Mr. Grey's answer to Alice Vavasor's letter, which was duly sent by return of post and duly received on the morning after Lady Macleod's visit, may perhaps be taken as giving a sample of his worthiness. It was dated from Nethercoats, a small country-house in Cambridgeshire which belonged to him, at which he already spent much of his time, and at which he intended to live altogether after his marriage.
Nethercoats, June, 186--.
DEAREST ALICE,
I am glad you have settled your affairs,--foreign affairs, I mean,--so much to your mind. As to your home affairs they are not, to my thinking, quite so satisfactorily arranged. But as I am a party interested in the latter my opinion may perhaps have an undue bias. Touching the tour, I quite agree with you that you and Kate would have been uncomfortable alone. It's a very fine theory, that of women being able to get along without men as well as with them; but, like other fine theories, it will be found very troublesome by those who first put it in practice. Gloved hands, petticoats, feminine softness, and the general homage paid to beauty, all stand in the way of success. These things may perhaps some day be got rid of, and possibly with advantage; but while young ladies are still encumbered with them a male companion will always be found to be a comfort. I don't quite know whether your cousin George is the best possible knight you might have chosen. I should consider myself to be infinitely preferable, had my going been upon the cards. Were you in danger of meeting Paynim foes, he, no doubt, would kill them off much quicker than I could do, and would be much more serviceable in liberating you from the dungeons of oppressors, or even from stray tigers in the Swiss forests. But I doubt his being punctual with the luggage. He will want you or Kate to keep the accounts, if any are kept. He will be slow in getting you glasses of water at the railway stations, and will always keep you waiting at breakfast. I hold that a man with two ladies on a tour should be an absolute slave to them, or they will not fully enjoy themselves. He should simply be an upper servant, with the privilege of sitting at the same table with his mistresses. I have my doubts as to whether your cousin is fit for the place; but, as to myself, it is just the thing that I was made for. Luckily, however, neither you nor Kate are without wills of your own, and perhaps you may be able to reduce Mr. Vavasor to obedience.
As to the home affairs I have very little to say here,--in this letter. I shall of course run up and see you before you start, and shall probably stay a week in town. I know I ought not to do so, as it will be a week of idleness, and yet not a week of happiness. I'd sooner have an hour with you in the country than a whole day in London. And I always feel in town that I've too much to do to allow of my doing anything. If it were sheer idleness I could enjoy it, but it is a feverish idleness, in which one is driven here and there, expecting some gratification which not only never comes, but which never even begins to come. I will, however, undergo a week of it,--say the last seven days of this month, and shall trust to you to recompense me by as much of yourself as your town doings will permit.
And now again as to those home affairs. If I say nothing now I believe you will understand why I refrain. You have cunningly just left me to imply, from what you say, that all my arguments have been of no avail; but you do not answer them, or even tell me that you have decided. I shall therefore imply nothing, and still trust to my personal eloquence for success. Or rather not trust,--not trust, but hope.
The garden is going on very well. We are rather short of water, and therefore not quite as bright as I had hoped; but we are preparing with untiring industry for future brightness. Your commands have been obeyed in all things, and Morrison always says "The mistress didn't mean this," or "The mistress did intend that." God bless the mistress is what I now say, and send her home, to her own home, to her flowers, and her fruit, and her house, and her husband, as soon as may be, with no more of these delays which are to me so grievous, and which seem to me to be so unnecessary. That is my prayer.
Yours ever and always,
J. G.
"I didn't give commands," Alice said to herself, as she sat with the letter at her solitary breakfast-table. "He asked me how I liked the things, and of course I was obliged to say. I was obliged to seem to care, even if I didn't care." Such were her first thoughts as she put the letter back into its envelope, after reading it the second time. When she opened it, which she did quickly, not pausing a moment lest she should suspect herself of fearing to see what might be its contents, her mind was full of that rebuke which her aunt had anticipated, and which she had almost taught herself to expect. She had torn the letter open rapidly, and had dashed at its contents with quick eyes. In half a moment she had seen what was the nature of the reply respecting the proposed companion of her tour, and then she had completed her reading slowly enough. "No; I gave no commands," she repeated to herself, as though she might thereby absolve herself from blame in reference to some possible future accusations, which might perhaps be brought against her under certain circumstances which she was contemplating.
Then she considered the letter bit by bit, taking it backwards, and sipping her tea every now and then amidst her thoughts. No; she had no home, no house, there. She had no husband;--not as yet. He spoke of their engagement as though it were a betrothal, as betrothals used to be of yore; as though they were already in some sort married. Such betrothals were not made now-a-days. There still remained, both to him and to her, a certain liberty of extricating themselves from this engagement. Should he come to her and say that he found that their contemplated marriage would not make him happy, would not she release him without a word of reproach? Would not she regard him as much more honourable in doing so than in adhering to a marriage which was distasteful to him? And if she would so judge him,--judge him and certainly acquit him, was it not reasonable that she under similar circumstances should expect a similar acquittal? Then she declared to herself that she carried on this argument within her own breast simply as an argument, induced to do so by that assertion on his part that he was already her husband,--that his house was even now her home. She had no intention of using that power which was still hers. She had no wish to go back from her pledged word. She thought that she had no such wish. She loved him much, and admired him even more than she loved him. He was noble, generous, clever, good,--so good as to be almost perfect; nay, for aught she knew he was perfect. Would that he had some faults! Would that he had! Would that he had! How could she, full of faults as she knew herself to be,--how could she hope to make happy a man perfect as he was! But then there would be no doubt as to her present duty. She loved him, and that was everything. Having told him that she loved him, and having on that score accepted his love, nothing but a change in her heart towards him could justify her in seeking to break the bond which bound them together. She did love him, and she loved him only.
But she had once loved her cousin. Yes, truly it was so. In her thoughts she did not now deny it. She had loved him, and was tormented by a feeling that she had had a more full delight in that love than in this other that had sprung up subsequently. She had told herself that this had come of her youth;--that love at twenty was sweeter than it could be afterwards. There had been a something of rapture in that earlier dream which could never be repeated,--which could never live, indeed, except in a dream. Now, now that she was older and perhaps wiser, love meant a partnership, in which each partner would be honest to the other, in which each would wish and strive for the other's welfare, so that thus their joint welfare might be insured. Then, in those early girlish days, it had meant a total abnegation of self. The one was of earth, and therefore possible. The other had been a ray from heaven,--and impossible, except in a dream.
And she had been mistaken in her first love. She admitted that frankly. He whom she had worshipped had been an idol of clay, and she knew that it was well for her to have abandoned that idolatry. He had not only been untrue to her, but, worse than that, had been false in excusing his untruth. He had not only promised falsely, but had made such promises with a deliberate, premeditated falsehood. And he had been selfish, coldly selfish, weighing the value of his own low lusts against that of her holy love. She had known this, and had parted from him with an oath to herself that no promised contrition on his part should ever bring them again together. But she had pardoned him as a man, though never as a lover, and had bade him welcome again as a cousin and as her friend's brother. She had again become very anxious as to his career, not hiding her regard, but professing that anxiety aloud. She knew him to be clever, ambitious, bold,--and she believed even yet, in spite of her own experience, that he might not be bad at heart. Now, as she told herself that in truth she loved the man to whom her troth was plighted, I fear that she almost thought more of that other man from whom she had torn herself asunder.
"Why should he find himself unhappy in London?" she said, as she went back to the letter. "Why should he pretend to condemn the very place which most men find the fittest for all their energies? Were I a man, no earthly consideration should induce me to live elsewhere. It is odd how we differ in all things. However brilliant might be his own light, he would be contented to hide it under a bushel!"
