his bed, calling at Kate’s door to ask after the patient.
In the meantime there had come a messenger to Mrs Greenow, who had stationed herself with her niece. One of the girls of the house brought up a scrap of paper to the door, saying that a boy had brought it over with a cart from Shap, and that it was intended for Miss Vavasor, and it was she who knocked at the sickroom door. The note was open and was not addressed; indeed, the words were written on a scrap of paper that was crumpled up rather than folded, and were as follows: “Send me my clothes by the bearer. I shall not return to the house.” Mrs Greenow took it in to Kate, and then went away to see her nephew’s things duly put into his portmanteau. This was sent away in the cart, and Mr Vavasor, as he went upstairs, was told what had been done.
Neither on that night or on the following day did Mrs Greenow ask any further questions; but on the morning after that, when the doctor had left them with a good account of the broken limb, her curiosity would brook no further delay. And, indeed, indignation as well as curiosity urged her on. In disposition she was less easy, and, perhaps, less selfish, than her brother. If it were the case that that man had illtreated his sister, she would have sacrificed much to bring him to punishment. “Kate,” she said, when the doctor was gone, “I expect that you will tell me the whole truth as to what occurred between you and your brother when you had this accident.”
“I have told you the truth.”
“But not the whole truth.”
“All the truth I mean to tell, aunt. He has quarrelled with me, as I think, most unnecessarily, but you don’t suppose that I am going to give an exact account of the quarrel? We were both wrong, probably, and so let there be an end of it.”
“Was he violent to you when he quarrelled with you?”
“When he is angry he is always violent in his language.”
“But, did he strike you?”
“Dear aunt, don’t be angry with me if I say that I won’t be cross-examined. I would rather answer no more questions about it. I know that questioning can do no good.”
Mrs Greenow knew her niece well enough to be aware that nothing more would be told her, but she was quite sure now that Kate had not broken her arm by a simple fall. She was certain that the injury had come from positive violence. Had it not been so, Kate would not have contented herself with refusing to answer the last question that had been asked, but would also have repelled the charge made against her brother with indignation.
“You must have it your own way,” said Mrs Greenow; “but let me just tell you this, that your brother George had better keep out of my way.”
“It is probable that he will,” said Kate. “Especially if you remain here to nurse me.”
Kate’s conduct in answering all the questions made to her was not difficult, but she found that there was much difficulty in planning her own future behaviour towards her own brother. Must she abandon him altogether from henceforth; divide herself from him, as it were; have perfectly separate interests, and interests that were indeed hostile? and must she see him ruined and overwhelmed by want of money, while she had been made a rich woman by her grandfather’s will? It will be remembered that her life had hitherto been devoted to him; that all her schemes and plans had had his success as their object; that she had taught herself to consider it to be her duty to sacrifice everything to his welfare. It is very sad to abandon the only object of a life! It is very hard to tear out from one’s heart and fling away from it the only love that one has cherished! What was she to say to Alice about all this—to Alice whom she had cheated of a husband worthy of her, that she might allure her into the arms of one so utterly unworthy? Luckily for Kate, her accident was of such a nature that any writing to Alice was now out of the question.
But a blow! What woman can bear a blow from a man, and afterwards return to him with love? A wife may have to bear it and to return. And she may return with that sort of love which is a thing of custom. The man is the father of her children, and earns the bread which they eat and which she eats. Habit and the ways of the world require that she should be careful in his interests, and that she should live with him in what amity is possible to them. But as for love,—all that we mean by love when we speak of it and write of it,—a blow given by the defender to the defenceless crushes it all! A woman may forgive deceit, treachery, desertion,—even the preference given to a rival. She may forgive them and forget them; but I do not think that a woman can forget a blow. And as for forgiveness,—it is not the blow that she cannot forgive, but the meanness of spirit that made it possible.
Kate, as she thought of it, told herself that everything in life was over for her. She had long feared her brother’s nature,—had feared that he was hard and heartless; but still there had been some hope with her fear. Success, if he could be made to achieve it, would soften him, and then all might be right. But now all was wrong, and she knew that it was so. When he had compelled her to write to Alice for money, her faith in him had almost succumbed. That had been very mean, and the meanness had shocked her. But now he had asked her to perjure herself that he might have his own way, and had threatened to murder her, and had raised his hand against her because she had refused to obey him. And he had accused her of treachery to himself,—had accused her of premeditated deceit in obtaining this property for herself!
“But he does not believe it,” said Kate to herself. “He said that because he thought it would vex me; but I know he does not think it.” Kate had watched her brother longing for money all his life,—had thoroughly understood the intensity of his wish for it,—the agony of his desire. But so far removed was she from any such longing on her own account, that she could not believe that her brother would in his heart accuse her of it. How often had she offered to give him, on the instant, every shilling that she had in the world! At this moment she resolved, in her mind, that she never wished to see him more; but even now, had it been practicable, she would have made over to him, without any drawback, all her interest in the Vavasor estate.
But any such making over was impossible. John Vavasor remained in Westmoreland for a week, and during that time many discussions were, of course, held about the property. Mr Round came down from London, and met Mr Gogram at Penrith. As to the validity of the will Mr Round said that there was no shadow of a doubt. So an agent was appointed for receiving the rents, and it was agreed that the old Hall should be let in six months from that date. In the meantime Kate was to remain there till her arm should become strong, and she could make her plans for the future. Aunt Greenow promised to remain at the Hall for the present, and offered, indeed, indefinite services for the future, as though she were quite forgetful of Captain Bellfield. Of Mr Cheesacre she was not forgetful, for she still continued to speak of that gentleman to Kate, as though he were Kate’s suitor. But she did not now press upon her niece the acceptance of Mr Cheesacre’s hand as an absolute duty. Kate was mistress of a considerable fortune, and though such a marriage might be comfortable, it was no longer necessary. Mrs Greenow called him poor Cheesacre, pointing out how easily he might be managed, and how indubitable were his possessions; but she no longer spoke of Kate’s chances in the marriage market as desperate, even though she should decline the Cheesacre alliance.
“A young woman, with six hundred a year, my dear, may do pretty nearly what she pleases,” said aunt Greenow. “It’s better than having ten years’ grace given you.”
“And will last longer, certainly,” said Kate.
Kate’s desire was that Alice should come down to her for a while in Westmoreland, before the six months were over, and this desire she mentioned to her uncle. He promised to carry the message up to Alice, but could not be got to say more than that upon the subject. Then Mr Vavasor went away, leaving the aunt and niece together at the Hall.
“What
