Alice had had a week allowed to her to write her answer; but she sent it off before the full week was past. "Why should I keep him in suspense?" she said. "If it is to be so, there can be no good in not saying so at once." Then she thought, also, that if this were to be her destiny it might be well for Mr. Grey that all his doubts on the matter should be dispelled. She had treated him badly,--very badly. She had so injured him that the remembrance of the injury must always be a source of misery to her; but she owed to him above everything to let him know what were her intentions as soon as they were settled. She tried to console herself by thinking that the wound to him would be easy to cure. "He also is not passionate," she said. But in so saying she deceived herself. He was a man in whom Love could be very passionate;--and was, moreover, one in whom Love could hardly be renewed.
Each morning Kate asked her whether her answer was written; and on the third day after Christmas, just before dinner, Alice said that she had written it, and that it was gone.
"But it isn't post-day," said Kate;--for the post illuminated Vavasor but three days a week.
"I have given a boy sixpence to take it to Shap," said Alice, blushing.
"And what have you said?" asked Kate, taking hold of the other's arm.
"I have kept my promise," said Alice; "and do you keep yours by asking no further questions."
"My sister,--my own sister," said Kate. And then, as Alice met her embrace, there was no longer any doubt as to the nature of the reply.
After this there was of course much close discussion between them as to what other steps should now be taken. Kate wanted her cousin to write immediately to Mr. Grey, and was somewhat frightened when Alice declined to do so till she had received a further letter from George. "You have not proposed any horrid stipulations to him?" exclaimed Kate.
"I don't know what you may call horrid stipulations," said Alice, gravely. "My conditions have not been very hard, and I do not think you would have disapproved them."
"But he!--He is so impetuous! Will he disapprove them?"
"I have told him-- But, Kate, this is just what I did not mean to tell you."
"Why should there be secrets between us?" said Kate.
"There shall be none, then. I have told him that I cannot bring myself to marry him instantly;--that he must allow me twelve months to wear off, if I can in that time, much of sadness and of self-reproach which has fallen to my lot."
"Twelve months, Alice?"
"Listen to me. I have said so. But I have told him also that if he wishes it still, I will at once tell papa and grandpapa that I hold myself as engaged to him, so that he may know that I bind myself to him as far as it is possible that I should do so. And I have added something else, Kate," she continued to say after a slight pause,--"something else which I can tell you, though I could tell it to no other person. I can tell you because you would do, and will do the same. I have told him that any portion of my money is at his service which may be needed for his purposes before that twelve months is over."
"Oh, Alice! No;--no. You shall not do that. It is too generous." And Kate perhaps felt at the moment that her brother was a man to whom such an offer could hardly be made with safety.
"But I have done it. Mercury, with sixpence in his pocket, is already posting my generosity at Shap. And, to tell the truth, Kate, it is no more than fair. He has honestly told me that while the old Squire lives he will want my money to assist him in a career of which I do much more than approve. It has been my earnest wish to see him in Parliament. It will now be the most earnest desire of my heart;--the one thing as to which I shall feel an intense anxiety. How then can I have the face to bid him wait twelve months for that which is specially needed in six months' time? It would be like the workhouses which are so long in giving bread, that in the mean time the wretches starve."
"But the wretch shan't starve," said Kate. "My money, small as it is, will carry him over this bout. I have told him that he shall have it, and that I expect him to spend it. Moreover, I have no doubt that Aunt Greenow would lend me what he wants."
"But I should not wish him to borrow from Aunt Greenow. She would advance him the money, as you say, upon stamped paper, and then talk of it."
"He shall have mine," said Kate.
"And who are you?" said Alice, laughing. "You are not going to be his wife?"
"He shall not touch your money till you are his wife," said Kate, very seriously. "I wish you would consent to change your mind about this stupid tedious year, and then you might do as you pleased. I have no doubt such a settlement might be made as to the property here, when my grandfather hears of it, as would make you ultimately safe."
"And do you think I care to be ultimately safe, as you call it? Kate, my dear, you do not understand me."
"I suppose not. And yet I thought that I had known something about you."
"It is because I do not care for the safety of which you speak that I am now going to become your brother's wife. Do you suppose that I do not see that I must run much risk?"
"You prefer the excitement of London to the tranquillity, may I say, of Cambridgeshire."
"Exactly;--and therefore I have told George that he shall have my money whenever he wants it."
Kate was very persistent in her objection to this scheme till George's answer came. His answer to Alice was accompanied by a letter to his sister, and after that Kate said nothing more about the money question. She said no more then; but it must not therefore be supposed that she was less determined than she had been that no part of Alice's fortune should be sacrificed to her brother's wants;--at any rate before Alice should become her brother's wife. But her brother's letter for the moment stopped her mouth. It would be necessary that she should speak to him before she again spoke to Alice.
In what words Alice had written her assent it will be necessary that the reader should know, in order that something may be understood of the struggle which she made upon the occasion; but they shall be given presently, when I come to speak of George Vavasor's position as he received them. George's reply was very short and apparently very frank. He deprecated the delay of twelve months, and still hoped to be able to induce her to be more lenient to him. He advised her to write to Mr. Grey at once,--and as regarded the Squire he gave her _carte blanche_ to act as she pleased. If the Squire required any kind of apology, expression of sorrow,--and asking for pardon, or such like, he, George, would, under the circumstances as they now existed, comply with the requisition most willingly. He would regard it as a simple form, made necessary by his coming marriage. As to Alice's money, he thanked her heartily for her confidence. If the nature of his coming contest at Chelsea should make it necessary, he would use her offer as frankly as it had been made. Such was his letter to Alice. What was contained in his letter to Kate, Alice never knew.
Then came the business of telling this new love tale,--the third which poor Alice had been forced to tell her father and grandfather;--and a grievous task it was. In this matter she feared her father much more than her grandfather, and therefore she resolved to tell her grandfather first;--or, rather, she determined that she would tell the Squire, and that in the mean time Kate should talk to her father.
"Grandpapa," she said to him the morning after she had received her cousin's second letter.--The old man was in the habit of breakfasting alone in a closet of his own, which was called his dressing-room, but in which he kept no appurtenances for dressing, but in lieu of them a large collection of old spuds and sticks and horse's-bits. There was a broken spade here, and a hoe or two; and a small table in the corner was covered with the debris of tradesmen's bills from Penrith, and dirty scraps which he was wont to call his farm accounts.--"Grandpapa," said Alice, rushing away at once into the middle of her subject, "you told me the other day that you thought I ought to be--married."
"Did I, my dear? Well, yes; so I did. And so you ought;--I mean to that Mr. Grey."
"That is impossible, sir."
"Then what's the use of your coming and talking to me about it?"
This made Alice's task not very easy; but, nevertheless, she persevered. "I am come, grandpapa, to tell you of another engagement."
"Another!" said he. And by the tone of his voice he accused his granddaughter of having a larger number of favoured suitors than ought to fall to the lot of any young lady. It was very hard upon her, but still she went on.
"You know," said she, "that some years ago I was to have been married to my cousin George;"--and then she paused.
"Well," said the old man.
"And I remember you told me then that you were much pleased."
"So I was. George was doing well then; or,--which is more likely,--had made us believe that he was doing well. Have you made it up with him again?"
"Yes, sir."
"And that's the meaning of your jilting Mr. Grey, is it?"
Poor Alice! It is hard to explain how heavy a blow fell upon her from the open utterance of that word! Of all words in the language it was the one which she now most dreaded. She had called herself a jilt, with that inaudible voice which one uses in making self-accusations;--but hitherto no lips had pronounced the odious word to her ears. Poor Alice! She was a jilt; and perhaps it may have been well that the old man should tell her so.
"Grandpapa!" she said; and there was that in the tone of her voice which somewhat softened the Squire's heart.
"Well, my dear, I don't want to be ill-natured. So you are going at last to marry George, are you? I hope he'll treat you well; that's all. Does your father approve of it?"
"I have told you first, sir;--because I wish to obtain your consent to seeing George again here as your grandson."
"Never," said the old man, snarling;--"never!"
"If he has been wrong, he will beg your pardon."
"If he has been wrong! Didn't he want to squander every shilling of the property,--property which has never belonged to him;--property which I could give to Tom, Dick, or Harry to-morrow, if I liked?--If he has been wrong!"
"I am not defending him, sir;--but I thought that, perhaps, on such an occasion as this--"
"A Tom Fool's occasion! You've got money of your own. He'll spend all that now."
"He will be less likely to do so if you will recognise him as your heir. Pray believe, sir, that he is not the sort of man that he was."
"He must be a very clever sort of man, I think, when he has talked you out of such a husband as John Grey. It's astounding to me,--with that ugly mug of his! Well, my dear, if your father approves of it, and if George will ask my pardon,--but I don't think he ever will--"
"He will, sir. I am his messenger for as much as that."