And at last she recurred to that matter as to which she had been so anxious when she first opened her lover's letter. It will be remembered how assured she had expressed herself that Mr. Grey would not condescend to object to her travelling with her cousin. He had not so condescended. He had written on the matter with a pleasant joke, like a gentleman as he was, disdaining to allude to the past passages in the life of her whom he loved, abstaining even from expressing anything that might be taken as a permission on his part. There had been in Alice's words, as she told him of their proposed plan, a something that had betrayed a tremor in her thoughts. She had studiously striven so to frame her phrases that her tale might be told as any other simple statement,--as though there had been no trembling in her mind as she wrote. But she had failed, and she knew that she had failed. She had failed; and he had read all her effort and all her failure. She was quite conscious of this; she felt it thoroughly; and she knew that he was noble and a gentleman to the last drop of his blood. And yet--yet--yet there was almost a feeling of disappointment in that he had not written such a letter as Lady Macleod had anticipated.
During the next week Lady Macleod still came almost daily to Queen Anne Street, but nothing further was said between her and Miss Vavasor as to the Swiss tour; nor were any questions asked about Mr. Grey's opinion on the subject. The old lady of course discovered that there was no quarrel, or, as she believed, any probability of a quarrel; and with that she was obliged to be contented. Nor did she again on this occasion attempt to take Alice to Lady Midlothian's. Indeed, their usual subjects of conversation were almost abandoned, and Lady Macleod's visits, though they were as constant as heretofore, were not so long. She did not dare to talk about Mr. Grey, and because she did not so dare, was determined to regard herself as in a degree ill-used. So she was silent, reserved, and fretful. At length came the last day of her London season, and her last visit to her niece. "I would come because it's my last day," said Lady Macleod; "but really I'm so hurried, and have so many things to do, that I hardly know how to manage it."
"It's very kind," said Alice, giving her aunt an affectionate squeeze of the hand.
"I'm keeping the cab, so I can just stay twenty-five minutes. I've marked the time accurately, but I know the man will swear it's over the half-hour."
"You'll have no more trouble about cabs, aunt, when you are back in Cheltenham."
"The flies are worse, my dear. I really think they're worse. I pay the bill every month, but they've always one down that I didn't have. It's the regular practice, for I've had them from all the men in the place."
"It's hard enough to find honest men anywhere, I suppose."
"Or honest women either. What do you think of Mrs. Green wanting to charge me for an extra week, because she says I didn't give her notice till Tuesday morning? I won't pay her, and she may stop my things if she dares. However, it's the last time. I shall never come up to London again, my dear."
"Oh, aunt, don't say that!"
"But I do say it, my dear. What should an old woman like me do, trailing up to town every year, merely because it's what people choose to call the season."
"To see your friends, of course. Age doesn't matter when a person's health is so good as yours."
"If you knew what I suffer from lumbago,--though I must say coming to London always does cure that for the time. But as for friends--! Well, I suppose one has no right to complain when one gets to be as old as I am; but I declare I believe that those I love best would sooner be without me than with me."
"Do you mean me, aunt?"
"No, my dear, I don't mean you. Of course my life would have been very different if you could have consented to remain with me till you were married. But I didn't mean you. I don't know that I meant any one. You shouldn't mind what an old woman like me says."
"You're a little melancholy because you're going away."
"No, indeed. I don't know why I stayed the last week. I did say to Lady Midlothian that I thought I should go on the 20th; and, though I know that she knew that I really didn't go, she has not once sent to me since. To be sure they've been out every night; but I thought she might have asked me to come and lunch. It's so very lonely dining by myself in lodgings in London."
"And yet you never will come and dine with me."
"No, my dear; no. But we won't talk about that. I've just one word more to say. Let me see. I've just six minutes to stay. I've made up my mind that I'll never come up to town again,--except for one thing."
"And what's that, aunt?" Alice, as she asked the question, well knew what that one thing was.
"I'll come for your marriage, my dear. I do hope you will not keep me long waiting."
"Ah! I can't make any promise. There's no knowing when that may be."
"And why should there be no knowing? I always think that when a girl is once engaged the sooner she's married the better. There may be reasons for delay on the gentleman's part."
"There very often are, you know,"
"But, Alice, you don't mean to say that Mr. Grey is putting it off?"
Alice was silent for a moment, during which Lady Macleod's face assumed a look of almost tragic horror. Was there something wrong on Mr. Grey's side of which she was altogether unaware? Alice, though for a second or two she had been guilty of a slight playful deceit, was too honest to allow the impression to remain. "No, aunt," she said; "Mr. Grey is not putting it off. It has been left to me to fix the time."
"And why don't you fix it?"
"It is such a serious thing! After all it is not more than four months yet since I--I accepted him. I don't know that there has been any delay."
"But you might fix the time now, if he wishes it."
"Well, perhaps I shall,--some day, aunt. I'm going to think about it, and you mustn't drive me."
"But you should have some one to advise you, Alice."
"Ah! that's just it. People always do seem to think it so terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn't like any one at first; and then, when she does like some one, she must marry him directly she's bidden. I haven't much of my own way at present; but you see, when I'm married I shan't have it at all. You can't wonder that I shouldn't be in a hurry."
"I am not advocating anything like hurry, my dear. But, goodness gracious me! I've been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horrid man will impose upon me. Good-bye; God bless you! Mind you write." And Lady Macleod hurried out of the room more intent at the present moment upon saving her sixpence than she was on any other matter whatsoever.
And then John Grey came up to town, arriving a day or two after the time that he had fixed. It is not, perhaps, improbable that Alice had used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between Lady Macleod and her lover. They both were very anxious to obtain the same object, and Alice was to some extent opposed to their views. Had Lady Macleod and John Grey put their forces together she might have found herself unable to resist their joint endeavours. She was resolved that she would not at any rate name any day for her marriage before her return from Switzerland; and she may therefore have thought it wise to keep Mr. Grey in the country till after Lady Macleod had gone, even though she thereby cut down the time of his sojourn in London to four days. On the occasion of that visit Mr. Vavasor did a very memorable thing. He dined at home with the view of welcoming his future son-in-law. He dined at home, and asked, or rather assented to Alice's asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party. "What an auspicious omen for the future nuptials!" said Kate, with her little sarcastic smile. "Uncle John dines at home, and Mr. Grey joins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changed soon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a little cottage in the country."
"Kate," said Alice, angrily, "I think you are about the most unjust person I ever met. I would forgive your raillery, however painful it might be, if it were only fair."
"And to whom is it unfair on the present occasion;--to your father?"
"It was not intended for him."
"To yourself?"
"I care nothing as to myself; you know that very well."
"Then it must have been unfair to Mr. Grey."
"Yes; it was Mr. Grey whom you meant to attack. If I can forgive him for not caring for society, surely you might do so."
"Exactly; but that's just what you can't do, my dear. You don't forgive him. If you did you might be quite sure that I should say nothing. And if you choose to bid me hold my tongue I will say nothing. But when you tell me all your own thoughts about this thing you can hardly expect but that I should let you know mine in return. I'm not particular; and if you are ready for a little good, wholesome, useful hypocrisy, I won't balk you. I mayn't be quite so dishonest as you call me, but I'm not so wedded to truth but what I can look, and act, and speak a few falsehoods if you wish it. Only let us understand each other."
"You know I wish for no falsehood, Kate."
"I know it's very hard to understand what you do wish. I know that for the last year or two I have been trying to find out your wishes, and, upon my word, my success has been very indifferent. I suppose you wish to marry Mr. Grey, but I'm by no means certain. I suppose the last thing on earth you'd wish would be to marry George?"
"The very last. You're right there at any rate."
