hand now? Still however, he walked on quickly along Fleet Street, and along the Strand, and was already crossing under the Pictures Gallery toward Palmall East, before he had definitely decided what steps he would take on this very day. Exactly at the corner of Suffolk Street he met John Gray. Mr. Gray, he said, stopping himself suddenly, I was this moment going to call on you at your lodgings. At my lodgings were you, shall I return with you? If you please, said Vavasor, leading the way up Suffolk Street. There had been no other greetings than this between them. Mr. Gray himself, though a man very courteous in his general demeanor, would probably have passed Vavasor in the street with no more than the bare salutation. Situated as they were toward each other there could hardly be any show of friendship between them. But when Vavasor had spoken to him he had dressed his face in that guise of civility which men always use who do not intend to be offensive. But Vavasor dressed his as men dressed theirs who do mean to be offensive, and Mr. Gray had thoroughly appreciated the dressing. If you will allow me I have the keys, said Gray. Then they both entered the house, and Vavasor followed his host upstairs. Mr. Gray, as he went up, felt almost angry with himself and having admitted his enemy into his lodgings. He was sure that no good could come of it, and remembered when it was too late that he might easily have saved himself from giving the invitation while he was still in the street. There they were, however, together in the sitting-room, and Gray had nothing to do but listen. Would you take a chair, Mr. Vavasor, he said? No, said Vavasor. I will stand up. And he stood up holding his hat behind his back with his left hand, with his right leg forward, and the thumb of his right hand in his waistcoat pocket. He looked full into Gray's face, and Gray looked full into his, and as he looked the great secretaries seemed to open itself and to become purple with fresh bloodstains. I have come here from Mr. Toome's office in the city, said Vavasor, and ask you of what nature has been the interference which you have taken into my money-matters. This was a question which Mr. Gray could not answer very quickly. In the first place it was altogether unexpected. In the next place he did not know what Mr. Toome's had told, and what he had not told. And then, before he replied, he must think how much of the truth he was bound to tell in answer to a question so put to him. Do you say you have come from Mr. Toome, he asked? I think you heard me say so. I have come here direct from Mr. Toome's chambers. He is your lawyer, I believe. He is so. And I have come from him to ask you what interference you have lately taken in my money-matters. When you have answered that I shall have other questions to ask you. But Mr. Vavasor, has it occurred to you that I may not be disposed to answer questions so asked? It has not occurred to me to think that you will pervericate. If there has been no such interference I will ask your pardon and go away. But if there has been such interference on your part I have a right to demand that you explain to me its nature. Gray had now made up his mind that it would be better that he should tell the whole story. Better not only for himself, but for all the Vavasors, including this angry man himself. The angry man evidently knew something, and it would be better that he should know the truth. There has been such interference, Mr. Vavasor, if you choose to call it so. To me, to the extent of two thousand pounds, I believe, has by my direction been paid to your credit by Mr. Toome. Well, said Vavasor, taking his right hand away from his waistcoat, and tapping the round tables with his fingers impatiently, I hardly know how to explain all the circumstances under which has been done. I dare say not, but nevertheless you must explain them. Gray was a man tranquil in temperament, very little prone to quarrelling, with perhaps an exaggerated idea of the evil results of a row, a man who would take infinite trouble to avoid any such sense as that which now seemed to be eminent. But he was a man whose courage was quite as high as that of his opponent. To bully or be bullied were alike contrary to his nature. It was clear now that Vavasor intended to bully him, and he made up his mind at once that if the quarrel were forced upon him, it should find him ready to take his own part. My difficulty in explaining it comes from consideration for you, he said. Then I beg that your difficulty will cease, and that you will have no consideration for me. We are so circumstance toward each other that any consideration must be humbug and nonsense. At any rate, I intend to have none for you. Now, let me know why you have meddled with my matters. I think I might, perhaps, better refer you to your uncle. No, sir, Mr. Tomb is not my uncle's lawyer. My uncle never heard his name unless he heard it from you. But it was by agreement with your uncle that I commissioned Mr. Tomb to raise for you the money you were desirous of borrowing from your cousin. We thought it better that her fortune should not be for the moment disturbed. But what had you to do with it? Why should you have done it? In the first place, I don't believe your story. It is together improbable. But why should he come to you of all men to raise money on his daughter's behalf? Unless you can behave yourself with more discretion, Mr. Vavasor, you might leave the room, said Mr. Gray. Then as Vavasor simply sneered at him but spoke nothing, he went on. It was I who suggested to your uncle that this arrangement should be made. I did not wish to see Miss Vavasor's fortune squandered. And what was her fortune to you, sir? Are you aware that she is engaged to me as my wife? I ask you, sir, whether you are aware that Miss Vavasor is to be my wife? I must altogether decline to discuss with you Miss Vavasor's present or future position. By heavens then you shall hear me discuss it. She was engaged to you, and she has given you your dismissal. If you had understood anything of the conduct which is usual among gentlemen, or if you had had any particle of pride in you, sir, you would have left her and never mentioned her name again. I now find you meddling with her money matters, so as to get a hold upon her fortune. I have no hold upon her fortune. Yes, sir, you have. You do not advance two thousand pounds without knowing that you have security. She has rejected you, and in order that you may be revenged, or that you may have some further hold upon her, that she may be in some sort within your power, you will have contrived this rascally petty-fogging way of obtaining power over her income. The money shall be repaid at once with any interest that can be due, and if I find you interfering again I will expose you. Mr. Vavasor said gray, very slowly, in a low tone of voice, but with something in his eye which would have told any bystander that he was much in earnest. You have used your words in anger, which I cannot allow to pass. You must recall them. What were the words? I said that you were a petty-fogging rascal. I now repeat them. As he spoke he put on his hat, so as to leave both hands ready for action, if action should be required. Gray was much the larger man and much the stronger. It may be doubted whether he knew himself the extent of his own strength, but such as it was he resolved that he must now use it. There is no help for it, he said, as he also prepared for action. The first thing he did was to open the door, and as he did so he became conscious that his mouth was full of blood from a sharp blow upon his face. Vavasor had struck him with his fist, and had cut his lip against his teeth. Then there came a scramble, and Gray was soon aware that he had his opponent in his hands. It was my doubt whether he had attempted to strike a blow, or whether he had so much as clenched his fist. Vavasor had struck him repeatedly, but the blows had fallen on his body or his head, and he was unconscious of them. He had but one object now in his mind, and that object was the kicking his assailant down the stairs. Then came a scramble, as I have said, and Gray had a hold of the smaller man by the nape of the neck, so holding him he forced him back through the door onto the landing. And there succeeded in pushing him down the first flight of steps. Gray kicked at him as he went, but the kick was impotent. He had, however, been so far successful that he had thrust his enemy out of the room, and had the satisfaction of seeing him sprawling on the landing place. Vavasor, when he raised himself, prepared to make another rush at the room, but before he could do so a man from below hearing the noise had come upon him and interrupted him. Mr. Jones, said Gray, speaking from above, if that gentleman does not leave the house, I must get you to search for a policeman. Vavasor, though the lodging houseman had hold of the collar of his coat, made no attempt to turn upon his new enemy. When two dogs are fighting, any bystander may attempt to separate them with impunity. The brutes are so anxious to tear each other that they have no energies left for other purposes. It never occurs to them to turn the teeth upon newcomers in the quarrel. So it was with George Vavasor. Jones was sufficient to prevent his attack further upon the foe upstairs, and therefore he had no alternative but to relinquish the fight. What is it all about, sir? said Jones, who kept a tailor's establishment, and, as a tailor, was something of a fighting man himself. Of all tradesmen in London the tailors are, no doubt, the most combative. Vavasor has might be expected from the necessity, which lies upon them of living down the general bad character in this respect, which the world has wrongly given to them. What's it all about, sir? said Jones, still holding Vavasor by this coat. That man has ill-used me, and I've punished him. That's all. I don't know much about punishing, said the tailor. It seems to me he pitched you down