"Oh, you are, are you? Then you may also be my messenger to him, and tell him that, for your sake, I will let him come back here. I know he'll insult me the first day; but I'll try and put up with it,--for your sake, my dear. Of course I must know what your father thinks about it."
It may be imagined that Kate's success was even less than that which Alice achieved. "I knew it would be so," said John Vavasor, when his niece first told him;--and as he spoke he struck his hand upon the table. "I knew all along how it would be."
"And why should it not be so, Uncle John?"
"He is your brother, and I will not tell you why."
"You think that he is a spendthrift?"
"I think that he is as unsafe a man as ever I knew to be intrusted with the happiness of any young woman. That is all."
"You are hard upon him, uncle."
"Perhaps so. Tell Alice this from me,--that as I have never yet been able to get her to think anything of my opinion, I do not at all expect that I shall be able to induce her to do so now. I will not even make the attempt. As my son-in-law I will not receive George Vavasor. Tell Alice that."
Alice was told her father's message; but Kate in telling it felt no deep regret. She well knew that Alice would not be turned back from her present intention by her father's wishes. Nor would it have been very reasonable that she should. Her father had for many years relieved himself from the burden of a father's cares, and now had hardly the right to claim a father's privileges.
We will now go once again to George Vavasor's room in Cecil Street, in which he received Alice's letter. He was dressing when it was first brought to him; and when he recognised the handwriting he put it down on his toilet table unopened. He put it down, and went on brushing his hair, as though he were determined to prove to himself that he was indifferent as to the tidings which it might contain. He went on brushing his hair, and cleaning his teeth, and tying his cravat carefully over his turned-down collar, while the unopened letter lay close to his hand. Of course he was thinking of it,--of course he was anxious,--of course his eye went to it from moment to moment. But he carried it with him into the sitting-room still unopened, and so it remained until after the girl had brought him his tea and his toast. "And now," said he, as he threw himself into his arm-chair, "let us see what the girl of my heart says to me." The girl of his heart said to him as follows:--
MY DEAR GEORGE,
I feel great difficulty in answering your letter. Could I have my own way, I should make no answer to it at present, but leave it for the next six months, so that then such answer might hereafter be made as circumstances should seem to require. This will be little flattering to you, but it is less flattering to myself. Whatever answer I may make, how can anything in this affair be flattering either to you or to me? We have been like children who have quarrelled over our game of play, till now, at the close of our little day of pleasure, we are fain to meet each other in tears, and acknowledge that we have looked for delights where no delights were to be found.
Kate, who is here, talks to me of passionate love. There is no such passion left to me;--nor, as I think, to you either. It would not now be possible that you and I should come together on such terms as that. We could not stand up together as man and wife with any hope of a happy marriage, unless we had both agreed that such happiness might be had without passionate love.
You will see from all this that I do not refuse your offer. Without passion, I have for you a warm affection, which enables me to take a livelier interest in your career than in any other of the matters which are around me. Of course, if I become your wife that interest will be still closer and dearer, and I do feel that I can take in it that concern which a wife should have in her husband's affairs.
If it suits you, I will become your wife;--but it cannot be quite at once. I have suffered much from the past conflicts of my life, and there has been very much with which I must reproach myself. I know that I have behaved badly. Sometimes I have to undergo the doubly bitter self-accusation of having behaved in a manner which the world will call unfeminine. You must understand that I have not passed through this unscathed, and I must beg you to allow me some time for a cure. A perfect cure I may never expect, but I think that in twelve months from this time I may so far have recovered my usual spirit and ease of mind as to enable me to devote myself to your happiness. Dear George, if you will accept me under such circumstances, I will be your wife, and will endeavour to do my duty by you faithfully.
I have said that even now, as your cousin, I take a lively interest in your career,--of course I mean your career as a politician,--and especially in your hopes of entering Parliament. I understand, accurately as I think, what you have said about my fortune, and I perfectly appreciate your truth and frankness. If I had nothing of my own you, in your circumstances, could not possibly take me as your wife. I know, moreover, that your need of assistance from my means is immediate rather than prospective. My money may be absolutely necessary to you within this year, during which, as I tell you most truly, I cannot bring myself to become a married woman. But my money shall be less cross-grained than myself. You will take it as frankly as I mean it when I say, that whatever you want for your political purposes shall be forthcoming at your slightest wish. Dear George, let me have the honour and glory of marrying a man who has gained a seat in the Parliament of Great Britain! Of all positions which a man may attain that, to me, is the grandest.
I shall wait for a further letter from you before I speak either to my father or to my grandfather. If you can tell me that you accede to my views, I will at once try to bring about a reconciliation between you and the Squire. I think that that will be almost easier than inducing my father to look with favour upon our marriage. But I need hardly say that should either one or the other oppose it,--or should both do so,--that would not turn me from my purpose.
I also wait for your answer to write a last line to Mr. Grey.
Your affectionate cousin,
ALICE VAVASOR.
George Vavasor when he had read the letter threw it carelessly from him on to the breakfast table, and began to munch his toast. He threw it carelessly from him, as though taking a certain pride in his carelessness. "Very well," said he; "so be it. It is probably the best thing that I could do, whatever the effect may be on her." Then he took up his newspaper. But before the day was over he had made many plans,--plans made almost unconsciously,--as to the benefit which might accrue to him from the offer which she had made of her money. And before night he had written that reply to her of which we have heard the contents; and had written also to his sister Kate a letter, of which Kate had kept the contents to herself.

Alice had a week to write her answer; but she sent it off before the full week was past.
"Why should I keep him in suspense?" she thought. She thought, also, that it might be well for Mr. Grey that all his doubts on the matter should be dispelled. She had treated him very badly; but she owed it to him to let him know her intentions. She tried to console herself by thinking that his wound would be easy to cure. "He is not passionate," she said. But she deceived herself.
Each morning Kate asked her whether her answer was written; and on the third day after Christmas, Alice said that she had written it, and that it was gone.
"And what have you said?" asked Kate.
"I have kept my promise," said Alice; "and do you keep yours by asking no further questions."
"My sister - my own sister," said Kate. And as Alice met her embrace, there could be no doubt about the nature of the reply.
After this they discussed what other steps should now be taken. Kate wanted her cousin to write immediately to Mr. Grey, and was somewhat frightened when Alice declined to do so till she had received a further letter from George.
"You have not proposed any horrid stipulations to him?" exclaimed Kate.
"I don't know what you may call horrid stipulations," said Alice gravely. "My conditions have not been very hard. I have told him that I cannot bring myself to marry him instantly; that he must allow me twelve months to wear off, if I can, the sadness and self-reproach I must feel."
"Twelve months, Alice?"
"I have said so. But I have told him also that if he wishes it, I will at once tell papa and grandpapa that I am engaged to him, so that he may know that I bind myself to him. And I have added something else, Kate," she continued after a slight pause, "something I could tell no other person. I can tell you because you would do the same. I have told him that my money is at his service if any is needed for his purposes before that year is over."
"Oh, Alice! No. That is too generous." Kate perhaps felt that her brother was a man to whom such an offer could hardly be made with safety.
"But I have done it. And, Kate, it is no more than fair. He has honestly told me that he will need my money to assist him in his career. It has been my earnest wish to see him in Parliament. How then can I bid him wait twelve months?"
"But my money, small as it is, will carry him over till then. I have told him that I expect him to spend it. Moreover, I have no doubt that Aunt Greenow would lend me what he wants."
"But I should not wish him to borrow from Aunt Greenow."
"He shall not touch your money till you are his wife," said Kate, very seriously. "I wish you would change your mind about this stupid year. I have no doubt a settlement might be made from the property here, by my grandfather, to make you ultimately safe."
"And do you think I care to be ultimately safe, as you call it? Kate, my dear, you do not understand me."
"I suppose not."
"It is because I do not care for that safety that I am going to become your brother's wife. Do you think I do not see the risk? But George shall have my money whenever he wants it."
Kate was very persistent in her objection to this till George's answer came. He enclosed a letter to his sister, and after that Kate said nothing more about the money. She felt the same way about it, but her brother's letter stopped her mouth.
In what words Alice had written her assent the reader will be told later. George's reply to it was very short and apparently very frank. He regretted the delay of twelve months, and hoped to be able to induce her to be more lenient to him. He advised her to write to Mr. Grey at once, and to tell the Squire if she pleased. If the Squire required any apology from George, he would comply most willingly.
As to Alice's money, he thanked her heartily for her confidence in him. If the coming contest at Chelsea should make it necessary, he would use her offer. Such was his letter to Alice. What was contained in his letter to Kate, Alice never knew.
Then came the business of telling this new love tale to Alice's father and grandfather; and a grievous task it was. In this matter she feared her father much more than her grandfather, so she decided that she would tell the Squire, and that meanwhile Kate should talk to her father.
She went to the room where the old man breakfasted alone. It contained a broken spade, a hoe or two and some horses' bits; and a small table in the corner was covered with tradesmen's bills from Penrith, and dirty scraps which he called his farm accounts.