"Alice--! sometimes you drive me too hard; you do, indeed. You make me doubt whether I hate or love you most. Knowing what my feelings are about George, I cannot understand how you can bring yourself to speak of him to me with such contempt!" Kate Vavasor, as she spoke these words, left the room with a quick step, and hurried up to her own chamber. There Alice found her in tears, and was driven by her friend's real grief into the expression of an apology, which she knew was not properly due from her. Kate was acquainted with all the circumstances of that old affair between her brother and Alice. She had given in her adhesion to the propriety of what Alice had done. She had allowed that her brother George's behaviour had been such as to make any engagement between them impossible. The fault, therefore, had been hers in making any reference to the question of such a marriage. Nor had it been by any means her first fault of the same kind. Till Alice had become engaged to Mr. Grey she had spoken of George only as her brother, or as her friend's cousin, but now she was constantly making allusion to those past occurrences, which all of them should have striven to forget. Under these circumstances was not Lady Macleod right in saying that George Vavasor should not have been accepted as a companion for the Swiss tour?
[Illustration: "Sometimes you drive me too hard."]
The little dinner-party went off very quietly; and if no other ground existed for charging Mr. Grey with London dissipation than what that afforded, he was accused most unjustly. The two young men had never before met each other; and Vavasor had gone to his uncle's house, prepared not only to dislike but to despise his successor in Alice's favour. But in this he was either disappointed or gratified, as the case may be. "He has plenty to say for himself," he said to Kate on his way home.
"Oh yes; he can talk."
"And he doesn't talk like a prig either, which was what I expected. He's uncommonly handsome."
"I thought men never saw that in each other. I never see it in any man."
"I see it in every animal--in men, women, horses, dogs, and even pigs. I like to look on handsome things. I think people always do who are ugly themselves."
"And so you're going into raptures in favour of John Grey."
"No, I'm not. I very seldom go into raptures about anything. But he talks in the way I like a man to talk. How he bowled my uncle over about those actors; and yet if my uncle knows anything about anything it is about the stage twenty years ago." There was nothing more said then about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough to be aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spoke sometimes from his heart, and did so more frequently to his sister than to any one else; but his words came generally from his head.
On the day after the little dinner in Queen Anne Street, John Grey came to say good-bye to his betrothed;--for his betrothed she certainly was, in spite of those very poor arguments which she had used in trying to convince herself that she was still free if she wished to claim her freedom. Though he had been constantly with Alice during the last three days, he had not hitherto said anything as to the day of their marriage. He had been constantly with her alone, sitting for hours in that ugly green drawing-room, but he had never touched the subject. He had told her much of Switzerland, which she had never yet seen but which he knew well. He had told her much of his garden and house, whither she had once gone with her father, whilst paying a visit nominally to the colleges at Cambridge. And he had talked of various matters, matters bearing in no immediate way upon his own or her affairs; for Mr. Grey was a man who knew well how to make words pleasant; but previous to this last moment he had said nothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
"Well, Alice," he said, when the last hour had come, "and about that question of home affairs?"
"Let us finish off the foreign affairs first."
"We have finished them; haven't we?"
"Finished them! why we haven't started yet."
"No; you haven't started. But we've had the discussion. Is there any reason why you'd rather not have this thing settled."
"No; no special reason."
"Then why not let it be fixed? Do you fear coming to me as my wife?"
"No."
"I cannot think that you repent your goodness to me."
"No; I don't repent it;--what you call my goodness? I love you too entirely for that."
"My darling!" And now he passed his arm round her waist as they stood near the empty fireplace. "And if you love me--"
"I do love you."
"Then why should you not wish to come to me?"
"I do wish it. I think I wish it."
"But, Alice, you must have wished it altogether when you consented to be my wife."
"A person may wish for a thing altogether, and yet not wish for it instantly."
"Instantly! Come; I have not been hard on you. This is still June. Will you say the middle of September, and we shall still be in time for warm pleasant days among the lakes? Is that asking for too much?"
"It is not asking for anything."
"Nay, but it is, love. Grant it, and I will swear that you have granted me everything."
She was silent, having things to say but not knowing in what words to put them. Now that he was with her she could not say the things which she had told herself that she would utter to him. She could not bring herself to hint to him that his views of life were so unlike her own, that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless each could strive to lean somewhat towards the other. No man could be more gracious in word and manner than John Grey; no man more chivalrous in his carriage towards a woman; but he always spoke and acted as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a word or thought of doubting, by his wife. When two came together, why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him on this day; but now that he was with her she could not say it.
"John," she said at last, "do not press me about this till I return."
"But then you will say the time is short. It would be short then."
"I cannot answer you now;--indeed, I cannot. That is I cannot answer in the affirmative. It is such a solemn thing."
"Will it ever be less solemn, dearest?"
"Never, I hope never."
He did not press her further then, but kissed her and bade her farewell.

Alice received Mr. Grey's answer to her letter the next morning. It was written at Nethercoats, his small country-house in Cambridgeshire, where he spent much of his time, and intended to live after his marriage.
Dearest Alice,
I am glad you have settled your foreign affairs so much to your liking. As for your home affairs, they are not, to my thinking, quite so satisfactorily arranged. But as I am involved in them, I may be biased.
About the tour, I quite agree that you and Kate would have been uncomfortable alone. It's a very fine theory that women can get along without men just as well; but, like other fine theories, it will be found very troublesome by those who first try it, and a male companion will be a comfort. I don't quite know whether your cousin George is the best possible knight you might have chosen. I should consider myself to be infinitely preferable, if it were possible. If you should meet Paynim foes, he, no doubt, would kill them off much quicker than I could do, and would be much more useful in rescuing you from dungeons, or from any stray tigers in the Swiss forests. But I doubt if he will be punctual with the luggage. He will be slow in getting you glasses of water at railway stations, and will always keep you waiting at breakfast. I believe that a man with two ladies on a tour should be an absolute slave to them. I have my doubts as to whether your cousin is fit for the position; but, as to myself, it is just the thing that I was made for. Luckily, however, neither you nor Kate are without wills of your own, and perhaps you may be able to reduce Mr. Vavasor to obedience.
As to the home affairs, I have very little to say in this letter. I shall of course run up and see you before you start, and shall probably stay a week in town. I know I ought not to do so, as it will be a week of idleness, and yet not a week of happiness. I'd sooner have an hour with you in the country than a whole day in London. And in town it is a feverish idleness, in which one is driven here and there, expecting some gratification which never comes. I will come for the last week of this month, and hope to see as much of you as your town doings will permit.
About those home affairs: I believe you will understand why I saying nothing now. Perhaps all my arguments have been of no use; but as you do not answer them, I shall still trust to my eloquence in person for success.
The garden is going on very well. Your commands have been obeyed in all things, and Morrison always says "The mistress didn't mean this," or "The mistress intended that." God bless the mistress is what I now say, and send her home, to her flowers, and her house, and her husband, as soon as may be, with no more of these delays which are to me so grievous, and which seem to me to be so unnecessary. That is my prayer.
Yours ever and always,
J. G.
"I didn't give commands," Alice said to herself, as she sat with the letter at her solitary breakfast-table. "He asked me how I liked the things, and of course I was obliged to say, even if I didn't care." Such were her first thoughts after reading the letter the second time.
When she opened it, her mind was full of that rebuke which she had almost taught herself to expect. She had torn the letter open rapidly, and scanned it with quick eyes. In half a moment she had seen the nature of the reply about her companion for the tour, and then she had finished reading slowly.
"No; I gave no commands," she repeated, as though to absolve herself from blame in any possible future accusations.
Then she considered the letter bit by bit, taking it backwards. No; she had no home, no house, there. She had no husband; not yet. He spoke of their engagement as though they were already in some way married. Yet they were both still free to withdraw from the engagement. If he came to her and said that he found that their marriage would not make him happy, would not she release him without a word of reproach? Would not she regard it as an honourable act? And if things were the other way round, was it not reasonable that she should expect a similar acquittal?