pretty clean out of the room above. I think the best thing you can do now is to walk yourself off. It was the only thing that Vavasor could do, and he did walk himself off. He walked himself off, and went home to his own lodgings in Cecil Street, that he might smooth his feathers after the late encounter before he went down to Westminster to take his seat in the House of Commons. I do not think that he was comfortable when he got there, or that he felt himself very well able to fight another battle that night on behalf of the riverbank. He had not been hurt, but he had been worsted. Gray had probably received more personal damage than had fallen to his share, but Gray had succeeded in expelling him from the room, and he knew that he had been found prostrate on the landing-place where the tailor first saw him. But he might probably have got over the annoyance of this feeling had he not been overwhelmed by a consciousness that everything was going badly with him. He was already beginning to hate his seat in Parliament. What good had it done for him, or was it likely to do for him? He found himself to be associated there with Mr. Botte and a few others of the same class, men whom he despised, and even they did not admit him among them without a certain show of superiority on their part. Who had not ascertained by his own experience the different lights through which the same events may be seen according to the successes or want of successes which pervades the atmosphere at the moment? At the same time everything was unsuccessful with George Vaviser, and though he told himself, almost from hour to hour, that he would go on with the thing that he would persevere in Parliament till he had obtained a hearing there and created for himself success, he could not himself believe in the promises which he had made to himself. He had looked forward to his entrance into that chamber as the hour of his triumph, but he had entered it with Mr. Botte, and there had been no triumph to him in doing so. He had sworn to himself that when there he would find men to hear him. Hither, too, indeed he could not accuse himself of having missed his opportunities. His election had been so recent that he could hardly yet have made the attempt, but he had been there long enough to learn to fancy that there was no glory in attempting. This art of speaking in Parliament, which had appeared to him to be so grand, seemed already to be a humdrum, homely, dull affair. No one seemed to listen much to what he said, to such as himself, members without an acquired name, men did not seem to listen at all. Mr. Palliser once in his hearing spoken for two hours together, and all the house had treated his speech with respect. He had declared that it was useful, solid, conscientious, and what not, but more than half the house had been asleep, more than half the time that he was on his legs. Vaviser had not, as yet, commenced his career as an orator, but night after night, as he sat there, the chance of commencing it with brilliance seemed to be further from him, and still further, two thousand pounds of his own money, and two thousand more of Alice's money, or of Mr. Gray's. He had already spent to make his way into that assembly. He must spend, at any rate, two thousand more if he intended that his career should be prolonged beyond a three-month sitting. And how was he to get this further sum, after what had taken place to-day? He would get it. That was his resolve, as he walked in, by the Apple Woman's stall, under the shadow of the great policeman, and between the two August lamps. He would get it. As long as Alice had a pound over which he could obtain mastery by any act or violence within his compass, he would get it, even though it should come through the hands of John Gray and Mr. Tomb. He would get it, though in doing so he might destroy his cousin Alice and ruin his sister Kate. He had gone too far to stick at any scruples. Had he not often declared how great had been that murderer who had been able to divest himself of all such scruples, who had scoured his bosom free from all fears of the hereafter and, as regarded the present, had dared to trust for everything to success, he would go to Alice and demand the money from her with threats and with that violence in his eyes which he knew so well how to assume, he believed that when he so demanded it, the money would be forthcoming so as to satisfy, at any rate, his present emergencies. That wretched old man in Westmoreland, if he would but die there might yet be a hope remaining of permanent success. Even though the estate might be entailed so as to give him no more than a life interest, still money might be raised on it. His life interest in it would be worth ten or twelve years purchase. He had an idea that his grandfather had not as yet made any such will when he left the place in Westmoreland. What a boom it would be if death could be made to overtake the old man before he did so. On this very night he walked about the lobbies of the house thinking of all this. He went by himself from room to room, roaming along passages, sitting now for ten minutes in the gallery, and then again for a short space in the body of the house, till he would get up and wander again out into the lobby, impatient of the neighborhood of Mr. Botte. Certainly at this time he felt no desire to bring before the house the subject of the river embankment. Nor was Mr. Gray much happier when he was left alone, than was his assailant. To give Vavasor his due, the memory of the affray itself did not long trouble him much. The success between the combatants had been nearly equal, and he had any rate spoken his mind freely. His misery had come from other sources, but the reflection that he had been concerned in a row was in itself enough to make John Gray wretched for the time. Such a misfortune had never here thorough befalling him. In all his dealings with men's words had been sufficient, and generally words of courtesy had sufficed. To have been personally engaged in a fighting scramble with such a man as George Vavasor was to him terrible. When ordering that his money might be expended with the possible object of saving Alice from her cousin, he had never felt a moment's regret. He had never thought that he was doing more than circumstances fairly demanded of him. But now he was almost driven to utter reproach. Oh, Alice, that this thing should have come upon me through thy fault. When Vavasor was led away downstairs by the tailor, and Gray found that no more actual fighting would be required of him, he retired into his bedroom, that he might wash his mouth and free himself from the stains of the combat. He had heard the front door close, and knew that the miscreant was gone, the miscreant who had disturbed his quiet. Then he began to think, what was that accusation with which Vavasor had charged him? He had been told that he had advanced money on behalf of Alice in order that he might obtain some power over Alice's fortune, and thus revenge himself upon Alice for her treatment of him. Nothing could be more damnably false than this accusation. Of that he was well aware, but were not the circumstances of a nature to make it appear that the accusation was true? Security for the money advanced by him, of course, he had none. Of course he had desired none. Of course the money had been given out of his own pocket with the sole object of saving Alice, if that might be possible. But of all those who might hear of this affair, how many would know or even guess the truth? While he was in the wretched state of mind washing his mouth and disturbing his spirit, Mr. Jones, his landlord, came up to him. Mr. Jones had known him for some years, and entertained a most profound respect for his character. A rather sporting man than otherwise was Mr. Jones. His father had been a tradesman at Cambridge, and in this way Jones had become known to Mr. Gray. But though given to sport by which he meant modern prize-fighting, and the ebsom course on the Derby Day, Mr. Jones was a man who dearly loved respectable customers and respectable lodgers. Mr. Gray, with his property at Nethercoats, and his August Manners, and his reputation at Cambridge, was a most respectable lodger, and Mr. Jones could hardly understand how anyone could presume to raise his hand against such a man. Dear, dear sir, this is a terrible affair, he said, as he made his way into the room. It was very disagreeable, certainly, said Gray. Was the gentleman known to you, asked the tailor? Yes, I know who he is. Any quarrels, sir? Well, yes, I should have not pushed him down the stairs, and he had not quarreled with me. We can have the police after him if you wish it, sir. I do not wish it at all. Or we might manage to polish him off in any other ways, you know. It was some time before Mr. Gray could get rid of the tailor. But he did so at last without having told any part of the story to that warlike worthy and very anxious individual. CHAPTER 53 Can you forgive her? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Mary Rody. Can you forgive her? By Anthony Trollop. CHAPTER 53 THE LAST WILL OF THE OLD SQUIRE In the meantime Kate Vavasor was living down in Westmoreland, with no other society than that of her grandfather, and did not altogether have a very pleasant life of it. George had been apt to represent the old man to himself as being as strong as an old tower, which though it be but a ruin, shows no sign of falling. To his eyes the squire had always seemed to be full of life and power. He could be violent on occasions, and was hardly ever without violence in his eyes and voice. But George's opinion was formed by his wish, or rather by the reverses of his wish. For years he had been longing that his grandfather should die, had been accusing fate of gross injustice in that she did not snap the thread. And with such thoughts in his mind he had grudged every ounce which the squire's vigor had been able to sustain. He had almost taught himself to believe that it would be a good deed to squeeze what remained of life out of that violent old throat. Yet indeed the embers of life were burning low, and had George known all the truth he would hardly have inclined his mind to thoughts of murder. He was indeed very weak with age and tottering with unsteady steps on the brink of his grave, though he would still come down early from his room and would, if possible, creep out about the garden and into the farmyard. He would still sit down to dinner and would drink his allotted portion of port wine in the doctor's teeth, the doctor by no means desired to rob him of his last luxury, or even to stint his quantity, but he recommended certain changes in the mode and time of taking it. Against this, however, the old squire indignantly rebelled, and scolded Kate almost off her legs when she attempted to enforce the doctor's orders. Yet the mischief does it signify, the old man said to her one evening, what difference will it make whether I am dead or alive, unless it is that George would turn you out of the house directly he gets it? I was not thinking of any one but yourself, sir, said Kate, with a tear in her eye. You won't be troubled to think of me much longer, said the squire, and then he gulped down the remaining half of his glass of wine. Kate was, in truth, very good to him. Women always are good under such circumstances, and Kate Vavasor was one who would certainly stick to such duties as now fell to her lot. She was eminently true and loyal to her friends, though she could be as false on their behalf as most false people can be on their own. She was very good to the old man, tending all his wants, taking his violence with good humor rather than with submission, not opposing him with direct contradiction when he abused his grandson, but saying little words to mitigate his wrath if it were possible. At such times the squire would tell her that she also would learn to know her brother's character some day. You lived to be robbed by him, and turned out as naked as you were born, he said to her one day. Then Kate fired up and declared that she fully trusted her brother's love. Whatever faults he might have, he had been staunch to her, so she said, and the old man sneered at her for saying so. One morning, soon after this, when she brought him up to his bedroom some mixture of thin porridge, which he still endeavored to swallow for his breakfast, he bade her sit down and began to talk to her about the property. I know you are a fool, he said, about all matters of business—more of a fool than even women generally are. To this Kate exceeded with a little smile, acknowledging that her understanding was limited. I want to see Gogrom, he said, do you write to him a line telling him to come here to-day, he or one of his men, and send it at once by Peter? Gogrom was an attorney who lived in Penrith, and who was never summoned to Vavasor Hall, unless the squire had something to say about his will. Don't you think you'd better put it off till you are a little stronger? said Kate. Whereupon the squire fired at her such a volley of oaths, that she sprang off the chair on which she was sitting, and darted across to a little table at which there was pen and ink, and wrote her note to Mr. Gogrom, before she had recovered from the shaking which the battery had given her. She wrote the note, and ran away with it to Peter, and saw Peter on the pony on his way to Penrith, before she dared to return to her grandfather's bedside. What should you do with the estate if I left it to you? The squire said to her first moment she was again back with him. This was a question she could not answer instantly. She stood by his bedside for a while, thinking, holding her grandfather's hand, and looking down upon the bed. He with his rough watery old eyes was gazing up into her face, as though he were trying to read her thoughts. I think I should give it to my brother, she said. Then I'm dashed if I'll leave it to you, said he. She did not jump now, though he had sworn at her. He still stood, holding his hand softly, and looking down upon the bed. If I were you, grandfather, she said almost in a whisper, I would not trust myself to alter family arrangements whilst I was so ill. I'm sure you would advise anyone else against doing so. And if I were to leave it to Alice, she'd give it to him, too, he said, speaking his thoughts out loud. What is it you see in him? I never could even guess. He's as ugly as a baboon with his scarred face. He has never done anything to show himself a clever fellow. Kate, give me some of that bottle the man sent. Kate handed him his medicine, and then stood again by his bedside. Where did he get the money to pay for his election? the squire asked, as soon as he had swallowed the drought. They wouldn't give such a one as him credit a yard further than they could see him. I don't know where he got it, said Kate, lying. He has not had yours, has he? He would not take it, sir. And you offered it to him? Yes, sir. And he has not had it? Not a penny of it, sir. And what made you offer it to him after what I said to you? Because it was my own, said Kate stoutly. You're the biggest idiot that ever I heard of, and you'll know it yourself some day. Go away now, and let me know when Gogrom comes. She went away and for time employed herself about her ordinary household work. Then she sat down alone in the dingy old dining-room to think what had better be done in her present circumstances. The carpet of the room was worn out, as were also the covers of the old chairs and the horsehair sofa, which was never moved from its accustomed place along the wall. It was not a comfortable squire's residence, this old house at Bavisore. In the last twenty years no money had been spent on furniture or embellishments, and for the last ten years there had been no painting, either inside or out. Twenty years ago the squire had been an embarrassed man, and had taken a turn in his life and had lived sparingly. It could not be said that he had become a miser. His table was kept plentifully, and there had never been want in his house. In some respects, too, he had behaved liberally to Kate and to others, and he had kept up the timber and fences on the property. But the house had become wretched in its dull, somber, dirty darkness, and the gardens round it were as bad. What ought she now to do? She believed that her grandfather's last days were coming, and she knew that others of the family should be with him besides herself. For their sakes, for his, and for her own, it would be proper that she should not be alone there when he died. But for whom should she send? Her brother was the natural heir, and would be the head of the family. Her duty to him was clear, and the more so as her grandfather was at this moment speaking of changes in his will. But it was a question to her whether George's presence at Vavasor, even if he would come, would not at this moment do more harm than good to his own interests. It would make some prejudicial change in the old man's will more probable instead of less so. George would not become soft and mild-spoken even by death bedside, and it would be likely enough that the squire would curse his heir with his dying breath. She might send for her uncle John, but if she did so without telling George, she would be treating George unfairly. And she knew that it was improbable that her uncle and her brother should act together in anything. Her Aunt Greenow, she thought, would come to her, and her presence would not influence the squire in any way with reference to the property. So she made up her mind at last that she would ask her Aunt to come to Vavasor, and that she would tell her brother accurately all that she could tell, leaving him to come or stay as he might think. Alice would, no doubt, learn all the facts from him, and her uncle John would hear them from Alice. Then they could do as they pleased. As soon as Mr. Gargarum had been there, she would write her letters, and they should be sent over to Shapp early on the following morning. Mr. Gargarum came, and was closeted with the squire, and the doctor also came. The doctor saw Kate, and shaking his head, told her that her grandfather was sinking lower and lower every hour. It would be infinitely better for him if he would take that port wine at four doses in the day, or even at two, instead of taking it all together. He had promised to try again, but stated her conviction that the trial would be useless. The doctor, when pressed on the matter, said that his patient might probably live a week, not improbably a fortnight, perhaps a month if he would be obedient, and so forth. Gargarum went away without seeing Kate, and Kate, who looked upon a will as an awful and somewhat tedious ceremony, was in doubt whether her grandfather would live to complete any new operation. But in truth the will had been made and signed and witnessed, the parish clerk and one of the tenants having been had up into the room as witnesses. Kate knew that the men had been there, but still did not think that a new will had been perfected. That evening, when it was dusk, the squire came into the dining-room, having been shuffling about the grand sweep before the house for a quarter of an hour. The day was cold and the wind bleak, but still he would go out, and Kate had wrapped him up carefully in mufflers and great-coats. Now he came in to what he called dinner, and Kate sat down with him. He had drank no wine that day, although she had brought it to him twice during the morning. Now he attempted to swallow a little soup, but failed, and after that, while Kate was eating her bit of chicken, had the decanter put before him. I can't eat, and I suppose it won't hurt you if I take my wine at once," he said. It went against the grain with him, even yet that he could not wait till the cloth was gone from the table, but his impatience for the only sustenance that he could take was too much for him. But you should eat something, sir. Will you have a bit of toast to