"Grandpapa," said Alice, "you told me the other day that you thought I ought to be - married."
"So I did. And so you ought, to that Mr. Grey."
"That is impossible, sir."
"Then what's the use of your coming and talking to me about it?"
"I am come, grandpapa, to tell you of another engagement."
"Another!"
"You know that some years ago I was to have married my cousin George." She paused. "And I remember you told me that you were much pleased."
"So I was. George was doing well then; or had made us believe that he was doing well. Have you made it up with him again?"
"Yes, sir."
"And that's why you jilted Mr. Grey, is it?"
Poor Alice! No-one till now had said that odious word to her. But she was a jilt; and perhaps it may have been well that the old man should tell her so.
"Grandpapa!" she said; and her tone softened the Squire's heart.
"Well, my dear, I don't want to be ill-natured. So you are going to marry George, are you? I hope he'll treat you well, that's all. Does your father approve?"
"I have told you first, sir, because I wish to obtain your consent to receiving George here as your grandson."
"Never," said the old man, snarling; "never!"
"If he has been wrong, he will beg your pardon."
"If he has been wrong! Didn't he want to squander every shilling of the property? -If he has been wrong!"
"I am not defending him, sir; but I thought that, perhaps"
"You've got money of your own. He'll spend all that now."
"He will be less likely to do so if you will recognise him as your heir. Pray believe, sir, that he is not the sort of man that he was."
"He must be a very clever sort of man, I think, when he has talked you out of such a husband as John Grey. It's astounding to me! Well, my dear, if your father approves of it, and if George will ask my pardon; but I don't think he ever will."
"He will, sir."
"Well, you can tell him that, for your sake, I'll let him come here. I know he'll insult me; but I'll try and put up with it - for your sake, my dear. But I must know what your father thinks about it."
Kate had even less success than Alice.
"I knew it would be so," said John Vavasor, when his niece told him; and he struck his hand upon the table.
"Why should it not be so, Uncle John?"
"He is your brother, and I will not tell you why."
"You think that he is a spendthrift?"
"I think that he is as unsafe a man as ever. That is all."
"You are hard upon him, uncle."
"Perhaps so. Tell Alice that as I have never yet been able to influence her, I do not expect that I shall be able to do so now. I will not even try. But I will not receive George Vavasor as my son-in-law. Tell Alice that."
Alice was told her father's message; but Kate felt deep regret about it. She knew that Alice would not be turned back by her father's wishes. Her father had for many years relieved himself from the burden of a father's cares, and now had hardly the right to claim a father's privileges.
We will now return to George Vavasor's room in Cecil Street, where he received Alice's letter. He was dressing when it was brought to him; and he put it down, and went on brushing his hair, as though to prove to himself that he was indifferent about its contents. He cleaned his teeth, and tied his cravat carefully, while the unopened letter lay close by. His eye went to it from time to time; but he carried it with him into the sitting-room still unopened. After the girl had brought him his breakfast, he opened it, and read:
My dear George,
I feel great difficulty in answering your letter. Could I have my own way, I should make no answer at present, but leave it for the next six months. We have been like children who have quarrelled over our game, till now, at the close of our little day of pleasure, we meet each other in tears, and acknowledge that we have looked for delights where no delights were to be found.
Kate talks to me of passionate love. There is no such passion left to me; nor, I think, to you either. It would not now be possible that you and I should come together on such terms as that. We could not marry with any hope of happiness, unless we had both agreed that happiness might be had without passionate love.
You will see from all this that I do not refuse your offer. Without passion, I have for you a warm affection, which enables me to take a lively interest in your career. Of course, if I become your wife that interest will be still closer and dearer.
If it suits you, I will become your wife; but it cannot be quite at once. I have suffered much from the past conflicts of my life, and there has been much with which I must reproach myself. I know that I have behaved badly, and in a manner which the world will call unfeminine. I must beg you to allow me some time for a cure. I think that in twelve months I may so far have recovered my usual spirit as to enable me to devote myself to your happiness. Dear George, if you will accept me under such circumstances, I will be your wife, and will endeavour to do my duty by you faithfully.
I have said that I take a lively interest in your career as a politician, especially in your hopes of entering Parliament. I understand what you have said about my fortune, and I perfectly appreciate your frankness. If I had no fortune you could not possibly take me as your wife. I know, moreover, that my money may be necessary to you within this year. Therefore, even before we marry, whatever you want for your political purposes shall be forthcoming at your wish. Dear George, let me have the honour and glory of marrying a man who has gained a seat in the Parliament of Great Britain! Of all positions which a man may attain that, to me, is the grandest.
I shall wait for a further letter from you before I speak either to my father or to my grandfather. If you agree, I will try to bring about a reconciliation between you and the Squire. I think that will be almost easier than inducing my father to look with favour upon our marriage. But I need hardly say that should either of them oppose it, that would not turn me from my purpose.
Your affectionate cousin,
Alice Vavasor.
After reading this letter George Vavasor threw it carelessly on to the breakfast table, as if taking pride in his carelessness, and began to munch his toast.
"Very well," said he; "so be it. It is probably the best thing that I could do." Then he took up his newspaper. But before the day was over he had made many plans about the use he could make of her money. And before night he had written his reply to her, and his letter to Kate.

Chapter 32: Containing an Answer to the Love Letter


"George," said Kate, speaking before she quite got up to them, "will you tell me whether you have been preparing all your things for an open sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and having learned from that glance that something had occurred which prevented Alice from joining her in her raillery, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and give her time to rally before they should all move. "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table--"
"A man must shave,--even at Basle."
"But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and a small collection of combs, and four or five little glass bottles, looking as though they contained poison,--all with silver tops. I can only suppose you desired to startle the weak mind of the chambermaid. I have put them all up; but remember this, if they are taken out again you are responsible. And I will not put up your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots at Basle?"
"When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it."
"Oh, yes; I shall like it."
"Come along then," said Kate. And so they moved away. When they got upon the bridge Alice and Kate were together, while George strolled behind them, close to them, but not taking any part in their conversation,--as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate seemed to be perfectly content with this arrangement, chattering to Alice, so that she might show that there was nothing serious on the minds of any of them. It need hardly be said that Alice at this time made no appeal to George to join them. He followed them at their heels, with his hands behind his back, looking down upon the pavement and simply waiting upon their pleasure.
"Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away."
"Where do you want to run to?"
"Well;--that wouldn't much signify. Perhaps I'd go to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me,--and I should have the waterfall. I'm afraid they'd want to have their bill paid. That would be the worst of it."
"But why run away just now?"
"I won't, because you wouldn't like going home with George alone,--and I suppose he'd be bound to look after me, as he's doing now. I wonder what he thinks of having to walk over the bridge after us girls. I suppose he'd be in that place down there drinking beer, if we weren't here."
"If he wanted to go, I dare say he would, in spite of us."
"That's ungrateful of you, for I'm sure we've never been kept in a moment by his failing us. But as I was saying, I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going--to Aunt Greenow."
"It's your own choice."
"No, it's not. I haven't any choice in the matter. Of course I might refuse to speak to Aunt Greenow, and nobody could make me;--but practically I haven't any choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but such a woman as that!"
"I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow always seems to me to be a very good sort of woman."
"She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's of a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?"
"No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street, but that wasn't unnatural."
"He was thirty years older than herself."
"But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and was very rich. According to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and now that she's got all his money, you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death."
"No; I wouldn't have her laugh; but neither would I have her cry. And she's quite right to wear weeds; but she needn't be so very outrageous in the depth of her hems, or so very careful that her caps are becoming. Her eyes will be worn out by their double service. They are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready every minute with a full battery of execution for any man that she sees."
"Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?"
"Just because she's got forty thousand pounds. If Mr. Greenow had left her with a bare maintenance I don't suppose I should ever have held out my hand to her."
"Then you're as bad as she is."
"Quite as bad;--and that's what makes me want to run away. But it isn't my own fault altogether. It's the fault of the world at large. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When she proposed to take me to Yarmouth, wasn't it natural that the squire should ask me to go? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' One can't pretend to be wiser or better than one's relatives. And after all what can I expect from her money?"
"Nothing, I should say."
"Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. I will say of myself, too, that no person living cares less for money."
"I should think no one."
"Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her? Perhaps you'll think the object as mean as though I wanted her money myself."
"Why is it?"
"Because it is on the cards that she may help George in his career. I do not want money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would have eaten me. I really did think he would have turned me out of the house."
"And serve you right too after what had happened."
"I didn't care. Let him turn me out. I was determined he should know what I thought. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at what he had done that he came and kissed me that night in my bedroom, and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it as a contribution to the next election and George has it now locked up in a box. Don't you tell him that I told you."
Then they stopped and leaned for a while over the parapet of the bridge. "Come here, George," said Kate; and she made room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there as those boys were doing when we went out into the balcony? The water looks so enticing."