Then she told herself that it was theoretical. She had no intention of going back from her word. She loved him much, and admired him even more than she loved him. He was noble, generous, clever, good - almost perfect. If only he had some faults! How could she, full of faults as she knew herself to be, make such a perfect man happy?
But there was no doubt as to her present duty. She loved him, and having accepted his love, nothing but a change in her heart could justify her in seeking to break the engagement. She did love him, and him only.
However, she had once loved her cousin.
Yes, it was true. In her thoughts she did not deny it. She had loved him, and was tormented by a feeling that she had had a more full delight in that love than in this. She had told herself that this was a result of her youth; that love at twenty was sweeter and more rapturous than it could be afterwards.
Now that she was older and perhaps wiser, love meant a partnership, in which each partner would be honest to the other, in which each would strive for the other's welfare. This love was of earth, and therefore possible. The other had been a ray from heaven - and impossible, except in a dream.
And she had been mistaken in her first love. She admitted that frankly. She had worshipped an idol of clay, and had done the best thing in abandoning that idolatry. George had not only been untrue to her, but had made false excuses. He had made promises with a deliberate, premeditated falsehood. And he had been coldly selfish, weighing the value of his own low lusts against that of her love. She had known this, and had parted vowing to herself that no contrition on his part should ever bring them together again.
But though she did not pardon him as a lover, she had again welcomed him as a cousin, and as her friend Kate's brother. She had become very anxious about his career. She knew him to be clever, ambitious, bold - and perhaps not bad at heart. Now, as she told herself that she loved John Grey, I fear that she almost thought more of that other man from whom she had torn herself apart.
"Why should Mr. Grey find himself unhappy in London?" she said, as she went back to the letter. "Why condemn the place which most men find the fittest for their energies? If I were I a man, I would live there. It is odd how we differ in all things. However brilliant his own light might be, he would be contented to hide it under a bushel!"
And at last she reflected on his response to her travelling with her cousin. He had written on the matter with a pleasant joke, like a gentleman, without alluding to the past or implying that she needed his permission. When Alice had told him of their plan, she had tried to make it a simple, ordinary statement; but she knew that she had failed, and that he had read her failure. She was quite conscious of this; and she knew that he was a gentleman to the last drop of his blood. And yet - yet there was almost a feeling of disappointment that he had not written a disapproving letter such as Lady Macleod had anticipated.
During the next week Lady Macleod still came almost daily to see Alice, but nothing was said about the Swiss tour; nor did she ask about Mr. Grey's opinion. When the old lady discovered that there was no quarrel, she had to be contented. Nor did she again attempt to take Alice to Lady Midlothian's.
Indeed, their usual subjects of conversation were almost abandoned. Lady Macleod did not dare to talk about Mr. Grey, and became silent, reserved, and fretful. At length came the last day of her London season, and her last visit to her niece.
"I came because it's my last day," said Lady Macleod; "even though I have so many things to do."
"It's very kind," said Alice, giving her aunt an affectionate squeeze of the hand.
"I'm keeping the cab, so I can just stay twenty-five minutes. I've marked the time accurately, but I know the man will swear it's over the half-hour."
"You'll have no more trouble about cabs, aunt, when you are back in Cheltenham."
"It's my last time here. I shall never come up to London again, my dear."
"Oh, aunt, don't say that!"
"But I do say it, my dear. Why should an old woman like me come trailing up to town every year?"
"To see your friends, of course. Age doesn't matter when a person's health is as good as yours."
"If you knew what I suffer from lumbago. But as for friends-! Well, I suppose one has no right to complain; but I believe that those I love best would rather be without me than with me."
"Do you mean me, aunt?"
"No, my dear, I don't mean you. I don't know that I meant any one. You shouldn't mind what an old woman like me says."
"You're a little melancholy because you're going away."
"No, indeed. I don't know why I stayed the last week. Though I told Lady Midlothian that I should be leaving, she has not once asked me even to lunch since. It's so very lonely dining by myself in lodgings."
"And yet you never will come and dine with me."
"No, my dear. But we won't talk about that. I've just one word more to say. I've six minutes. I've made up my mind that I'll never come up to town again - except for one thing."
"And what's that, aunt?" Alice already knew the answer.
"Your marriage, my dear. I do hope you will not keep me waiting long."
"Ah! I can't make any promise. There's no knowing when that may be."
"Why not? When a girl is once engaged, the sooner she's married the better. You don't mean to say that Mr. Grey is putting it off?"
Alice was silent for a moment, while Lady Macleod's face assumed a look of almost tragic horror. Alice was too honest to allow the impression to remain.
"No, aunt," she said; "Mr. Grey is not putting it off. It has been left to me to fix the day."
"And why don't you fix it?"
"It is such a serious thing! After all, it is not more than four months yet since I - I accepted him."
"But you might fix the day now."
"Well, perhaps I shall - some time, aunt. I'm going to think about it, and you mustn't push me."
"But you should have someone to advise you, Alice."
"Ah! that's just it. People always do seem to think it so terrible that a girl should have her own way in anything. She mustn't like any one at first; and then, when she does like someone, she must marry him as soon as she's told. I haven't much of my own way at present; but when I'm married I shan't have it at all. So I'm in no hurry."
"I am not advocating any hurry, my dear. But, goodness me! I've been here twenty-eight minutes, and that horrid man will impose upon me. Good-bye; God bless you! Mind you write." And Lady Macleod hurried out.
Then John Grey came up to town. Alice may have used some diplomatic skill in preventing a meeting between Lady Macleod and her lover, for if they had put their forces together she might have found herself unable to resist their joint endeavours. She was resolved not to name any day for her marriage before her return from Switzerland.
During this visit of Mr. Grey's to London, Mr. Vavasor did a very memorable thing. He dined at home to welcome his future son-in-law; and asked, or rather agreed to Alice's asking, George and Kate Vavasor to join the dinner-party.
"What an auspicious omen for your marriage!" said Kate, with her little sarcastic smile. "Uncle John dines at home, and Mr. Grey joins in the dissipation of a dinner-party. We shall all be changed soon, I suppose, and George and I will take to keeping a little cottage in the country."
"Kate," said Alice, angrily, "I think you are about the most unjust person I ever met."
"And to whom am I being unjust; to your father?"
"It was Mr. Grey whom you meant to attack. If I can forgive him for not caring for society, surely you might do so."
"Exactly; but you can't, my dear. You don't forgive him. If you did, I would say nothing. But when you tell me all your own thoughts about it you can hardly expect me to keep quiet. Still, if you are ready for a little useful hypocrisy, I won't prevent you. I mayn't be quite so dishonest as you call me, but I can speak a few falsehoods if you wish it. Only let us understand each other."
"You know I wish for no falsehood, Kate."
"It's very hard to understand what you do wish. For the last year or two I have been trying to find out your wishes, without success. I suppose you wish to marry Mr. Grey, but I'm by no means certain. I suppose the last thing on earth you'd wish would be to marry George?"
"The very last. You're right there at any rate."
"Alice! You make me doubt whether I hate or love you most. Knowing what my feelings are about George, I cannot understand how you can bring yourself to speak of him with such contempt!" Kate Vavasor left the room quickly, and hurried up to her own chamber. There Alice found her in tears, and was driven by her friend's real grief into making an apology which she felt she did not owe.
Kate knew all the circumstances of that old affair between her brother and Alice. She had agreed with the propriety of what Alice had done. She had admitted that her brother George's behaviour had made any engagement impossible. The fault had been hers, in referring to the possibility of such a marriage.
It had not been for the first time. Since Alice had become engaged to Mr. Grey, Kate had been constantly mentioning those past events, which all of them should have tried to forget. Under these circumstances was not Lady Macleod right in saying that George Vavasor should not have been accepted as a companion for the Swiss tour?