sop in your wine? The word sop was badly chosen, and made the old squire angry. Sop toast! Why am I to spoil the only thing I can enjoy? But the wine would do you more good if you would take something with it. Good! Nothing will do me any good any more. As for eating, you know I can't eat. What's the use of bothering me? Then he filled his second glass, and paused a while before he put it to his lips. He never exceeded four glasses, but the four he was determined that he would have as long as he could lift them to his mouth. Kate finished, or pretended to finish, her dinner within five minutes, in order that the table might be made to look comfortable for him. Then she poked the fire, and brushed up the hearth, and closed the old curtains with her own hands, moving about silently. As she moved, his eye followed her, and when she came behind his chair, and pushed the decanter a little more within his reach, he put out his rough, hairy hand, and laid it upon one of hers which she had rested on the table, with a tenderness that was unusual with him. You are a good girl, Kate. I wish you had been a boy, that's all. If I had, I shouldn't perhaps have been here to take care of you," she said, smiling. No, you'd have been like your brother, no doubt. Not that I think they could have been too so bad as he is. Oh, grandfather, if he has offended you, you should try to forgive him. Try to forgive him? How often have I forgiven him without any trying? Why did he come down here the other day, and insult me for the last time? Why didn't he keep away as I had bidden him? But you gave him leave to see you, sir. I didn't give him leave to treat me like that. Never mind. He will find, that old as I am, I can punish an insult. You haven't done anything, sir, to injure him, said Kate. I have made another will, that's all. Do you suppose I had that man here all the way from Penrith for nothing? But it isn't done yet. I tell you it is done. If I left him the whole property it would be gone in two years' time. What's the use of doing it? But for his life, sir, you had promised him that he should have it for his life. How dare you tell me that? I never promised him. As my heir he would have had it all if he would have behaved himself with common decency. Even though I disliked him, as I always have done, he should have had it. And you have taken it from him altogether? I shall answer no questions about it, Kate. And then a fit of coughing came upon him, his four glasses of wine having been all taken, and there was no further talk about business. During the evening Kate read a chapter of the Bible out loud, but the squire was very impatient under the reading, and positively refused permission for a second. There isn't any good in so much of it all at once, he said, using almost exactly the same words which Kate had used to him about the port wine. There may have been good produced by the small quantity to which he listened, as there is good from the physics which children take with rye faces, most unwillingly. Who can say? For many weeks past Kate had begged her uncle to allow the clergymen of Vavasor to come to him, but he had positively declined. The vicar was a young man to whom the living had lately been given by the chancellor, and he had commenced his career by giving instant offense to the squire. This vicar's predecessor had been an old man, almost as old as the squire himself, and had held the living for forty years. He had been a Westmoreland man, had read the prayers, and preached his one Sunday sermon in a Westmoreland dialect, getting through the whole operation rather within an hour and a quarter. He had troubled none of his parishioners by much advice, and had been meek and obedient to the squire. Knowing the country well, and being used to its habits, he had lived, and been charitable too, on the proceeds of his living, which had never reached two hundred a year. But the newcomer was a close-fisted man, with higher ideas of personal comfort, who found it necessary to make every penny go as far as possible, who made up in preaching for what he could not give away in charity, who established an afternoon service, and who had rebuked the squire for saying that the doing so was trash and nonsense. Notice that the squire had never been inside the church, except on the occasion of Christmas Day. For this, indeed, the state of his health gave ample excuse, but he had positively refused to see the vicar, though that gentleman had assiduously called, and had at last desired the servant to tell the clergyman not to come again unless he were sent for. State's task was, therefore, difficult, both as regarded the temporal and spiritual wants of her grandfather. When the reading was finished, the old man dozed in his chair for half an hour. He would not go up to bed before the enjoyment of that luxury. He was daily implored to do so, because that sleep in the chair interfered so fatally with his chance of sleeping in bed. But sleep in his chair he would, and did. Then he woke, and after a fit of coughing, was induced, with much ill humor, to go up to his room. Kate had never seen him so weak. He was hardly able, even with her assistance and that of the old servant, to get up the broad stairs. But there was still some power left to him for violence of language after he got to his room, and he raided Kate and the old woman loudly, because his slippers were not in the proper place. "'Grandfather,' said Kate, "'would you like me to stay in the room with you tonight?' He raided her again for this proposition, and then, with assistance from the nurse, he was gotten into bed and was left alone. After that Kate went to her room and wrote her letters, the first she wrote to her aunt Greenow—that was easily enough written—to Mrs. Greenow it was not necessary that she should say anything about money. She simply stated her belief that her grandfather's last day was near at hand, and begged her aunt to come and pay a last visit to the old man. "'It will be a great comfort to me in my distress,' she said, and it will be a satisfaction to you to have seen your father again.' She knew that her aunt would come, and that task was soon done. But her letter to her brother was much more difficult. What should she tell him, and what should she not tell him?' She began by describing her grandfather's state, and by saying to him, as she had done to Mrs. Greenow, that she believed the old man's hours were well nigh come to a close. She told him that she had asked her aunt to come to her, not she said that I think her coming will be of material service, but I feel the loneliness of the house will be too much for me at such a time. "'I must leave it for you to decide,' she said, whether you had better be here. If anything should happen—people, when writing such letters, are always afraid to speak of death by its proper name—I will send you a message, and no doubt you would come at once.' Then came the question of the will. Had it not occurred to her that her own interests were involved, she would have said nothing on the subject. But she feared her brother, feared even his misconstruction of her motives, even though she was willing to sacrifice so much on his behalf, and therefore she resolved to tell him all that she knew. He might turn upon her hereafter if she did not do so, and accuse her of a silence which had been prejudicial to him. So she told it all, and the letter became long in the telling. "'I write with a heavy heart,' she said, "'because I know it will be a great blow to you.' He gave me to understand that in this will he left everything away from you. I cannot declare that he said so directly. Indeed, I cannot remember his words, but that was the impression he left on me. The day before he had asked me what I should do if he gave me the estate, but of course I treated that as a joke. I have no idea what he put into his will. I have not even attempted to guess, but now I have told you all that I know.' The letter was a very long one, and was not finished till late, but when it was completed she had the two taken out into the kitchen, as the boy was to start with them before daylight. Early on the next morning she crept silently into her grandfather's room, as was her habit, but he was apparently sleeping, and then she crept back again. The old servant told her that the squire had been awake at four, and at five, and at six, and had called for her. Then he had seemed to go to sleep. Four or five times in the course of the morning Kate went into the room, but her grandfather did not notice her. At last she feared he might already have passed away, and she put her hand upon his shoulder and down his arm. He then gently touched her hand with his, showing her plainly that he was not only alive but conscious. She then offered him food, the thin porridge, which he was want to take, and the medicine. She offered him some wine, too, but he would not take nothing. At twelve o'clock a letter was brought to her, which had come by the post. She saw that it was from Alice, and opening it found that it was very long. At that moment she could not read it, but she saw words in it that made her wish to know its contents as quickly as possible. But she could not leave her grandfather then. At two o'clock the doctor came to him, and remained there till the dusk of the evening had commenced. At eight o'clock the old man was dead. CHAPTER 53 SHOWING HOW ALICE WAS PUNISHED Poor Kate's condition at the old hall on the night was very sad. The presence of a death is always a source of sorrow, even though the circumstances of the case are of a kind to create no agony of grief. The old man who had just passed away upstairs was fully due to go. He had lived his span all out, and had himself known that to die was the one thing left for him to do. Kate also had expected his death, and had felt that the time had come in which it would be foolish even to wish that it would be arrested. But death close to one is always sad, as it is solemn. And she was quite