"I can't say I should;--unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world."
"I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate; "particularly by this light. I can't fancy in the least that I should be drowned."
"I can't fancy anything else," said Alice.
"It would be so pleasant to feel the water gliding along one's limbs, and to be carried away headlong,--knowing that you were on the direct road to Rotterdam."
"And so arrive there without your clothes," said George.
"They would be brought after in a boat. Didn't you see that those boys had a boat with them? But if I lived here, I'd never do it except by moonlight. The water looks so clear and bright now, and the rushing sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that I suppose."
Neither of them any longer answered her, and yet she went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and her prospects at Yarmouth. Neither of them answered her, and yet it seemed that they had not a word to say to each other. But still they stood there looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was to be heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech.
At last Alice seemed to shiver. There was a slight trembling in her arms, which George felt rather than saw. "You are cold," he said.
"No indeed."
"If you are let us go in. I thought you shivered with the night air."
"It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?"
"Indeed I do, very often;--so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly. Otherwise people would think I had the palsy."
"I don't mean things of moment," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it;--perhaps a word that I said and ought not to have said ten years ago;--the most ordinary little mistakes, even my own past thoughts to myself about the merest trifles. They are always making me shiver."
"It's not because you have committed any murder then."
"No; but it's my conscience all the same, I suppose."
"Ah! I'm not so good as you. I doubt it's not my conscience at all. When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then it is that I shiver. But, as I tell you, I shiver inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We've to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed."
"Are you tired of being out?" said Kate, when the other two began to move.
"Not tired of being out, but George reminds me that we have to be up at five."
"I wish George would hold his tongue. We can't come to the bridge at Basle every night in our lives. If one found oneself at the top of Sinai I'm afraid the first feeling would be one of fear lest one wouldn't be down in time to dress for dinner. Are you aware, George, that the king of rivers is running beneath your feet, and that the moon is shining with a brilliance you never see at home?"
"I'll stay here all night if you'll put off going to-morrow," said George.
"Our money wouldn't hold out," said Kate.
"Don't talk about Sinai any more after that," said he, "but let's go in to bed."
They walked across the bridge back to the hotel in the same manner as before, the two girls going together with the young man after them, and so they went up the front steps of the hotel, through the hall, and on to the stairs. Here George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her. "My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night." She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though what he had said had meant nothing;--but she couldn't do it; the light speech would not come to her. She was conscious of all this, and went away to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms opened through from one to the other, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin should come.
But Kate had gone with her brother, promising, as she did so, that she would be back in half a minute. That half minute was protracted beyond half an hour. "If you'll take my advice," said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it to-morrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity."
"And bid her throw John Grey over!"
"Don't say anything about John Grey; leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer."
"Kate, you women never understand each other. If I were to do that, all her most powerful feelings would be arrayed in arms against me. I must leave her to find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement."
"She has found that out long ago. Do you think I don't know what she wishes? But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes."
"Bring myself! I've never been very slow in bringing myself to speak to any one when there was need. It isn't very pleasant sometimes, but I do it, if I find occasion."
"But surely it must be pleasant with her. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?"
"Upon my word I don't know."
"Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd go to her at once and bid her never see you again."
"Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone."
"Then I will. But of all human beings, surely you're the most ungrateful."
"Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?"
"But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his,--as though he was always bethinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes."
"I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it."
"If you're going to preach morals, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody,--and I sometimes doubt whether you ever did,--but if you did, you loved her."
"Did and do are different things."
"Very well, George; then I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me."
"Upon my word, Kate, I think you'd better go to bed."
"But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again."
"Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?"
"No;--if I thought so, I would have no hand in doing it. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but I've nothing to do with that. It's nothing to me if he breaks his heart."
"I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed."
With that she went away and hurried along the corridor, till she came to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, or rather kneeling on the chair, with her head out through the lattice. "Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing."
"You said we'd do it together."
"But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?"
"I don't think he ever will," said Alice.
"Don't you? I dare say you understand him better than I do. Sometimes I think that the only thing wanting to make him thoroughly good, is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments with him when he is very wild; but he never is cruel and never hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?"
"Never; nor yet wild."
"Oh, certainly not that. I'm quite sure he's never wild."
"When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him."
"No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild,--wild in my sense. You knew that before."
"I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?"
"Ah! that's a question I've never asked myself. I've been often curious to consider what sort of husband would suit you, but I've had very few thoughts about a husband for myself. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since--"
"Ever since what?"
"Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end,--unless one thing should happen."
"And what's that?"
"Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else."
"Kate, you shouldn't allude to such a thing now. You know that it's impossible."
"Well, perhaps so. As far as I'm concerned, it is all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world;--literally nothing--nothing--nothing--nothing!"
"Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice came up to her and embraced her.
"Go away," said she. "Go, Alice; you and I must part. I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. If you became George's wife I should become nobody. I've nothing else in the world. You and he would be so all-sufficient for each other, that I should drop away from you like an old garment. But I'd give up all, everything, every hope I have, to see you become George's wife. I know myself not to be good. I know myself to be very bad, and yet I care nothing for myself. Don't Alice, don't; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall.
"Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way."
"Of course I shouldn't,--but I do."
"You, who know everything, must know that I cannot marry your brother,--even if he wished it."
"He does wish it."
"Not though I were under no other engagement."
"And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "What is there to separate you from George now, but that unfortunate affair, that will end in the misery of you all. Do you think I can't see? Don't I know which of the two men you like best?"
"You are making me sorry, Kate, that I have ventured to come here in your brother's company. It is not only unkind of you to talk to me in this way, but worse than that--it is indelicate."
"Oh, indelicate! How I do hate that word. If any word in the language reminds me of a whited sepulchre it is that;--all clean and polished outside with filth and rottenness within. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. That may be delicate enough if you love him truly, and feel yourself fitted to be his wife; but it's about the most indelicate thing you can do, if you love any one better than him. Delicacy with many women is like their cleanliness. Nothing can be nicer than the whole outside get-up, but you wouldn't wish to answer for anything beneath."
"If you think ill of me like that--"
"No; I don't think ill of you. How can I think ill of you when I know that all your difficulties have come from him? It hasn't been your fault; it has been his throughout. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Grey come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival in your estimation? It is Hyperion to Satyr."
"And which is the Satyr?"
"I'll leave your heart to tell you. You know what is the darling wish of my heart. But, Alice, if I thought that Mr. Grey was to you Hyperion,--if I thought that you could marry him with that sort of worshipping, idolatrous love which makes a girl proud as well as happy in her marriage, I wouldn't raise a little finger to prevent it."
To this Alice made no answer, and then Kate allowed the matter to drop. Alice made no answer, though she felt that she was allowing judgement to go against her by default in not doing so. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have maintained the excellence of her present position as the affianced bride of Mr. Grey, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had, in some sort, acknowledged that the match was one to be deplored;--that her words in her own defence would by no means have satisfied Mr. Grey, if Mr. Grey could have heard them;--that they would have induced him to offer her back her troth rather than have made him happy as a lover. But she had nothing further to say. She could do something. She would hurry home and bid him name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her in her career.
It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to prepare for their morning start, and Alice, when they had finished their packing, seemed to be worn out with fatigue. "If you are tired, dear, we'll put it off," said Kate. "Not for worlds," said Alice. "For half a word we'll do it," continued Kate. "I'll slip out to George and tell him, and there's nothing he'd like so much." But Alice would not consent.
About two they got into bed, and punctually at six they were at the railway station. "Don't speak to me," said George, when he met them at their door in the passage. "I shall only yawn in your face." However, they were in time,--which means abroad that they were at the station half an hour before their train started,--and they went on upon their journey to Strasbourg.
There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were but two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river.

"George," said Kate as she approached them, "have you been preparing all your things for sale by auction?" Then she stole a look at Alice, and gathering that something had occurred, she went on rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, "Would you believe it? he had three razors laid out on his table-"
"A man must shave, even at Basle."
"But not with three razors at once; and three hair-brushes, and half a dozen toothbrushes, and several combs and little glass bottles. I have packed them all; but now you are responsible for them. And I will not pack your boots, George. What can you have wanted with three pairs of boots?"
"When you have completed the list of my wardrobe we'll go out upon the bridge. That is, if Alice likes it."
"Oh, yes; I shall like it."
"Come along, then," said Kate. And so they moved away, Alice and Kate together, while George strolled behind, close to them, but not joining in their conversation - as though he had merely gone with them as an escort. Kate was chattering to Alice to show that there was nothing serious on their minds. George followed them with his hands behind his back, looking down at the pavement.
"Do you know," said Kate, "I have a very great mind to run away - perhaps to the little inn at Handek. It's a lonely place, where nobody would hear of me - and I should have the waterfall."
"But why run away just now?"
"I won't. But I do dread going home. You are going to John Grey, which may be pleasant enough; but I'm going to Aunt Greenow."