The little dinner-party went off very quietly. The two young men had never before met each other; and George Vavasor had gone to his uncle's house, prepared not only to dislike but to despise his successor. But in this he was disappointed.
"He has plenty to say for himself," he said to Kate on his way home.
"Oh yes; he can talk."
"And he doesn't talk like a prig either, like I expected. He's uncommonly handsome."
"So you're going into raptures in favour of John Grey."
"No, I'm not. I very seldom go into raptures about anything. But he talks in the way I like a man to talk."
There was nothing more said then about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough to be aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spoke sometimes from his heart, but generally from his head.
On the day after the little dinner, John Grey came to say good-bye to Alice. Though he had been constantly with her during the last three days, he had not said anything about the day of their marriage. He had told her much of Switzerland, which he knew well, and of his house and garden, and other matters, for Mr. Grey was a man who knew how to make words pleasant; but he had said nothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
"Well, Alice," he said, when the last hour had come, "and about that question of home affairs. Is there any reason why you'd rather not have this thing settled?"
"No; no special reason."
"Then why not let it be fixed? Do you fear coming to me as my wife?"
"No."
"I cannot think that you repent your goodness to me."
"No; I love you too entirely for that."
"My darling!" He passed his arm round her waist. "Then why should you not wish to come to me?"
"I do wish it, I think. But a person may wish for a thing, and yet not wish for it instantly."
"Instantly! Come; I have not been hard on you. This is still June. Will you say the middle of September, and we shall still be in time for warm pleasant days among the lakes? Is that asking for too much?"
"It is not asking for anything."
"Nay, but it is, love. Grant it, and I will swear that you have granted me everything."
She was silent, not knowing what words to use. Now that he was with her she could not say the things which she had told herself that she would say to him. She could not bring herself to hint that his views of life were so unlike her own that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless each could strive to lean towards the other.
No man could be more gracious or chivalrous than John Grey; but he always spoke as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a thought of doubting, by his wife. Why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him; but now that he was with her she could not say it.
"John," she said at last, "do not press me about this till I return. I cannot answer you now; it is such a solemn thing."
"Will it ever be less solemn, dearest?"
"Never, I hope."
He did not press her further then, but kissed her and bade her farewell.


When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little entertainment which she had given to her two lovers, she sat herself down to think seriously over her affairs. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield--or she might decide that she would have nothing more to say to either of them in the way of courting. They were very persistent, no doubt; but she thought that she would know how to make them understand her, if she should really make up her mind that she would have neither one nor the other. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew that such was her purpose. Something had been said of her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and justice required that each of them should know what was to be his prospect if she did so return.
There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms assist one's comfort in this life; and heaps of manure, though they are not brilliant in romance, are very efficacious in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for the owner of them, though she saw that there was much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that she, as his wife, or any other woman of spirit, might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself very plainly on this occasion, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love. Her marriage for money had been altogether successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been very disagreeable to her, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got all the reward that she had ever promised herself, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. I almost think that among those plentiful tears some few drops belonged to sincerity. She was essentially a happy-tempered woman, blessed with a good digestion, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. So far she resolved,--resolving also that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor.
But should she marry for love; and if so, should Captain Bellfield be the man? Strange to say, his poverty and his scampishness and his lies almost recommended him to her. At any rate, it was not of those things that she was afraid. She had a woman's true belief in her own power, and thought that she could cure them,--as far as they needed cure. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and was quite aware that she made as good use of them as the Captain did of his. And as for the debts,--what was a man to do who hadn't got any money? She also had owed for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days of her adventures. But there was this danger,--that there might be more behind of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what, if instead of being a real captain at all, he should be a returned ticket-of-leave man! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this,--that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he did know. Under all these circumstances, she could not quite make up her mind either for or against Captain Bellfield.
Between nine and ten in the evening, an hour or so after Mr. Cheesacre had left her, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with a little sherry in it. She usually dined early, and it was her habit to take a light repast before she retired for the night.
"Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the lumps of white sugar in the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled."
"Oh, laws, ma'am, in course they have! How was they to help it?"
Jeannette, on these occasions, was in the habit of standing beside the chair of her mistress, and chatting with her; and then, if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself,--and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress.
"And why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish."
"I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's the most natural thing in life. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, in course I should expect as they would punch each other's heads. There's some girls do it a purpose, because they like to see it. One at a time's what I say."
"You're a young thing, Jeannette."
"Well, ma'am--yes; I am young, no doubt. But I won't say but what I've had a beau, young as I look."
"But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?"
"I don't know, ma'am, as you wants 'em exactly. That's as may be. There they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig to-night, I shouldn't be a bit surprised for one. There's nothing won't quiet them at Oileymead to-night, if brandy-and-water don't do it." As she said this, Jeannette slipt into her chair, and held up her hands in token of the intensity of her fears.
"Why, you silly child, they're not going home together at all. Did not the Captain go away first?"
"The Captain did go away first, certainly; but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols and fighting things ready."
"They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting."
"Have they, ma'am? That makes it much easier for ladies, no doubt. Perhaps them peaceable ways will come down to such as us in time. It'd be a comfort, I know, to them as are quiet given, like me. I hate to see men knocking each other's heads about,--I do. So Mr. Cheesacre and the Captain won't fight, ma'am?"
"Of course they won't, you little fool, you."
"Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it,--and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded in any of his wital parts--unless it was his heart, you know, ma'am."
"But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing."
"Well, ma'am, I don't know about that. What else is they to do? There's some things as you can cry halves about, but there's no crying halves about this."
"About what, Jeannette?"--"Why, about you, ma'am."
"Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it's not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn't say so." Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers.
"To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard."
"Indeed I have, Jeannette."
"And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?"
"But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;--quite all in all to each other."
"When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again,--seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he's a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world."
"What's all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he'll never be more than that."
"Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two,--and have always said so."
"He's nothing to me, girl."
"And as for money,--what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?"
"He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow.
"But he will be?" said Jeannette, plainly asking a question.
"Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock."
"I hope I haven't said anything amiss, ma'am;" and Jeannette rose from her seat.
"It's my fault for encouraging you," said Mrs. Greenow. "Go down-stairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to before that." So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom.
Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling," he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from any one. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield's ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes' heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog's-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die,--as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took just one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close, with quiet and decisive steps.
"Is that you, Cheesacre?" said a friendly voice, in one of the narrow streets. "Who expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday!" It was Grimsby, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwich, a country gentleman, and one, therefore, to whom Cheesacre would generally pay much respect; but on this occasion he did not even pull up for an instant, or moderate his pace. "A little bit of private business," he said, and marched onwards with his head towards the Close. "I'm not going to be afraid of a woman--not if I know it," he said to himself; but, nevertheless, at a certain pastrycook's, of whose shop he had knowledge, he pulled up and had another glass of cherry-brandy.
"Mrs. Greenow is at home," he said to Jeannette, not deigning to ask any question.
"Oh, yes, sir; she is at home," said Jeannette, conscious that some occasion had arrived; and in another second he was in the presence of his angel.
"Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady, as she welcomed him, using almost the same words as his friend had done in the street. Why should not he come into Norwich on a Thursday, as well as any one else? Did they suppose that he was tied for ever to his ploughs and carts? He was minded to conduct himself with a little spirit on this occasion, and to improve the opinion which Mrs. Greenow had formed about him. On this account he answered her somewhat boldly.
"There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow, or when I mayn't. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money, and he endeavoured to cover the error. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present."
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Well,--thank you,--I will sit down for a few minutes if you'll let me, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall be going mad, and doing somebody a damage."
"Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting, presently; are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked down at his garments.