alone at Vavasor Hall. She had no acquaintances within some miles of her. From the young vicar, though she herself had not quarreled with him, she could receive no comfort, as she hardly knew him, nor was she of a temperament which would dispose her to turn to a clergyman at such a time for comfort, unless to one who might have been an old friend. Her aunt and brother would probably both come to her, but they could hardly be with her for a day or two, and during that day or two it would be needful that orders should be given, which it is disagreeable for a woman to have to give. The servants, moreover, in the house, were hardly fit to assist her much. There was an old butler or footman who had lived in the hall for more than fifty years, but he was crippled with rheumatism, and so laden with maladies that he rarely crept out of his own room. He was simply an additional burden on the others. There was a boy who had lately done all the work which the others should have done, and ever so much more besides. There is no knowing how much work such a boy will do when properly drilled, and he was now Kate's best minister in her distress. There was the old nurse, but she had been simply good for nursing, and there were two rough Westmoreland girls who called themselves Cook and Housemaid. On that evening, the very first day on which her grandfather had died, Kate would have been more comfortable had she really found something that she could do, but there was in truth nothing. She hovered for an hour or two in and out of the room, conscious of the letter which she had in her pocket, and very desirous in heart of reading it, but restrained by a feeling that at such a moment she ought to think only of the dead. In this she was wrong. Let the living think of the dead when their thoughts will travel that way, whether the thinker wish it or no. Grief taken up because grief is supposed to be proper is only one degree better than pretended grief. When one sees it, one cannot but think of the lady who asked her friend in confidence whether hot-roast fowl and bread-sauce were compatible with the earliest states of weeds, or of that other lady, a royal lady she, who was much comforted in the tedium of her trouble when assured by one of the lords about the court that P. K. was mourning. It was late at night, near eleven, before Kate took out the letter and read it. As something of my story hangs upon it, I will give it at length, though it was a long letter. It had been written with great struggles and with many tears, and Kate, as she read it to the end, almost forgot that her grandfather was lying dead in the room above her. Queen Anne Street, April 1860 Blank Dearest Kate, I hardly know how to write you. What I have to tell you, and yet I must tell it. I must tell it to you, but I shall never repeat the story to anyone else. I should have written yesterday when it occurred, but I was so ill that I felt myself unable to make the exertion. Indeed, at one time, after your brother had left me, I almost doubted whether I should ever be able to collect my thoughts again. My dismay was at first so great that my reason for a time deserted me, and I could only sit and cry like an idiot. Dear Kate, I hope you will not be angry with me for telling you. I have endeavored to think about it as calmly as I can, and I believe that I have no alternative. The fact that your brother has quarreled with me cannot be concealed from you, and I must not leave him to tell you of the manner of it. He came to me yesterday in great anger. His anger, then, was nothing to what it became afterwards. But even when he first came in, he was full of wrath. He stood up before me and asked me how it had come to pass that I had sent him the money which he had asked of me through the hands of Mr. Gray. Of course, I had not done this, and I told him at once. I had spoken of the matter to no one but Papa, and he had managed it for me. Even now I know nothing of it, and as I have not yet spoken to Papa, I cannot understand it. George at once told me that he disbelieved me, and when I sat quiet under this insult he used harsher words, and said that I had conspired to lower him before the world. He then asked me whether I loved him. O Kate, I must tell it you all, though it is dreadful to me that I should have to write it. You remember how it came to pass when we were in West Moorland together at Christmas? Do not think that I am blaming you. But I was very rash then in the answers which I made to him. I thought that I could be useful to him as his wife, and I had told myself that it would be good that I should be of use in some way. When he asked me that question yesterday, I sat silent. Indeed, how could I have answered it in the affirmative when he had just used such language to me? While he was standing opposite to me, looking at me in that way, which he has when he is enraged, then he spoke again and demanded of me that I should once send back Mr. Gray all his which I had kept, and at the same time took up and threw across the table on the sofa near me a little paper knife which Mr. Gray once gave me. I could not allow myself to be so ordered by him, so I said nothing, but put the knife back upon the table. He then took it again and threw it beneath the grate. I have a right to look upon you as my wife, he said, and, as such, I will not allow you to keep that man's things about you. I think I told him that I should never become his wife, but though I remember many of his words, I remember none of my own. He swore, I know, with a great oath, that if I went back a second time for my word to him he would leave me no peace, that he would punish me for my perfidy with some fearful punishment. OK, I cannot tell you what he looked like. He had then come quite close to me, and I know that I trembled before him as though he were going to strike me. Of course I said nothing. What could I say to a man who behaved to me in such a manner? Then, as far as I can remember it, he sat down and began to talk about money. I forget what he said at first, but I know that I assured him that he might take what he wanted so long as enough was left to prevent my being absolutely a burden on Papa. That, madam, is a matter of course, he said. I remember those words so well. Then he explained that after what had passed between us I had no right to ruin him by keeping back from him money which had been promised to him and which was essential to his success. In this, dear Kate, I think he was mainly right, but he could not have been right in putting it to me in that hard, cruel manner, especially as I had never refused anything that he had asked of me in respect of money. The money he may have while at last, but then there must be an end of it all between us, even though he should have the power of punishing me, as he says he will do. Punishing me, indeed, what punishment can be so hard as that which he has already inflicted. He then desired me to write a letter to him which he might show to the lawyer, to our own lawyer I think he meant, in order that money might be raised to pay back what Mr. Gray had advanced and give him what he now required. I think he said that it was to be five thousand pounds. When he asked me this I did not move. Indeed I was unable to move. Then he smoked very loud and swore at me again and brought me pen and ink demanding that I should write the letter. I was so frightened that I thought of running to the door to escape, and I would have done so had I not distrusted my own power. Had it been to save my life I could not have written the letter. I believe I was now crying. At any rate I threw myself back and covered my face with my hands. Then he came and sat by me and took hold of my arms. O, Kate, I cannot tell at you all. He put his mouth close to my ear and said words which were terrible, though I did not understand them. I do not know what it was he said, but he was threatening me with his anger if I did not obey him. Before he left me I believe I found my voice to tell him that he should certainly have the money which he required, and so he shall. I will go to Mr. Round myself and insist on its being done. My money is my own, and I may do with it as I please. But I hope. I am obliged to hope that I may never be made to see my cousin again. I will not pretend to express any opinion as to the cause of all of this. It is very possible that you will not believe all I say, that you will think that I am mad and have deluded myself. Of course your heart will prompt you to accuse me rather than him. If it is so, and if there must, therefore, be a division between us, my grief will be greatly increased. But I do not know that I can help it. I cannot keep all this back from you. He has cruelly used me and insulted me. He has treated me as I should have thought no man could have treated a woman. As regards money, I did all that I could do to show that I trusted him thoroughly, and my confidence has only led to suspicion. I do not know whether he understands that everything must be over between us, but if not I must ask you to tell him so, and I must ask you to explain to him that he must not come again to Queen Anne Street. If he does, nothing shall induce me to see him. Tell him also that the money that he wants shall assuredly be sent to him as soon as I can make Mr. Rand get it. Dearest Kate, good-bye, I hope that you will feel for me. If you do not answer me, I shall presume that you think yourself bound to support his side and to believe me to have been wrong. Kate will make me very unhappy, but I shall remember that you are his sister, and I shall not be angry with you. Yours affectionately, Alice Vavasor. Kate, as she read her letter through at first quickly, and then very slowly, came by degrees almost to forget that death was in the house. Her mind and heart and brain were filled with thoughts and feelings that had exclusive reference to Alice and her mother, and at last she found herself walking the room with quick, impetuous steps, while her blood