"It's your own choice."
"No, it's not. I haven't any real choice in the matter. Fancy a month at Yarmouth with no companion but her!"
"I shouldn't mind it. Aunt Greenow seems to be a very good sort of woman."
"She may be a good woman, but I must say I think she's a bad sort. You've never heard her talk about her husband?"
"No, never; I think she did cry a little the first day she came to Queen Anne Street after he died, but that was natural."
"He was thirty years older than her."
"But still he was her husband. And even if her tears are assumed, what of that? What's a woman to do? Of course she was wrong to marry him. She was thirty-five, and had nothing, while he was sixty-five, and very rich. But according to all accounts she made him a very good wife, and you wouldn't have her go about laughing within three months of his death."
"No; but she needn't be so outrageous in wearing her mourning, or so very careful that her widow's caps are becoming. Her eyes are always red with weeping, and yet she is ready to flutter her eyelids at any man she sees."
"Then why have you consented to go to Yarmouth with her?"
"Because she's rich. It's the fault of the world. Does anybody ever drop their rich relatives? When I told George, wasn't it natural that he should say, 'Oh, go by all means. She's got forty thousand pounds!' And what can I expect from her money?"
"Nothing, I should say."
"Not a halfpenny. I'm nearly thirty and she's only forty, and of course she'll marry again. As for me, nobody cares less for money. Yet one sticks to one's rich relatives. It's the way of the world." Then she paused a moment. "But shall I tell you, Alice, why I do stick to her?"
"Why?"
"Because it's possible that she may help George in his career. I do not need money, but he may. And for such purposes as his, I think it fair that all the family should contribute. I feel sure that he would make a name for himself in Parliament; and if I had my way I would spend every shilling of Vavasor money in putting him there. When I told the squire so I thought he would turn me out of the house. He swore at me; and then he was so unhappy at swearing that he came and kissed me and gave me a ten-pound note. What do you think I did with it? I sent it to George as a contribution to the next election. Don't tell him that I told you."
They stopped and leaned over the parapet of the bridge.
"Come here, George," said Kate, making room for him between herself and Alice. "Wouldn't you like to be swimming down there? The water looks so enticing."
"I can't say I should; unless it might be a pleasant way of swimming into the next world."
"I should so like to feel myself going with the stream," said Kate. "I can't imagine that I should be drowned."
"I can't imagine anything else," said Alice.
"It would be so pleasant to be carried away headlong to Rotterdam."
"And arrive there without your clothes," said George.
"They would be brought after in a boat. The water looks so clear and bright in the moonlight, and the sound of it is so soft! The sea at Yarmouth won't be anything like that, I suppose."
She went on talking about the river, and their aunt, and Yarmouth. Still they stood looking down upon the river, and every now and then Kate's voice was heard, preventing the feeling which might otherwise have arisen that their hearts were too full for speech.
At last Alice seemed to shiver.
"You are cold," said George.
"It wasn't that. I was thinking of something. Don't you ever think of things that make you shiver?"
"Indeed I do - so often that I have to do my shiverings inwardly."
"I don't mean important things," said Alice. "Little bits of things make me do it; perhaps a word that I ought not to have said ten years ago. The most ordinary little mistakes are always making me shiver."
"Ah! When I think of a chance I've let go by, as I have thousands, then I shiver - but inwardly. I've been in one long shiver ever since we came out because of one chance that I let go by. Come, we'll go in. We have to be up at five o'clock, and now it's eleven. I'll do the rest of my shivering in bed."
They walked back to the hotel. On the stairs George handed Alice her candle, and as he did so he whispered a few words to her.
"My shivering fit has to come yet," said he, "and will last me the whole night."
She would have given much to be able to answer him lightly, as though he had meant nothing; but she couldn't. She went to her own room without answering him at all. Here she sat down at the window looking out upon the river till Kate should join her. Their rooms adjoined, and she would not begin her packing till her cousin came.
But Kate was with her brother.
"If you'll take my advice," said Kate to him, with her candle in her hand, "you'll ask her to give you another chance. Do it tomorrow at Strasbourg; you'll never have a better opportunity."
"And bid her throw John Grey over!"
"Don't say anything about John Grey. Leave her to settle that herself. She has quite courage enough to dispose of John Grey, if she has courage enough to accept your offer."
"Kate, you women never understand each other. She must find out first that she wishes to be rid of her engagement."
"She has found that out long ago, I am sure of it. But if you can't bring yourself to speak to her, she'll marry him in spite of her wishes. You must be glad to find that she still loves you. You still love her, I suppose?"
"Upon my word I don't know."
"Don't provoke me, George. I'm moving heaven and earth to bring you two together; but if I didn't think you loved her, I'd tell her never to see you again."
"Upon my word, Kate, I sometimes think it would be better if you'd leave heaven and earth alone. Why shouldn't she marry John Grey if she likes him?"
"But she doesn't like him. And I hate him. I hate the sound of his voice, and the turn of his eye, and that slow, steady movement of his - as though he was always reminding himself not to wear out his clothes."
"I don't see that your hating him ought to have anything to do with it."
"If you're going to preach, I'll leave you. It's the darling wish of my heart that she should be your wife. If you ever loved anybody, you loved her."
"Did and do are different things."
"Very well, George; I have done. It has been the same in every twist and turn of my life. In everything that I have striven to do for you, you have thrown yourself over, in order that I might be thrown over too. But I believe you say this merely to vex me."
"Kate, I think you'd better go to bed."
"But not till I've told her everything. I won't leave her to be deceived and ill-used again."
"Who is ill-using her now? Is it not the worst of ill-usage, trying to separate her from that man?"
"No. She would be miserable with him, and make him miserable as well. She does not really love him. He loves her, but it's nothing to me if he breaks his heart."
"I shall break mine if you don't let me go to bed."
With that she went away to her cousin's room. She found Alice still seated at the window, with her head out through the lattice.
"Why, you lazy creature," said Kate; "I declare you haven't touched a thing."
"You said we'd do it together."
"But he has kept me. Oh, what a man he is! If he ever does get married, what will his wife do with him?"
"I don't think he ever will," said Alice.
"Don't you? Sometimes I think that the only thing needed to make him thoroughly good is a wife. But it isn't every woman that would do for him. And the woman who marries him should have high courage. There are moments when he is very wild; but he is never cruel or hard. Is Mr. Grey ever hard?"
"Never; nor wild."
"Oh, I'm quite sure he's never wild."
"When you say that, Kate, I know that you mean to abuse him."
"No; upon my word. What's the good of abusing him to you? I like a man to be wild, wild in my sense. You know that."
"I wonder whether you'd like a wild man for yourself?"
"Ah! I've never asked myself what sort of husband I would like. The truth is, I'm married to George. Ever since-"
"Ever since what?"
"Since you and he were parted, I've had nothing to do in life but to stick to him. And I shall do so to the end, unless one thing should happen."
"And what's that?"
"Unless you should become his wife after all. He will never marry anybody else."
"Kate, you shouldn't say such a thing. You know that it's impossible."
"Well, perhaps so. And it's all the better for me. If George ever married, I should have nothing to do in the world; literally nothing!"
"Kate, don't talk in that way," and Alice embraced her.
"Go away," said Kate. "Oh, Alice, I cannot bear it any longer. You must know it all. When you are married to John Grey, our friendship must be over. But I'd give up everything to see you become George's wife. I know I'm not good. Don't, Alice; I don't want your caresses. Caress him, and I'll kneel at your feet and cover them with kisses." She had now thrown herself upon a sofa, and had turned her face away to the wall.
"Kate, you shouldn't speak in that way."
"Of course I shouldn't - but I do."
"You know that I cannot marry your brother - even if he wished it."
"He does wish it."
"Not even if I were bound to no other engagement."
"And why not?" said Kate, again starting up. "That engagement will end in misery. Do you think I can't see which of the two men you like best?"
"You are making me sorry, Kate, that I ventured to come here with your brother. It is not only unkind of you, it is indelicate."
"Oh, indelicate! How I hate that word. Are your thoughts delicate? that's the thing. You are engaged to marry John Grey. If you love anyone better, marrying him is about the most indelicate thing you can do."
"If you think ill of me like that-"
"No; I don't think ill of you. It hasn't been your fault; it has been his. It is he who has driven you to sacrifice yourself on this altar. If we can, both of us, manage to lay aside all delicacy and pretence, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. If Mr. Grey had come to you while things were smooth between you and George, would you have thought it possible that he could be George's rival?"
Alice made no answer. She had intended to fight bravely, and to have shown the excellence of her position as Mr. Grey's fiance, but she felt that she had failed. She felt that she had somehow acknowledged that the match was to be deplored. But she would hurry home and bid Mr. Grey name the earliest day he pleased. After that her cousin would cease to disturb her.
It was nearly one o'clock before the two girls began to pack, and about two when they got into bed. At six they were at the railway station. Half an hour later they were on their way to Strasbourg.