"No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going out shooting. I put on these things because I thought I might take a shot as I came along. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and then I wouldn't take them off again. What does it matter what a man wears?"
"Not in the least, so long as he is decent."
"I'm sure I'm always that, Mrs. Greenow."
"Oh, dear, yes. More than that, I should say. I consider you to be rather gay in your attire."
"I don't pretend to anything of that kind, Mrs. Greenow. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. It is the case, of course, with those who have to make their rent and living out of it." Then he remembered that he was again treading on forbidden ground, and stopped himself. "But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy within him."
"I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since--since Greenow left me."
Mr. Cheesacre was rather at a loss to know how he should begin. This allusion to the departed one did not at all assist him. He had so often told the widow that care killed a cat, and that a live dog was better than a dead lion; and had found so little efficacy in the proverbs, that he did not care to revert to them. He was aware that some more decided method of proceeding was now required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well in the earlier days of their acquaintance; but there must be something more than little hints before he could hope to bring the matter to a favourable conclusion. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He had put on a coat with brilliant buttons, and new knickerbockers, in order that he might be master of the occasion. He was resolved to call a spade a spade, and to speak boldly of his passion; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He was now seated in a chair, and there he remained silent for a minute or two, while she smoothed her eyebrows with her handkerchief after her last slight ebullition of grief.
"Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed at last, jumping up before her; "dearest Mrs. Greenow; darling Mrs. Greenow, will you be my wife? There! I have said it at last, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. Of course I speak specially of my hand and heart. As for love;--oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I've been about. If you'll ask them at home, they'll tell you that I've not been able to look after anything about the place,--not as it should be done. I haven't really. I don't suppose I've opened the wages book half a dozen times since last July."
"And has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Upon my word it has. I can't move about anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress."
"Not stay at Oileymead?"
"No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel somewheres. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow; I couldn't, indeed. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy,--but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and stock, and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now."
"But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Just say one word, and the thing'll be done. Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. I will, indeed. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life."
"No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be."
"And why not? Look here, Arabella!" At these words he rose from his chair, and coming immediately before her, went down on both knees so close to her as to prevent the possibility of her escaping from him. There could be no doubt as to the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There he was, well down on his knees; but he had not got down so low without some little cracking and straining on the part of the gaiters with which his legs were encompassed. He, in his passion, had probably omitted to notice this; but Mrs. Greenow, who was more cool in her present temperament, was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease.
"Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she.
"Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!"
"Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won't have you take hold of my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to have done." Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise.
"I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over. There; don't you hear? There's somebody coming."
But Cheesacre, whose senses were less acute than the lady's, did not hear. "I'll never get up," said he, "till you have bid me hope."
"Bid you play the fiddle. Get away from my knees, at any rate. There;--he'll be in the room now before--"
[Illustration: Mr. Cheesacre disturbed.]
Cheesacre now did hear a sound of steps, and the door was opened while he made his first futile attempt to get back to a standing position. The door was opened, and Captain Bellfield entered. "I beg ten thousand pardons," said he, "but as I did not see Jeannette, I ventured to come in. May I venture to congratulate my friend Cheesacre on his success?"
In the meantime Cheesacre had risen; but he had done so slowly, and with evident difficulty. "I'll trouble you to leave the room, Captain Bellfield," said he. "I'm particularly engaged with Mrs. Greenow, as any gentleman might have seen."
"There wasn't the slightest difficulty in seeing it, old fellow," said the Captain. "Shall I wish you joy?"
"I'll trouble you to leave the room, sir," said Cheesacre, walking up to him.
"Certainly, if Mrs. Greenow will desire me to do so," said the Captain.
Then Mrs. Greenow felt herself called upon to speak.
"Gentlemen, I must beg that you will not make my drawing-room a place for quarrelling. Captain Bellfield, lest there should be any misconception, I must beg you to understand that the position in which you found Mr. Cheesacre was one altogether of his own seeking. It was not with my consent that he was there."
"I can easily believe that, Mrs. Greenow," said the Captain.
"Who cares what you believe, sir?" said Mr. Cheesacre.
"Gentlemen! gentlemen! this is really unkind. Captain Bellfield, I think I had better ask you to withdraw."
"By all means," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"As it is absolutely necessary that I should give Mr. Cheesacre a definite answer after what has occurred--"
"Of course," said Captain Bellfield, preparing to go. "I'll take another opportunity of paying my respects to you. Perhaps I might be allowed to come this evening?"
To this Mrs. Greenow half assented with an uncertain nod, and then the Captain went. As soon as the door was closed behind his back, Mr. Cheesacre again prepared to throw himself into his former position, but to this Mrs. Greenow decidedly objected. If he were allowed to go down again, there was no knowing what force might be necessary to raise him. "Mr. Cheesacre," she said, "let there be an end to this little farce between us."
"Farce!" said he, standing with his hand on his heart, and his legs and knickerbockers well displayed.
"It is certainly either a farce or a mistake. If the latter,--and I have been at all to blame,--I ask your pardon most sincerely."
"But you'll be Mrs. Cheesacre; won't you?"
"No, Mr. Cheesacre; no. One husband is enough for any woman, and mine lies buried at Birmingham."
"Oh, damn it!" said he, in utter disgust at this further reference to Mr. Greenow. The expression, at such a moment, militated against courtesy; but even Mrs. Greenow herself felt that the poor man had been subjected to provocation.
"Let us part friends," said she, offering him her hand.
But he turned his back upon her, for there was something in his eye that he wanted to hide. I believe that he really did love her, and that at this moment he would have taken her, even though he had learned that her fortune was gone.
"Will you not give me your hand," said she, "in token that there is no anger between us?"
"Do think about it again--do!" said he. "If there's anything you like to have changed, I'll change it at once. I'll give up Oileymead altogether, if you don't like being so near the farm-yard. I'll give up anything; so I will. Mrs. Greenow, if you only knew how I've set my heart upon it!" And now, though his back was turned, the whimpering of his voice told plainly that tears were in his eyes.
She was a little touched. No woman would feel disposed to marry a man simply because he cried, and perhaps few women would be less likely to give way to such tenderness than Mrs. Greenow. She understood men and women too well, and had seen too much both of the world's rough side and of its smooth side to fall into such a blunder as that; but she was touched. "My friend," she said, putting her hand upon his arm, "think no more of it."
"But I can't help thinking of it," said he, almost blubbering in his earnestness.
"No, no, no," said she, still touching him with her hand. "Why, Mr. Cheesacre, how can you bring yourself to care for an old woman like me, when so many pretty young ladies would give their eyes to get a kind word from you?"
"I don't want any young lady," said he.
"There's Charlie Fairstairs, who would make as good a wife as any girl I know."
"Psha! Charlie Fairstairs, indeed!" The very idea of having such a bride palmed off upon him did something to restore him to his manly courage.
"Or my niece, Kate Vavasor, who has a nice little fortune of her own, and who is as accomplished as she is good-looking."
"She's nothing to me, Mrs. Greenow."
"That's because you never asked her to be anything. If I get her to come back to Yarmouth next summer, will you think about it? You want a wife, and you couldn't do better if you searched all England over. It would be so pleasant for us to be such near friends; wouldn't it?" And again she put her hand upon his arm.
"Mrs. Greenow, just at present there's only one woman in the world that I can think of."
"And that's my niece."
"And that's yourself. I'm a broken-hearted man,--I am, indeed. I didn't ever think I should feel so much about a thing of the kind--I didn't, really. I hardly know what to do with myself; but I suppose I'd better go back to Oileymead." He had become so painfully unconscious of his new coat and his knickerbockers that it was impossible not to pity him. "I shall always hate the place now," he said,--"always."
"That will pass away. You'd be as happy as a king there, if you'd take Kate for your queen."