was hot with indignation. All her sympathies in the matter were with Alice. It never occurred to her to disbelieve a word of the statement made to her, or to suggest to herself that it had been colored by any fears or exaggeration on the part of her correspondent. She knew that Alice was true, and moreover, much as she loved her brother, willing as she had been, and would still be to risk all that she possessed, and herself also, on his behalf, she knew that it would be risking and not trusting. She loved her brother, such love having come to her by nature, and having remained with her from of old. And in his intellect she still believed, but she had ceased to have belief in his conduct. She feared everything that he might do, and lived with a consciousness that though she was willing to connect all her own fortunes with his, she had much reason to expect. She might encounter ruin in doing so. Her sin had been in this, that she had been anxious to subject Alice to the same danger, that she had intrigued some time very meanly to bring about the object she had at heart, that she had used all her craft to separate Alice from Mr. Gray. Perhaps it may be alleged in her excuse that she had thought, had hoped rather than thought, that the marriage which she contemplated would change much in her brother that was wrong, and bring him into a mode of life that would not be dangerous. Might not she and Alice together so work upon him, that he should cease to stand ever on the brink of some half-seen precipice? To risk herself for her brother was noble. But when she used her cunning and inducing her cousin to share the risk, she was ignoble. Of this she had herself some consciousness as she walked up and down the old dining room at midnight, holding her cousin's letter in her hand. Her cheeks became tinged with shame as she thought of the scene which Alice had described, the toy thrown beneath the grate, the loud curses, the whispered threats, which had been more terrible than curses, the demand for money made with something worse than a cutthroat's violence, the strong man's hands placed upon the woman's arm in anger and in rage, those eyes glaring and gaping horror at us as he pressed his face close to that of his victim. Not for a moment did she think of defending him. She accused him to herself vehemently of a sin over and above those sins which had filled Alice with dismay. He had demanded money from the girl whom he intended to marry. According to Kate's idea, nothing could excuse or palliate this sin. Alice had accounted and it is nothing. Had expressed her opinion that the demand was reasonable, even now, after the ill usage to which she had been subjected, she had declared that the money should be forthcoming and given to the man who had treated her so shamefully. It might be well that Alice should feel and so act, but it behoved Kate to feel and act very differently. She would tell her brother, even in the house of death, that he come there, that his conduct was mean and unmanly. Kate was no coward. She declared to herself that she would do this, even though he should threaten her with all his fury, though he should glare upon her with all the horrors of his countenance. One o'clock and two o'clock still found her in the dark somber parlor, every now and then pacing the floor of the room. The fire had gone out and, though it was now the middle of April, she began to feel the cold, but she would not go to bed before she had written a line to Alice. To her brother, a message by telegraph would, of course, be sent the next morning, as also would she send a message to her aunt. But to Alice she would write, though it might be but a line. Cold as she was, she found her pens and paper, and wrote her letter that night. It was very short. Dear Alice, today I received your letter, and today our poor old grandfather died. Tell my uncle John with my love of his father's death. You will understand that I cannot write much now about the other matter, but I must tell you, even at such a moment at this, that there shall be no quarrel between you and me. There shall be none, at least on my side. I cannot say more till a few days shall have passed by. He is lying upstairs, a corpse. I have telegraphed to George, and I suppose he will come down. I think my Aunt Greenow will come also, as I have written to her before, seeing that I wanted the comfort of having her here. Uncle John will, of course, come or not as he thinks fitting. I don't know whether I am in a position to say that I shall be glad to see him, but I should be very glad. He and you will know that I can, as yet, tell you nothing further. The lawyer is to see the men about the funeral. Nothing I suppose will be done till George comes. Your own cousin and friend, Kate Vavasor, and then she added a line below, My own Alice, if you will let me, you shall be my sister and be the nearest to me and the dearest. Alice, when she received this, was at the first moment so much struck, and indeed surprised by the tidings of her grandfather's death, that she was forced, in spite of the still-existing violence of her own feelings, to think and act chiefly with reference to that event. Her father had not then left his room. She therefore went to him, and handed him Kate's letter. Papa, she said, there is news from Westmoreland. Bad news, which you hardly expected yet. My father is dead, said John Vavasor, whereupon Alice gave him Kate's letter, that he might read it. Of course I shall go down, he said, as he came to the part in which Kate had spoken of him. Does she think I shall not follow my father to the grave, because I dislike her brother? What does she mean by saying there shall be no quarrel between you and her? I will explain that at another time, said Alice. John Vavasor asked no further questions then, but declared at first that he should go to Westmoreland on the following day. Then he altered his purpose. I'll go by the mail train to-night, he said. It will be very disagreeable, but I ought to be there when the will is open. There was a very little more setting Queen Anne Street on the subject till the evening, till a few moments before Mr. Vavasor left his house. He indeed had thought nothing more about the quarreling, or rather that promise that there should be no quarreling between the girls. He still regarded his nephew George as the man who, unfortunately, was to be a son-in-law, and now, during this tedious sad day in which he felt himself compelled to remain at home, he busied his mind in thinking of George and Alice as living together at the old hall. At six the father and daughter dined, and soon after dinner Mr. Vavasor went up to his own room to prepare himself for his journey. After a while Alice followed him, but she did not do so till she knew if anything was to be told before the journey no further time could be lost. Papa, she said as soon as she had shut the door behind her, I think I ought to tell you before you go that everything is over between me and George. Have you quarreled with him, too? said the father with uncontrolled surprise. I should perhaps say that he is quarreled with me, but dear Papa, pray do not question me at present. I will tell you all when you come back, but I thought it right that you should know this before you went. It has been his doing, then. I cannot explain it to you in a hurry like this. Papa, you may understand something of the shame which I feel, and you should not question me now. And John Gray? There is nothing different in regard to him. I'll be shot if I can understand you. George, you know, has two thousand pounds of your money. Of yours or somebody else's? Well, we can't talk about it now as I must go off. Thinking as I do of George, I'm glad of it. Then he went, and Alice was left alone, to comfort herself as best she might by her own reflections. George Vavasor had received the message on the day previous to that on which Alice's letter had reached her, but it had not come to him till late in the day. He might have gone down by the mail train of that night, but there were one or two persons, his own attorney especially, whom he wished to see before the reading of his grandfather's will. He remained in town, therefore, on the following day, and went down by the same train as that which took his uncle. Walking along the platform, looking for a seat, he peered into a carriage and met his uncle's eye. The two saw each other, but did not speak, and George passed on to another carriage. On the following morning, before the break of day, they met again in the refreshment room at the station at Lancaster. So my father is gone, George, said the uncle, speaking to the nephew. They must go to the same house, and Mr. Vavasor felt that it would be better that they should be on speaking terms when they reached it. Yes, said George. He has gone at last. I wonder what we shall find to have been his latest act of injustice. The reader will remember that he had received Kate's first letter in which she had told him of the squire's altered will. Mr. Vavasor turned away disgusted. His finer feelings were perhaps not very strong, but he had no thoughts or hopes in reference to the matter which were mean. He expected nothing himself, and did not begrudge his nephew the inheritance. At this moment he was thinking of the old squire as a father who had ever been kind to him. It might be natural that George should have no such old affection at his heart, but it was unnatural that he should express himself as he had done at such a moment. The uncle turned away, but said nothing. George followed him with a little proposition of his own. We shan't get any conveyance at chap, he said. Hadn't we better go over in a chase from Kendall? To this his uncle ascended, and so they finished their journey together. George smoked all the time that they were in the carriage, and very few words were spoken. As they drove up to the house they found that another arrival had taken place before them. Mrs. Greenow, having reached the house in