There is nothing further to be told of their tour. They were two days and nights on the road from Basle to London; and during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage, nor was any allusion made to the balcony at the inn, or the bridge over the river.


Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse. Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men.
It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute. At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed, considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that she was going to be married to an old man.
She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side, never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that Mrs. Greenow was quite a pattern wife, and that Mr. Greenow considered himself to be the happiest old man in Lancashire. And now in her prosperity she quite forgave the former slights which had been put upon her by her relatives. She wrote to her dear niece Alice, and to her dearest niece Kate, and sent little presents to her father. On one occasion she took her husband to Vavasor Hall, and there was a regular renewal of all the old family feelings. Arabella's husband was an old man, and was very old for his age; but the whole thing was quite respectable, and there was, at any rate, no doubt about the money. Then Mr. Greenow died; and the widow, having proved the will, came up to London and claimed the commiseration of her nieces.
"Why not go to Yarmouth with her for a month?" George had said to Kate. "Of course it will be a bore. But an aunt with forty thousand pounds has a right to claim attention." Kate acknowledged the truth of the argument and agreed to go to Yarmouth for a month. "Your aunt Arabella has shown herself to be a very sensible woman," the old squire had written; "much more sensible than anybody thought her before her marriage. Of course you should go with her if she asks you." What aunt, uncle, or cousin, in the uncontrolled possession of forty thousand pounds was ever unpopular in the family?
Yarmouth is not a very prepossessing place to the eye. To my eye, at any rate, it is not so. There is an old town with which summer visitors have little or nothing to do; and there are the new houses down by the sea-side, to which, at any rate, belongs the full advantage of sea air. A kind of esplanade runs for nearly a mile along the sands, and there are built, or in the course of building, rows of houses appropriated to summer visitors all looking out upon the sea. There is no beauty unless the yellow sandy sea can be called beautiful. The coast is low and straight, and the east wind blows full upon it. But the place is healthy; and Mrs. Greenow was probably right in thinking that she might there revive some portion of the health which she had lost in watching beside the couch of her departing lord.
"Omnibus;--no, indeed. Jeannette, get me a fly." These were the first words Mrs. Greenow spoke as she put her foot upon the platform at the Yarmouth station. Her maid's name was Jenny; but Kate had already found, somewhat to her dismay, that orders had been issued before they left London that the girl was henceforth to be called Jeannette. Kate had also already found that her aunt could be imperious; but this taste for masterdom had not shown itself so plainly in London as it did from the moment that the train had left the station at Shoreditch. In London Mrs. Greenow had been among Londoners, and her career had hitherto been provincial. Her spirit, no doubt, had been somewhat cowed by the novelty of her position. But when she felt herself to be once beyond the stones as the saying used to be, she was herself again; and at Ipswich she had ordered Jeannette to get her a glass of sherry with an air which had created a good deal of attention among the guards and porters.
The fly was procured; and with considerable exertion all Mrs. Greenow's boxes, together with the more moderate belongings of her niece and maid, were stowed on the top of it, round upon the driver's body on the coach box, on the maid's lap, and I fear in Kate's also, and upon the vacant seat.
"The large house in Montpelier Parade," said Mrs. Greenow.
"They is all large, ma'am," said the driver.
"The largest," said Mrs. Greenow.
"They're much of a muchness," said the driver.
"Then Mrs. Jones's," said Mrs. Greenow. "But I was particularly told it was the largest in the row."
"I know Mrs. Jones's well," said the driver, and away they went.
Mrs. Jones's house was handsome and comfortable; but I fear Mrs. Greenow's satisfaction in this respect was impaired by her disappointment in finding that it was not perceptibly bigger than those to the right and left of her. Her ambition in this and in other similar matters would have amused Kate greatly had she been a bystander, and not one of her aunt's party. Mrs. Greenow was good-natured, liberal, and not by nature selfish; but she was determined not to waste the good things which fortune had given, and desired that all the world should see that she had forty thousand pounds of her own. And in doing this she was repressed by no feeling of false shame. She never hesitated in her demands through bashfulness. She called aloud for such comfort and grandeur as Yarmouth could afford her, and was well pleased that all around should hear her calling. Joined to all this was her uncontrolled grief for her husband's death.
"Dear Greenow! sweet lamb! Oh, Kate, if you'd only known that man!" When she said this she was sitting in the best of Mrs. Jones's sitting-rooms, waiting to have dinner announced. She had taken a drawing-room and dining-room, "because," as she had said, "she didn't see why people should be stuffy when they went to the seaside;--not if they had means to make themselves comfortable."
"Oh, Kate, I do wish you'd known him!"
"I wish I had," said Kate,--very untruly. "I was unfortunately away when he went to Vavasor Hall."
"Ah, yes; but it was at home, in the domestic circle, that Greenow should have been seen to be appreciated. I was a happy woman, Kate, while that lasted." And Kate was surprised to see that real tears--one or two on each side--were making their way down her aunt's cheeks. But they were soon checked with a handkerchief of the broadest hem and of the finest cambric.
"Dinner, ma'am," said Jeannette, opening the door.
"Jeannette, I told you always to say that dinner was served."
"Dinner's served then," said Jeannette in a tone of anger.
"Come, Kate," said her aunt. "I've but little appetite myself, but there's no reason you shouldn't eat your dinner. I specially wrote to Mrs. Jones to have some sweetbread. I do hope she's got a decent cook. It's very little I eat myself, but I do like to see things nice."
The next day was Sunday; and it was beautiful to see how Mrs. Greenow went to church in all the glory of widowhood. There had been a great unpacking after that banquet on the sweetbread, and all her funereal millinery had been displayed before Kate's wondering eyes. The charm of the woman was in this,--that she was not in the least ashamed of anything that she did. She turned over all her wardrobe of mourning, showing the richness of each article, the stiffness of the crape, the fineness of the cambric, the breadth of the frills,--telling the price of each to a shilling, while she explained how the whole had been amassed without any consideration of expense. This she did with all the pride of a young bride when she shows the glories of her trousseau to the friend of her bosom. Jeannette stood by the while, removing one thing and exhibiting another. Now and again through the performance, Mrs. Greenow would rest a while from her employment, and address the shade of the departed one in terms of most endearing affection. In the midst of this Mrs. Jones came in; but the widow was not a whit abashed by the presence of the stranger. "Peace be to his manes!" she said at last, as she carefully folded up a huge black crape mantilla. She made, however, but one syllable of the classical word, and Mrs. Jones thought that her lodger had addressed herself to the mortal "remains" of her deceased lord.
[Illustration: "Peace be to his manes."]
"He is left her uncommon well off, I suppose," said Mrs. Jones to Jeannette.
"You may say that, ma'am. It's more nor a hundred thousand of pounds!"
"No!"
"Pounds of sterling, ma'am! Indeed it is;--to my knowledge."
"Why don't she have a carriage?"
"So she do;--but a lady can't bring her carriage down to the sea when she's only just buried her husband as one may say. What'd folks say if they saw her in her own carriage? But it ain't because she can't afford it, Mrs. Jones. And now we're talking of it you must order a fly for church to-morrow, that'll look private, you know. She said I was to get a man that had a livery coat and gloves."
The man with the coat and gloves was procured; and Mrs. Greenow's entry into church made quite a sensation. There was a thoughtfulness about her which alone showed that she was a woman of no ordinary power. She foresaw all necessities, and made provision for all emergencies. Another would not have secured an eligible sitting, and been at home in Yarmouth church, till half the period of her sojourn there was over. But Mrs. Greenow had done it all. She walked up the middle aisle with as much self-possession as though the chancel had belonged to her family for years; and the respectable pew-opener absolutely deserted two or three old ladies whom she was attending, to show Mrs. Greenow into her seat. When seated, she was the cynosure of all eyes. Kate Vavasor became immediately aware that a great sensation had been occasioned by their entrance, and equally aware that none of it was due to her. I regret to say that this feeling continued to show itself throughout the whole service. How many ladies of forty go to church without attracting the least attention! But it is hardly too much to say that every person in that church had looked at Mrs. Greenow. I doubt if there was present there a single married lady who, on leaving the building, did not speak to her husband of the widow. There had prevailed during the whole two hours a general though unexpressed conviction that something worthy of remark had happened that morning. It had an effect even upon the curate's reading; and the incumbent, while preaching his sermon, could not keep his eyes off that wonderful bonnet and veil.
On the next morning, before eleven, Mrs. Greenow's name was put down at the Assembly Room. "I need hardly say that in my present condition I care nothing for these things. Of course I would sooner be alone. But, my dear Kate, I know what I owe to you."
Kate, with less intelligence than might have been expected from one so clever, began to assure her aunt that she required no society; and that, coming thus with her to the seaside in the early days of her widowhood, she had been well aware that they would live retired. But Mrs. Greenow soon put her down, and did so without the slightest feeling of shame or annoyance on her own part. "My dear," she said, "in this matter you must let me do what I know to be right. I should consider myself to be very selfish if I allowed my grief to interfere with your amusements."