"And what'll you do, Mrs. Greenow?"
"What shall I do?"--"Yes; what will you do?"
"That is, if you marry Kate? Why, I'll come and stay with you half my time, and nurse the children, as an old grand-aunt should."
"But about--." Then he hesitated, and she asked him of what he was thinking.
"You don't mean to take that man Bellfield, do you?"
"Come, Mr. Cheesacre, that's rank jealousy. What right can you have to ask me whether I shall take any man or no man? The chances are that I shall remain as I am till I'm carried to my grave; but I'm not going to give any pledge about it to you or to any one."
"You don't know that man, Mrs. Greenow; you don't, indeed. I tell it you as your friend. Does not it stand to reason, when he has got nothing in the world, that he must be a beggar? It's all very well saying that when a man is courting a lady, he shouldn't say much about his money; but you won't make me believe that any man will make a good husband who hasn't got a shilling. And for lies, there's no beating him!"
"Why, then, has he been such a friend of yours?"
"Well, because I've been foolish. I took up with him just because he looked pleasant, I suppose."
"And you want to prevent me from doing the same thing."
"If you were to marry him, Mrs. Greenow, it's my belief I should do him a mischief; it is, really. I don't think I could stand it;--a mean, skulking beggar! I suppose I'd better go now?"
"Certainly, if that's the way you choose to talk about my friends."
"Friends, indeed! Well, I won't say any more at present. I suppose if I was to talk for ever it wouldn't be any good?"
"Come and talk to Kate Vavasor for ever, Mr. Cheesacre."
To this he made no reply, but went forth from the house, and got his gig, and drove himself home to Oileymead, thinking of his disappointment with all the bitterness of a young lover. "I didn't ever think I should ever care so much about anything," he said, as he took himself up to bed that night.
That evening Captain Bellfield did call in the Close, as he had said he would do, but he was not admitted. "Her mistress was very bad with a headache," Jeannette said.

When Mrs. Greenow was left alone in her lodgings, after the little dinner with her two lovers, she sat down to think. There were three paths open before her. She might take Mr. Cheesacre, or she might take Captain Bellfield - or she might take neither. She was going to leave Norwich after Easter, and they knew it. Something had been said about her returning to Yarmouth in the summer. She was a just woman at heart, and felt that each man should know his prospect if she did return.
There was a good deal to be said on Mr. Cheesacre's behalf. Mahogany-furnitured bedrooms are very comfortable; and heaps of manure, though not romantic, are useful in farming. Mrs. Greenow by no means despised these things; and as for their owner, though she saw much amiss in his character, she thought that his little foibles were of such a nature that a wife of spirit might be able to repress them, if not to cure them. But she had already married for money once, as she told herself, and she thought that she might now venture on a little love.
Her marriage for money had been successful. The nursing of old Greenow had not been disagreeable, nor had it taken longer than she had anticipated. She had now got her due reward, and she really did feel grateful to his memory. Some of her tears were dropped with sincerity. She was essentially a happy-natured woman, who looked back upon her past life with contentment, and forward to her future life with confidence. She would not be greedy, she said to herself. She did not want more money, and therefore she would have none of Mr. Cheesacre. However, she also resolved that, if possible, the mahogany-furnitured bedrooms should be kept in the family, and made over to her niece, Kate Vavasor.
But should she marry Captain Bellfield? Strange to say, his poverty and scampishness and lies almost recommended him to her. She was not afraid of them; she thought that she could cure them - if they needed curing. As for his stories about Inkerman, and his little debts, she cared nothing about that. She also had her Inkermans, and she too had owed money for her gloves and corsets in the ante-Greenow days.
But she was aware of the danger that there might be more behind, of which she had never heard. Another Mrs. Bellfield was not impossible; and what if he should not be a real captain at all! Such things had happened. Her chief security was in this: that Cheesacre had known the man for many years, and would certainly have told anything against him that he knew.
Between nine and ten in the evening, Jeannette brought to her some arrowroot with sherry, which it was her habit to take before retiring for the night.
"Jeannette," she said, as she stirred the bowl, "I'm afraid those two gentlemen have quarrelled."
"Oh, ma'am, of course they have! How was they to help it?"
Jeannette, on these occasions, usually stood by her mistress's chair, chatting with her; and if the chatting was much prolonged, she would gradually sink down upon the corner of a chair herself - and then the two women would be very comfortable together over the fire, Jeannette never forgetting that she was the servant, and Mrs. Greenow never forgetting that she was the mistress.
"Why should they quarrel, Jeannette? It's very foolish."
"I don't know about being foolish, ma'am; but it's natural. If I had two beaux as was a-courting me together, I should expect as they would punch each other's heads."
"But you don't suppose that I want beaux, as you call them?"
"That's as may be, ma'am. But they are; and if they was to blow each other's brains out in the gig tonight, I shouldn't be a bit surprised." As she said this, Jeannette slipped into her chair.
"Why, you silly child, they're not going home together. Did not the Captain go away first?"
"He did, but I thought perhaps it was to get his pistols ready."
"They won't fight, Jeannette. Gentlemen have given over fighting."
"Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers full of it, and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn't be wounded."
"But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing. I have never said a word to encourage either of them. You know I haven't, Jeannette." Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes.
"To be sure, ma'am, no lady could have behaved better than you have done. If gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn't your fault; is it, ma'am?"
"But I'm so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know."
"When you've settled which it's to be, ma'am, that'll all come right again." Then there was a little pause. "I suppose, ma'am, it won't be Mr. Cheesacre?"
"I shall always regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend; but he'll never be more than that."
"Then it'll be the Captain, ma'am? I'm sure, for my part, I've always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman."
"He's nothing to me, girl."
"And as for money - what's the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can't you, ma'am?"
"He's nothing to me, girl," repeated Mrs. Greenow.
"But he will be?" asked Jeannette.
"Well, I'm sure! What's the world come to, when you cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It's near ten o'clock. Next week we shall be packing up, and there'll be all my things to see to."
So Jeannette departed, and after some further thought about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow went to her bed.
Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone, had kept himself hot with passion against Bellfield; and his heat had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his home. But early on the following morning he thought of Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered some of the hard things which she had said to him.
He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined to put them right. She had rebuked him for saying nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to talk so much about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he said to himself, "She can't really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn't got a shilling."
He was very far from feeling that the battle was lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship. He was, no doubt, becoming tired of courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up.
So he prepared himself for another attack, and took himself back to Norwich. On this occasion he dressed himself with considerable care, in knickerbockers, with tight, bright, leather gaiters round his legs, thinking his manly proportions might stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, and a wonderful waistcoat embroidered with foxes' heads. He completed his outfit with a round hat, dog-skin gloves, and a whip.
Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took one glass of cherry-brandy at the bar, and then marched off across the market-place to the Close with decisive steps, pausing only at a pastrycook's where he had another glass of cherry-brandy.
He knocked at the door, and in another second was in the presence of his angel.
"Mr. Cheesacre, whoever expected to see you in Norwich on a Thursday?" said the lady.
He answered boldly. "There's no knowing when I may be in Norwich, Mrs. Greenow. I'm one of those men of whom nobody knows anything certain, except that I pay as I go." Then he remembered that he was not to make any more boasts about his money. "There's one other thing they may all know if they please, but we won't say what that is just at present."
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Well, thank you, I will sit down for a few minutes. Mrs. Greenow, I'm in such a state of mind that I must put an end to it, or else I shall go mad, and do somebody a damage."
"Dear me! what has happened to you? You're going out shooting soon, are you not?" and Mrs. Greenow looked at his clothes.
"No, Mrs. Greenow, I'm not going shooting. I like to be nice, and all that kind of thing. There are people who think that because a man farms his own land, he must be always in the muck. But it don't matter what a man wears if his heart isn't easy."