some vehicle from the chap's station, she had come across from Norwich to Manchester, where she had joined the train which had brought the uncle and nephew from London. CHAPTER 55 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Coming of Mrs. Greenow, at this very moment, was a great comfort to Kate. Without her she would hardly have known how to bear herself with her uncle and her brother. As it was, they were all restrained by something of the courtesy with strangers are bound to show each other. George had never seen his aunt since he was a child, and some sort of introduction was necessary between them. So, you were George, said Mrs. Greenow, putting out her hand and smiling. Yes, I'm George, said he. And a member of Parliament, said Mrs. Greenow, it's quite an honour to the family. I felt so proud when I heard it. She said this pleasantly, meaning it to be taken for truth, and then turned away to her brother. Up as time was fully come, she said, though to tell the truth, I had no idea that he was so weak as Kate describes him to have been. Nor I either, said John Vavasor. He went to church with us here on Christmas Day. Did he? Indeed. Dear, dear. He seems to have gone off just like poor Greenow. Here she put her anchor-chief to her face. I think you didn't know Greenow, John. I met him once, said her brother. He wasn't to be known and understood in that way. I'm aware there was a little prejudice because of his being in trade, but we won't talk of that now. Where should I have been without him, tradesman or no tradesman? I've no doubt he was an excellent man. You may say that, John. Ah, well. We can't keep everything in this life forever. It may, perhaps, be as well to explain now that Mrs. Greenow had told Captain Bellfield at their last meeting before she left Norwich, that, under certain circumstances, if he behaved himself well, there might possibly be a ground of hope, whereupon Captain Bellfield had immediately gone to the best tailor in that city, had told the man of his coming marriage and had given an extensive order, but the tailor had not as yet supplied the goods, waiting for more credible evidence of the captain's good fortune. We're all grass of the field, says Mrs. Greenow, lightly brushing a tear from her eye, and must be cut down and put into the oven in our turns. Her brother uttered a slight sympathetic groan, shaking his head in testimony of the uncertainty of human affairs, and then said that he would go out and look about the place. George, in the meantime, had asked his sister to show him his room, and the two were all ready to gather upstairs. It had made up in her mind that she would say nothing about Alice at the present moment, nothing if it could be avoided till after the funeral. She led the way upstairs, almost trembling with fear, for she knew that other subjects of the will would also give rise to trouble and sorrow, perhaps also determined quarreling. What has brought that woman here, was the first question that George asked. I asked her to come, said Kate. And why did you ask her to come here? said George angrily. Kate immediately felt that he was speaking as though he were master of the house, and also as though he intended to be master of her. As regard the former idea, she had no objection to it. She thoroughly and honestly wished that he might be the master, and though she feared that he might find himself mistaken in his assumption, she herself was not disposed to deny any appearance of right that he might have taken upon himself in that respect. But she had already begun to tell herself that she must not submit herself to his masterdom. She had gradually so taught herself since he had compelled her to write the first letter in which Alice had been asked to give her money. I asked her, George, before my poor grandfather's death, when I thought he would linger perhaps for weeks, my life here alone with him, without any other woman in the house beside the servants, was very melancholy. Why did you not ask Alice to come to you? Alice could not have come, said Kate, after a short pause. I don't know why she shouldn't have come. I won't have that woman about the place. She disgraced herself by marrying a blacksmith. Why, George, it was you yourself who advised me to go and stay with her. That's a very different thing. Now that he's dead and she's got his money, it's all very well that you should go to her occasionally, but I won't have her here. It's natural that she should come to her father's house at her father's death bed. I hate to be told that things are natural. It always means humbug. I don't suppose she cared for the old man any more than I did, or that she cared for the other old man who married her. People are such intense hypocrites. There's my uncle John pulling a long face because he has to come into this house, and he will pull it as long as the body lies up there, and yet for the last twenty years there's nothing on earth that he is as much hated as going to see his father. When are they going to bury him? On Saturday, the day after tomorrow. Why couldn't they do it tomorrow so that we could get away before Saturday? He only died on Monday, George, said Kate Sollumly. Pasha, who has got the will? Mr. Grogham, he was here yesterday and told me to tell you and Uncle John that he would have it with him when he came back from the funeral. What is my Uncle John to do with it? said George Sharply. I shall go over to Penrith this afternoon and make Grogham give it to me. I don't think he'll do that, George. What right is he to keep it? What right is he to it at all? How do I know that he has really got the old man's last will? Where did my grandfather keep his papers? In that old secretary, as he used to call it, the one that stands in the dining room. It is sealed up. Who sealed it? Mr. Grogham did. Mr. Grogham and I together. What's the deuce made you meddle with it? I merely assisted him, but I believe he was quite right. I think it is usual in such cases. Baldur Dash, you were thinking of some old Trumpery of former days. Till I know, till the contrary, everything here belongs to me as errant law, and I do not mean to allow of any interference till I know of certain that my rights have been taken from me, and I won't accept a deathbed will. What a man chooses to write when his fingers will hardly hold the pen goes for nothing. You can't suppose that I wish to interfere with your rights. I hope not. Oh, George. Well, I say, I hope not, but I know that there are those who would. Do you think my Uncle John would not interfere with me if he could? By, if he does, he shall find that he does it at his cost. I'll lead him such a life through the courts that the next two or three years that he'll wish that he remained in chance relaying and never left it. A message was now brought up by the nurse saying that Mrs. Greenow and Mr. Vavasor were going into the room where the old squire was lying. Would Miss Kate and Mr. George go with them? Mr. Vavasor shouted out George, making the old woman jump. She did not understand his meaning in the least. Yes, sir. The old squire, she said. Will you come, George? Kate asked. No. What should I go there for? Why should I pretend an interest in the dead body of a man whom I hated and who hated me, and whose very last act, as far as I know as yet, was an attempt to rob me? I won't go and see him. Kate went and was glad of an opportunity of getting away from her brother. Every hour the idea was becoming stronger in her mind that she must in some way separate herself from him. There had come upon him of late a hard ferocity which made him unendurable, and then he carried to such a pitch that hatred, as he called it, of conventional rules that he allowed himself to be controlled by none of the ordinary bonds of society. She had felt this here to fore with a nervous consciousness that she was doing wrong in endeavoring to bring about a marriage between him and Alice, but this demeanor and motive talking had now grown so upon him that Kate began to feel herself thankful that Alice had been saved. Kate went up with her uncle and aunt and saw the face of her grandfather for the last time. Poor dear old man, said Mrs. Greenow, as the easy tears ran down her face. Do you remember, John, how he used to scold me and say that I should never come to good? He has said the same thing to you, Kate, I dare say. He has been very kind to me, said Kate, standing at the foot of the bed. She was not one of those whose tears stand near their eyes. He was a final gentleman, said John Vavasor, belonging to days that are now gone by, but by no means the less of a gentleman on that account. I don't know that he ever did an unjust or ungenerous act to anyone. Come, Kate, we may as well go down. Mrs. Greenow lingered to say her word or two to the nurse of the manner in which Mr. Greenow's body was treated when Greenow was lying dead, and then she followed her brother and niece. George did not go to Penrith, nor did he see Mr. Grogam till that worthy attorney came out to Vavasor Hall on the morning of the funeral. He said nothing more on the subject, nor did he break the seals on the old upright desk that stood in the parlor. The two days before the funeral were very wretched for all the party, except perhaps for Mrs. Greenow, who effected not to understand that her nephew was in a bad humor. She called him poor George and treated all his incivility to herself as though it were the effect of his grief. She asked him questions about Parliament, which, of course, he didn't answer, and told him little stories about poor dear Greenow, not heeding his expressions of unmistakable disgust. The two days at last went by, and the hour of the funeral came. There was the doctor and Grogam, and the uncle and the nephew to follow the corpse, the nephew taking it upon himself ostentatiously, the foremost place as though he could thereby help to maintain his pretensions as heir. The clergymen met them at the little wicked gate of the churchyard, having