"But, aunt, I don't care for such amusements."
"That's nonsense, my dear. You ought to care for them. How are you to settle yourself in life if you don't care for them?"
"My dear aunt, I am settled."
"Settled!" said Mrs. Greenow, astounded, as though there must have been some hidden marriage of which she had not heard. "But that's nonsense. Of course you're not settled; and how are you to be, if I allow you to shut yourself up in such a place as this,--just where a girl has a chance?"
It was in vain that Kate tried to stop her. It was not easy to stop Mrs. Greenow when she was supported by the full assurance of being mistress of the place and of the occasion. "No, my dear; I know very well what I owe to you, and I shall do my duty. As I said before, society can have no charms now for such a one as I am. All that social intercourse could ever do for me lies buried in my darling's grave. My heart is desolate, and must remain so. But I'm not going to immolate you on the altars of my grief. I shall force myself to go out for your sake, Kate."
"But, dear aunt, the world will think it so odd, just at present."
"I don't care twopence for the world. What can the world do to me? I'm not dependent on the world,--thanks to the care of that sainted lamb. I can hold my own; and as long as I can do that the world won't hurt me. No, Kate, if I think a thing's right I shall do it. I mean to make the place pleasant for you if I can, and the world may object if it likes."
Mrs. Greenow was probably right in her appreciation of the value of her independence. Remarks may perhaps have been made by the world of Yarmouth as to her early return to society. People, no doubt, did remind each other that old Greenow was hardly yet four months buried. Mrs. Jones and Jeannette probably had their little jokes down-stairs. But this did not hurt Mrs. Greenow. What was said, was not said in her hearing, Mrs. Jones's bills were paid every Saturday with admirable punctuality; and as long as this was done everybody about the house treated the lady with that deference which was due to the respectability of her possessions. When a recently bereaved widow attempts to enjoy her freedom without money, then it behoves the world to speak aloud;--and the world does its duty.
Numerous people came to call at Montpelier Parade, and Kate was astonished to find that her aunt had so many friends. She was indeed so bewildered by these strangers that she could hardly ascertain whom her aunt had really known before, and whom she now saw for the first time. Somebody had known somebody who had known somebody else, and that was allowed to be a sufficient introduction,--always presuming that the existing somebody was backed by some known advantages of money or position. Mrs. Greenow could smile from beneath her widow's cap in a most bewitching way. "Upon my word then she is really handsome," Kate wrote one day to Alice. But she could also frown, and knew well how to put aside, or, if need be, to reprobate any attempt at familiarity from those whose worldly circumstances were supposed to be disadvantageous.
"My dear aunt," said Kate one morning after their walk upon the pier, "how you did snub that Captain Bellfield!"
"Captain Bellfield, indeed! I don't believe he's a captain at all. At any rate he has sold out, and the tradesmen have had a scramble for the money. He was only a lieutenant when the 97th were in Manchester, and I'm sure he's never had a shilling to purchase since that."
"But everybody here seems to know him."
"Perhaps they do not know so much of him as I do. The idea of his having the impudence to tell me I was looking very well! Nothing can be so mean as men who go about in that way when they haven't money enough in their pockets to pay their washerwomen."
"But how do you know, aunt, that Captain Bellfield hasn't paid his washerwoman?"
"I know more than you think, my dear. It's my business. How could I tell whose attentions you should receive and whose you shouldn't, if I didn't inquire into these things?"
It was in vain that Kate rebelled, or attempted to rebel against this more than maternal care. She told her aunt that she was now nearly thirty, and that she had managed her own affairs, at any rate with safety, for the last ten years;--but it was to no purpose. Kate would get angry; but Mrs. Greenow never became angry. Kate would be quite in earnest; but Mrs. Greenow would push aside all that her niece said as though it were worth nothing. Kate was an unmarried woman with a very small fortune, and therefore, of course, was desirous of being married with as little delay as possible. It was natural that she should deny that it was so, especially at this early date in their mutual acquaintance. When the niece came to know her aunt more intimately, there might be confidence between them, and then they would do better. But Mrs. Greenow would spare neither herself nor her purse on Kate's behalf, and she would be a dragon of watchfulness in protecting her from the evil desires of such useless men as Captain Bellfield.
"I declare, Kate, I don't understand you," she said one morning to her niece as they sat together over a late breakfast. They had fallen into luxurious habits, and I am afraid it was past eleven o'clock, although the breakfast things were still on the table. Kate would usually bathe before breakfast, but Mrs. Greenow was never out of her room till half-past ten. "I like the morning for contemplation," she once said. "When a woman has gone through all that I have suffered she has a great deal to think of." "And it is so much more comfortable to be a-thinking when one's in bed," said Jeannette, who was present at the time. "Child, hold your tongue," said the widow. "Yes, ma'am," said Jeannette. But we'll return to the scene at the breakfast-table.
"What don't you understand, aunt?"
"You only danced twice last night, and once you stood up with Captain Bellfield."
"On purpose to ask after that poor woman who washes his clothes without getting paid for it."
"Nonsense, Kate; you didn't ask him anything of the kind, I'm sure. It's very provoking. It is indeed."
"But what harm can Captain Bellfield do me?"
"What good can he do you? That's the question. You see, my dear, years will go by. I don't mean to say you ain't quite as young as ever you were, and nothing can be nicer and fresher than you are;--especially since you took to bathing."
"Oh, aunt, don't!"
"My dear, the truth must be spoken. I declare I don't think I ever saw a young woman so improvident as you are. When are you to begin to think about getting married if you don't do it now?"
"I shall never begin to think about it, till I buy my wedding clothes."
"That's nonsense,--sheer nonsense. How are you to get wedding clothes if you have never thought about getting a husband? Didn't I see Mr. Cheesacre ask you for a dance last night?"
"Yes, he did; while you were talking to Captain Bellfield yourself, aunt."
"Captain Bellfield can't hurt me, my dear. And why didn't you dance with Mr. Cheesacre?"
"He's a fat Norfolk farmer, with not an idea beyond the virtues of stall-feeding."
"My dear, every acre of it is his own land,--every acre! And he bought another farm for thirteen thousand pounds only last autumn. They're better than the squires,--some of those gentlemen farmers; they are indeed. And of all men in the world they're the easiest managed."
"That's a recommendation, no doubt."
"Of course it is;--a great recommendation."
Mrs. Greenow had no idea of joking when her mind was intent on serious things. "He's to take us to the picnic to-morrow, and I do hope you'll manage to let him sit beside you. It'll be the place of honour, because he gives all the wine. He's picked up with that man Bellfield, and he's to be there; but if you allow your name to be once mixed up with his, it will be all over with you as far as Yarmouth is concerned."
"I don't at all want to be mixed up with Captain Bellfield, as you call it," said Kate. Then she subsided into her novel, while Mrs. Greenow busied herself about the good things for the picnic. In truth, the aunt did not understand the niece. Whatsoever might be the faults of Kate Vavasor, an unmaidenly desire of catching a husband for herself was certainly not one of them.

Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started for Yarmouth.
"I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she told Alice when she visited. "And she is exacting in a way I can't describe. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went upstairs to try on some new clothes for the seaside, and I bolted." She did not say a word about George; nor did George show himself. He said afterwards that he had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse.
It will be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was ten years younger than her brother John, but looked younger still. In early life she lived with relatives in a town in the north of England. Although she had the reputation of being a beauty, at thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired the character of being a flirt; and I fear that there was some truth in this.
Now this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her father and brothers by declining to take their advice at various times. They were, indeed, quite troubled about her, when they heard the news that that she was going to be married to an old man.
The marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily. The Vavasors were relieved from their trouble, and were as much surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her wifely duty well. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not very well, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon reached Vavasor Hall that Mrs. Greenow was a model wife, and that Mr. Greenow considered himself to be the happiest old man in Lancashire.
On one occasion she took her husband to Vavasor Hall; he was very old for his age, but the marriage was quite respectable, and there was, at any rate, no doubt about the money. Then Mr. Greenow died; and the widow came to London and claimed the commiseration of her nieces.
"Why not go to Yarmouth with her for a month?" George had said to Kate. "Of course it will be a bore. But an aunt with forty thousand pounds has a right to claim attention." The old squire had also written to her, telling her to go if asked. So Kate agreed to go to Yarmouth for a month.
Yarmouth is not a very prepossessing place. There is an old town which summer visitors do not venture into; and there are the new houses down by the sea-side. A kind of esplanade runs for nearly a mile along the sands, and there are rows of new houses for summer visitors, all looking out upon the sea. There is no beauty unless the yellow sandy sea can be called beautiful. The coast is low and straight, and the east wind blows full upon it. But the place is healthy.
"Omnibus; no, indeed. Jeannette, get me a hackney cab." These were the first words Mrs. Greenow spoke as she put her foot upon the platform at Yarmouth station. Her maid's name was Jenny; but Kate had found, somewhat to her dismay, that the girl was to be called Jeannette.
Mrs. Greenow's taste for masterdom had not shown itself so plainly in London as it did now. As a provincial person among Londoners, her spirit had been somewhat cowed. But outside London she was herself again; and at Ipswich she had ordered Jeannette to get her a glass of sherry with an air which had created a good deal of attention among the porters.
The cab was found; and all Mrs. Greenow's boxes, together with the more moderate belongings of her niece and maid, were stowed on the top of it, around the driver, on the maid's lap, and Kate's also, and upon the vacant seat.
"The large house in Montpelier Parade," said Mrs. Greenow.
"They is all large, ma'am," said the driver.
"The largest," said Mrs. Greenow. "Mrs. Jones's. I was told it was the largest in the row."
"I know Mrs. Jones's," said the driver, and away they went.
Mrs. Jones's house was handsome and comfortable; but I fear Mrs. Greenow was disappointed to find that it was not perceptibly bigger than those on either side. This ambition would have amused Kate greatly had she been a bystander, and not her aunt's companion. Mrs. Greenow was good-natured and generous; but she desired that all the world should see that she had forty thousand pounds. She had no bashfulness about this. She called aloud for such comfort and grandeur as Yarmouth could give her, and was well pleased that all around should hear her calling. Joined to all this was her uncontrolled grief for her husband's death.
"Dear Greenow! sweet lamb! Oh, Kate, if you'd only known that man!" When she said this she was sitting in the best of Mrs. Jones's sitting-rooms, before dinner. "Oh, Kate, I do wish you'd known him!"
"I wish I had," said Kate, untruthfully. "I was away when he came to Vavasor Hall."
"Ah, yes; but it was at home that Greenow had to be seen to be appreciated. I was a happy woman, Kate." And Kate was surprised to see that real tears were making their way down her aunt's cheeks. But they were soon checked with a handkerchief of the finest cambric.
"Dinner, ma'am," said Jeannette, opening the door.
"Jeannette, I told you always to say that dinner was served."
"Dinner's served then," said Jeannette angrily.
"Come, Kate," said her aunt. "I've little appetite myself, but there's no reason you shouldn't eat your dinner. I do hope Mrs. Jones has got a decent cook."
The next day was Sunday; and it was beautiful to see how Mrs. Greenow went to church in all the glory of widowhood. There had been a great unpacking after dinner, and all her funereal outfits had been displayed before Kate's wondering eyes. Mrs. Greenow had pointed out the richness of each garment, the fineness of the fabric, the breadth of the frills - telling the price of each to a shilling, while she explained how expense had been of no consideration. This she did with all the pride of a young bride showing off her trousseau. Now and again, Mrs. Greenow would pause and address the shade of the departed one with affectionate words. In the midst of this Mrs. Jones came in; but the widow was not at all abashed by her presence.
"He left her uncommon well off, I suppose," said Mrs. Jones to Jeannette afterwards.
"You may say that, ma'am. It's more nor a hundred thousand of pounds!"
"No!"
"Indeed it is."
"Why don't she have a carriage?"
"She do; but a lady can't bring her carriage down to the sea when she's only just buried her husband. What'd folks say? But it ain't because she can't afford it, Mrs. Jones. And now we're talking of it you must order a cab for church tomorrow. She said I was to get a man that had a livery coat and gloves."
The man with the coat and gloves was procured; and Mrs. Greenow's entry into church made quite a sensation. She walked up the middle aisle as though the chancel had belonged to her family for years; and the respectable pew-opener deserted two or three old ladies to show Mrs. Greenow into her seat. All eyes were on her.
I regret to say that this continued throughout the whole service. Every person in that church looked at Mrs. Greenow. There was a general conviction that something remarkable had happened that morning. Even the minister, while preaching his sermon, could not keep his eyes off that wonderful bonnet and veil.
Next morning Mrs. Greenow's name was put down at the Assembly Room. "I need hardly say that in my present condition I care nothing for these things. But, my dear Kate, I know what I owe to you."
Kate, with less intelligence than might have been expected from one so clever, began to assure her aunt that she needed no society, and was expecting a quiet time. But Mrs. Greenow soon corrected her, without any sign of annoyance.
"My dear," she said, " you must let me do what I know to be right. I should be very selfish if I allowed my grief to interfere with your amusements."
"But, aunt, I don't care for such amusements."
"That's nonsense, my dear. You ought to care for them. How are you to settle yourself in life if you don't care for them?"
"My dear aunt, I am settled."
"Settled!" said Mrs. Greenow, astounded, as though there must have been some hidden marriage of which she had not heard. "But that's nonsense. Of course you're not settled; and how are you to be, if I allow you to shut yourself up?"
It was in vain that Kate tried to stop her.
"No, my dear; I shall do my duty by you. Although my heart is desolate, I'm not going to immolate you on the altars of my grief. I shall force myself to go out for your sake, Kate."
"But, dear aunt, the world will think it so odd."
"I don't care twopence for the world. What can the world do to me? I'm not dependent on the world - thanks to that sainted lamb. No, Kate; I mean to make the place pleasant for you if I can, and the world may object if it likes."
The people of Yarmouth no doubt did remind each other that old Greenow was hardly yet four months buried. Mrs. Jones and Jeannette probably had their little jokes downstairs. But this did not hurt Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Jones's bills were paid punctually; and everybody in the house treated the lady with due deference.
Numerous people came to call at Montpelier Parade, and Kate was astonished to find that her aunt had so many friends. She was indeed so bewildered by these strangers that she could hardly work out whom her aunt had known before, and whom she met for the first time. Somebody had known somebody who had known somebody else, and that was sufficient introduction. Mrs. Greenow could smile from beneath her widow's cap in a most bewitching way, and look most handsome. But she could also frown, and knew how to quell any attempt at familiarity from unsuitable people.
"My dear aunt," said Kate one morning after their walk upon the pier, "how you did snub that Captain Bellfield!"
"Captain Bellfield, indeed! I don't believe he's a captain at all. At any rate he has sold out, and the tradesmen have scrambled for the money. He was only a lieutenant when the 97th were in Manchester."
"But everybody here seems to know him."
"Perhaps they do not know so much of him as I do. His impudence in telling me I was looking very well! Nothing can be so mean as men who go about in that way when they haven't enough money in their pockets to pay their washerwomen."
"But, aunt, how do you know that Captain Bellfield hasn't paid his washerwoman?"
"I know more than you think, my dear. It's my business. How could I tell whose attentions you should receive and whose you shouldn't, if I didn't inquire into these things?"
It was in vain that Kate attempted to rebel against this care. She told her aunt that she was now nearly thirty, and that she had managed her own affairs for the last ten years; but it was to no purpose. Mrs. Greenow would push aside all that her niece said as though it were unimportant. Kate was an unmarried woman with a very small fortune, and therefore, of course, wished to get married as soon as possible. It was natural that she should deny this, although when she came to know her aunt more intimately, she might admit it. But Mrs. Greenow would spare neither herself nor her purse on Kate's behalf, and she would be a dragon of watchfulness in protecting her from such useless men as Captain Bellfield.
"I declare, Kate, I don't understand you," she said one morning over a late breakfast. They had fallen into luxurious habits, and I am afraid it was past eleven o'clock.
"What don't you understand, aunt?"
"You only danced twice last night, and once with Captain Bellfield."
"On purpose to ask after his poor washerwoman who doesn't get paid."
"Nonsense, Kate; you didn't ask him anything of the kind. It's very provoking."
"But what harm can Captain Bellfield do me?"
"What good can he do you? That's the question. I don't think I ever saw a young woman so improvident as you are. When are you to begin to think about getting married if you don't do it now?"
"I shall never begin to think about it."
"That's nonsense. Didn't Mr. Cheesacre ask you for a dance last night?"
"Yes, he did; while you were talking to Captain Bellfield yourself, aunt."
"Captain Bellfield can't hurt me, my dear. And why didn't you dance with Mr. Cheesacre?"
"He's a fat Norfolk farmer, with not an idea beyond the virtues of stall-feeding."
"My dear, every acre of it is his own land! And he bought another farm for thirteen thousand pounds only last autumn. They're better than the squires, some of those gentlemen farmers; they are indeed. And of all men in the world they're the easiest managed."
"That's a recommendation, no doubt."
"Of course it is. He's to take us to the picnic tomorrow, and I do hope you'll let him sit beside you. It'll be the place of honour, because he provides the wine. That man Bellfield is to be there; but if you allow your name to be mixed up with his, it will be all over with you as far as Yarmouth is concerned."
"I don't want to be mixed up with Captain Bellfield," said Kate. In truth, the aunt did not understand her niece. Whatever Kate's faults were, an unmaidenly desire of catching a husband was certainly not one of them.