"I don't know why you should speak in that way, Mr. Cheesacre; but it's what I have felt every hour since - since Greenow left me."
This allusion to the departed one did not help Mr. Cheesacre. He felt that some decided method of proceeding was required. Little hints at love-making had been all very well earlier on; but now there must be more than little hints. The widow herself had told him that he ought to talk about love; and he had taken two glasses of cherry-brandy, hoping that they might enable him to do so. He was resolved to speak boldly; but how was he to begin? There was the difficulty. He remained silent for a minute or two. Then he jumped up before her.
"Mrs. Greenow," he exclaimed, "dearest Mrs. Greenow; will you be my wife? There! I have said it, and I mean it. Everything that I've got shall be yours. As for love; oh, Arabella, if you only knew me! I don't think there's a man in Norfolk better able to love a woman than I am. Ever since I first saw you at Yarmouth, I've been in love to that extent that I've not known what I'm about. I haven't really."
"Has that been my fault, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Upon my word it has. I can't move anywhere without thinking about you. My mind's made up; I won't stay at Oileymead unless you will come and be its mistress."
"Not stay at Oileymead?"
"No, indeed. I'll let the place, and go and travel. What's the use of my hanging on there without the woman of my heart? I couldn't do it, Mrs. Greenow. Of course I've got everything there that money can buy - but it's all of no use to a man that's in love. Do you know, I've come quite to despise money and all that sort of thing. I haven't had my banker's book home these last three months. Only think of that now."
"But how can I help you, Mr. Cheesacre?"
"Say you'll be my wife? I'll be so good to you. As for your fortune, I don't care that for it! I'm not like somebody else; it's yourself I want. You shall be my pet, and my poppet, and my dearest little duck all the days of your life."
"No, Mr. Cheesacre; it cannot be."
"And why not? Look here, Arabella!" He rose from his chair, and went down on both knees so close to her that she could not escape. There could be no doubt about the efficacy of the cherry-brandy. There was some little cracking and straining of his gaiters as he knelt. He did not notice this; but Mrs. Greenow was painfully aware that he might not be able to rise with ease.
"Mr. Cheesacre, don't make a fool of yourself. Get up," said she.
"Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!"
"Then you'll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. Don't take my hand, Mr. Cheesacre. I tell you to stop."
He released her hand, but made no attempt to rise.
"I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life," said she. "If you don't get up, I'll push you over. Don't you hear? There's somebody coming."
But Cheesacre did not hear. "I'll never get up," said he, "till you have bid me hope."
"Bid you play the fiddle. Get away from my knees. There; he'll be in the room now before-"
Cheesacre now did hear footsteps, and the door opened while he made his first futile attempt to get back to a standing position. Captain Bellfield entered.
"I beg ten thousand pardons," said he, "but as I did not see Jeannette, I ventured to come in. May I congratulate my friend Cheesacre on his success?"
In the meantime Cheesacre had risen, with difficulty. "I'll trouble you to leave the room, Captain Bellfield," said he.
"Certainly, if Mrs. Greenow wishes me to do so," said the Captain.
Mrs. Greenow felt herself called upon to speak.
"Captain Bellfield, I must beg you to understand that the position in which you found Mr. Cheesacre was one altogether of his own seeking. It was not with my consent that he was there."
"I can easily believe that, Mrs. Greenow," said the Captain.
"Who cares what you believe, sir?" said Mr. Cheesacre.
"Gentlemen! gentlemen! this is really unkind. Captain Bellfield, I think I had better ask you to withdraw."
"By all means," said Mr. Cheesacre.
"As it is absolutely necessary that I should give Mr. Cheesacre a definite answer-"
"Of course," said Captain Bellfield, preparing to go. "Perhaps I might be allowed to come this evening?"
To this Mrs. Greenow half assented with a nod, and the Captain went. As soon as the door was closed, Mr. Cheesacre again prepared to throw himself into his former position, but Mrs. Greenow promptly said, "Mr. Cheesacre, let there be an end to this little farce."
"Farce!" said he, standing with his hand on his heart.
"It is certainly either a farce or a mistake. If I have been at all to blame, I ask your pardon most sincerely."
"But you'll be Mrs. Cheesacre; won't you?"
"No, Mr. Cheesacre; no. One husband is enough for any woman, and mine lies buried at Birmingham."
"Oh, damn it!" said he, in utter disgust. It was not courteous; but even Mrs. Greenow herself felt that the poor man had been provoked.
"Let us part friends," said she, offering him her hand.
But he turned his back upon her, for there was something in his eye that he wanted to hide. I believe that he really did love her.
"Will you not give me your hand," said she, "to show that there is no anger between us?"
"Do think again! If there's anything you like to have changed, I'll change it at once. I'll give up Oileymead altogether, if you don't like being so near the farm-yard. Mrs. Greenow, if you only knew how I've set my heart upon it!" And now, though his back was turned, the whimpering of his voice told plainly that tears were in his eyes.
She was a little touched. No woman would feel disposed to marry a man simply because he cried, and Mrs. Greenow had seen too much of the world to fall into such a blunder as that; but she was touched.
"My friend," she said, putting her hand upon his arm, "think no more of it."
"But I can't help thinking of it," said he, almost blubbering.
"No, no, no," said she. "Why, Mr. Cheesacre, how can you care for an old woman like me, when so many pretty young ladies would give their eyes to get a kind word from you?"
"I don't want any young lady," said he.
"There's Charlie Fairstairs, who would make as good a wife as any girl I know."
"Psha! Charlie Fairstairs, indeed!"
"Or my niece, Kate Vavasor."
"She's nothing to me, Mrs. Greenow."
"That's because you never asked her to be anything. If I get her to come back to Yarmouth next summer, will you think about it? You want a wife, and you couldn't do better if you searched all England. It would be so pleasant for us to be near friends; wouldn't it?" And again she put her hand upon his arm.
"Mrs. Greenow, at present there's only one woman in the world that I can think of."
"And that's my niece."
"And that's yourself. I'm a broken-hearted man - I am, indeed. I hardly know what to do with myself; but I suppose I'd better go back to Oileymead. I shall always hate the place now," he said.
"That will pass away. You'd be as happy as a king there, if you'd take Kate for your queen."
"And what'll you do, Mrs. Greenow?"
"What shall I do? If you marry Kate, I'll come and stay with you half my time, and nurse the children, as an old grand-aunt should."
"But -" He hesitated. "You don't mean to take that man Bellfield, do you?"
"Come, Mr. Cheesacre, that's jealousy. What right can you have to ask me whether I shall take any man? The chances are that I shall remain as I am till I'm carried to my grave; but I'm not going to give any promise about it to you or to anyone."
"You don't know that man, Mrs. Greenow; you don't, indeed. He hasn't got a shilling. And for lies, there's no beating him!"
"Why, then, has he been such a friend of yours?"
"Well, because I've been foolish. I took up with him just because he looked pleasant, I suppose."
"And you want to prevent me from doing the same."
"If you were to marry him, Mrs. Greenow, it's my belief I should do him a mischief; I don't think I could stand it. A mean, skulking beggar! I suppose I'd better go now?"
"Certainly, if that's the way you choose to talk about my friends."
"Well, I won't say any more at present. I suppose if I was to talk for ever it wouldn't be any good?"
"Come and talk to Kate Vavasor for ever, Mr. Cheesacre."
To this he made no reply, but left, and drove home to Oileymead, thinking of his disappointment with all the bitterness of a young lover.
"I didn't think I should ever care so much about anything," he said, as he took himself to bed that night.
That evening Captain Bellfield did call in the Close, as he had said he would, but he was not admitted.
"Her mistress had a headache," said Jeannette.

Chapter 47: Mr. Cheesacre's Disappointment