by some reasoning, which we hope was satisfactory to himself, overcome a resolution which he at first formed, that he would not read the burial service over an unrepentant sinner. But he did read it, having mentioned his grouples to none but one confidential clerical friend in the same diocese. I'm told you have got my grandfather's will, George said to the attorney as soon as he saw him. I have it in my pocket, said Mr. Grogam, and purposed to read it as soon as we returned from the church. Is it usual to take a will away from a man's house in that way? George asked. Quite usual, said the attorney, and in this case it was done at the express desire of the testator. I think it is a common practice, said John Vavasor. George, upon this, turned round at his uncle as though about to attack him, but he restrained himself and said nothing, though he showed his teeth. The funeral was very plain, and not a word was spoken by George Vavasor during the journey there and back. John Vavasor asked a few questions of the doctor as to the last week of his father's life, and it was, incidentally mentioned both by the doctor and by the attorney, that the old squires and elect had remained unimpaired up until the last moment that he had been seen by either of them. When they returned to the hall, Mrs. Greenow met them with an invitation to lunch. They all went to the dining room and drank each a glass of sherry. George took two or three glasses. The doctor then withdrew and drove himself back to Penrith, where he lived. Shall we go into the other room now, said the attorney? The three gentlemen rose up and went across to the drawing room, George leading the way. The attorney followed him, and John Vavasor closed the door behind them. Had any observer been there to watch them, he might have seen by the faces of the two latter that they expected an unpleasant meeting. Mr. Grogan, as he walked across the hall, had pulled the document out of his pocket and held it in his hand as he took a chair. John Vavasor stood behind one of the chairs which had been placed at the table and leaned upon it, looking across the room up at the ceiling. George stood on the rug before the fire, with his hands in his pockets of his trousers and his coat tails over his arms. Gentlemen, will you sit down, said Mr. Grogan? John Vavasor immediately sat down. I prefer to stand here, said George. Mr. Grogan then opened the document before him. Before that paper is read, said George, I think it right to say a few words. I don't know what it contains, but I believe it to have been executed by my grandfather only an hour or two before his death. On the day before he died, early in the day, said the attorney, well, the day before he died, it is the same thing while he was dying. In fact, he never got out of bed afterwards. He was not in bed at the time, Mr. Vavasor. Not that it would have mattered if he had been, and he came down to dinner on that day. I don't understand, however, why you make these observations. If you'll listen to me, you will understand. I make them because I deny my grandfather's fitness to make a will in the last moments of his existence, and at such an age. I saw him a few weeks ago, and he was not fit to be trusted with the management of property then. I do not think this is the time, George, to put forward such objection, said the uncle. I think it is, said George. I believe that that paper purports to be an instrument by which I should be villainously defrauded if it were allowed to be held as good. Therefore I protest against it now, and shall question it at law if action be taken on it. You can read it now, if you please. Oh, yes, I shall read, said Mr. Grogan, and I say that it is as valid a will as ever a man signed. And I say it's not. That's the difference between us. The will was read amidst sundry interjections and expressions of anger from George, which it is not necessary to repeat, nor need I trouble the reader with the will at length. It began by expressing the testator's great desire that his property might descend in his own family and that the house might be held and inhabited by someone bearing the name of Vavasor. He then declared that he felt himself obliged to pass over his natural heir, believing that the property would not be safe in his hands. He therefore left it in trust to his son John Vavasor, whom he appointed to be sole executor of his will. He devised it to George's eldest son, should George ever marry and have a son, as soon as he might reach the age of twenty-five. In the meantime, the property should remain in the hands of John Vavasor for his use and benefit, with a lien on it of five hundred a year to be paid annually to his granddaughter, Kate. In the event of George having no son, the property was to go to the eldest son of Kate, or failing that to the eldest son of his other granddaughter, who might take the name of Vavasor. All his personal property he left to his son John Vavasor. And, Mr. Vavasor said the attorney, as he finished his reading, you will, I fear, get very little by that latter clause. The estate now owes nothing, but I doubt whether the squire had fifty pounds in his banker's hands when he died. And the value of the property about the place is very small. He has been unwilling to spend anything during the last ten years, but has paid off every shelling that the property owed. It is, as I suppose, said George. His voice was very unpleasant, and so was the fire of his eyes and the ghastly rage of his scarred face. The old man has endeavored in his anger to rob me of everything, because I would not obey him in his wickedness when I was here with him a short while before he died. Such a will as that can stand nowhere. As to that I have nothing to say at present, said the attorney. Where is his other will? The one he made before that. If I remember rightly, we executed two before this. And where are they? It is not my business to know, Mr. Vavasor. I believe that I saw him destroy one. But I have no absolute knowledge. As to the other one, I can say nothing. And what do you mean to do, said George, turning to his uncle? Do? I shall carry out the will. I have no alternative. Your sister is the person chiefly interested under it. She gets five hundred a year for her life. And if she marries, and you do not, or if she has a son, and you do not, her son will have the whole property. George stood for a few minutes thinking. Might it not be possible that by means of Alice and Kate together, by marrying the former, perhaps, he might still obtain possession of the property? But that which he wanted was the command of the property at once, the power of raising money upon it instantly. The will had been so framed as to make that impossible in any way. Kate Sharon had not been left to her unconditionally, but was to be received even by her through the hands of her Uncle John. Such a will shut him out from all his hopes. It's a piece of derogary, he said. What do you mean by that, sir? Said Grogan, turning round towards him. I mean exactly what I say. It's a piece of derogary. Who was in the room when that thing was written? The signature was witnessed by—I don't ask as to the signature. Who was in the room when the thing was written? I was here with your grandfather. And no one else? No one else. The presence of anyone else at such a time would be very unusual. Then I regard the document simply as a waste paper. After saying this, George Vavasor left the room and slammed the door after him. I never was insulted in such a way before, said the attorney, almost with tears in his eyes. He is a disappointed, and I fear, a ruined man, said John Vavasor. I do not think you need regard what he says. But he should not on that account insult me. I have only done my duty. I did not even advise his grandfather. It is mean on his part and unmanly. If he comes in my way again I shall tell him so. He probably will not put himself in your way again, Mr. Grogan. Then the attorney went, having suggested to Mr. Vavasor that he should instruct his attorney in London to take steps in reference to proving of the will. It's as good a will as ever was made, said Mr. Grogan. If he can set that aside, I'll give up making wills altogether. Who was to tell Kate? That was John Vavasor's first thought, when he was left alone at the whole door after seeing the lawyer start away. And how was he to get himself back to London without further quarreling with his nephew? And what was he to do at once with reference to the immediate duties of the proprietorship which was entailed upon him as executor? It was by no means improbable, as he thought, that George might assume to himself the position of master of the house, that he might demand the keys, for instance, which no doubt were in Kate's hands at present, and that he would take possession with violence. What should he do under such circumstances? It was clear that he could not run away and get back to his club by the night mail train. He had duties there at the hall, and these duties were of a nature to make him almost regret the position in which his father's will had placed him. Eventually he would gain some considerable increase to his means. But the immediate effect would be terribly troublesome. As he looked up at the melancholy pines, which were slowly waving their heads in the winds before the door, he declared to himself that he would sell his inheritance and his executorship very cheaply if such a sale were possible. In the dining room he found his sister alone. Well, John, said she, well, how was it left? Where is Kate, he asked? She has gone out with her brother. Did he take his hat? Oh, yes. He asked her to walk, and she went with him at once. Then, I suppose, he will tell her, said John Vavasor. After that he explained the circumstances of the will to Mrs. Greenow. Bravo! exclaimed the widow. I am delighted. I love Kate dearly, and now she can marry almost whom she pleases. End of chapter 55, reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana.