 CHAPTER V. The balcony at Basel. I am not going to describe the Vavasor's Swiss tour. It would not be fair on my readers. Six weeks in the Bernese Oberland by party of three would have but very small chance of success in the literary world at present, and I should consider myself to be dishonest if I attempt to palm off such matter on the public in the pages of a novel. It is true that I have just returned from Switzerland, and should find such a course of writing very convenient. But I dismiss the temptation, strong as it is, retro age, Santanus. No living man or woman any longer wants to be told anything of the Grimzel or of the Jemmy. Ludgate Hill is, nowadays, more interesting than the Jungfrau. The Vavasors were not very energetic on their tour. As George had said, they had gone out for pleasure, and not for work. They went direct to Interlaken, and then hung about between that place and Grindelwald and Lauterbrunnen. It delighted him to sit still on some outer bench looking at the mountains with a cigar in his mouth, and it seemed to delight them to be with him. Much that Mr. Gray prophesied had come true. The two girls were ministers to him, instead of having him as their slave. What fine fellows those alpine club men think themselves! he said on one of these occasions. And how thoroughly they despise the sort of enjoyment I get from mountains. But they are mistaken. I don't see why either need be mistaken, said Alice. But they are mistaken, he continued. They rob the mountains of their poetry, which is, or should be, their greatest charm. Montblanc can have no mystery for a man who has been up it half a dozen times. It's like getting behind the scenes at a ballet. Or making a conjurer explain his tricks. But is the exercise nothing? said Kate. Yes, the exercise is very fine. But that avoids the question. And they all botanize, said Alice. I don't believe it. I believe that the most of them simply walk up the mountain and go down again. But if they did, that avoids the question also. The poetry and mystery of the mountains are lost to those who make themselves familiar with their details. Not the less, because such familiarity may have useful results. In this world things are beautiful only because they are not quite seen, or not perfectly understood. Poetry is precious chiefly because it suggests more than it declares. Look in there, through that valley, where you just see the distant little peak at the end. Are you not dreaming of the unknown, beautiful world that exists up there? Beautiful, as heaven is beautiful. Because you know nothing of the reality. If you make your way up there and back to-morrow, and find out all about it, do you mean to say that it will be as beautiful to you when you come back? Yes, I think it would," said Alice. Then you've no poetry in you. Now I'm made up of poetry. After that they began to laugh at him, and were very happy. I think that Mr. Gray was right in answering Alice's letter as he did. But I think that Lady MacLeod was also right in saying that Alice should not have gone to Switzerland in company with George Vavasor. A peculiar familiarity sprang up, which, had all its circumstances been known to Mr. Gray, would not have entirely satisfied him, even though no word was said which might in itself have displeased him. During the first weeks of their travelling no word was said which would have displeased him, but at last when the time for their return was drawing nigh, when their happiness was nearly over, and that feeling of melancholy was coming on them, which always pervades the last hours of any period that has been pleasant, then words became softer than they had been, and references were made to old days, allusions which never should have been permitted between them. Alice had been very happy. More happy, perhaps, in that she had been a joint minister with Kate to her cousin George's idle fantasies, than she would have been, hurrying about with him as her slave. They had tacitly agreed to spoil him with comforts, and girls are always happier in spoiling some man than in being spoiled by men. And he had taken it all well, doing his despotism pleasantly, exacting much, but exacting nothing that was disagreeable. And he had been amusing always, as Alice thought, without any effort. But men and women, when they show themselves at their best, seldom do so without an effort. If the object be near the heart the effort will be pleasant to him who makes it, and if it be made well it will be hidden, but not the less will the effort be there. George Vavasor had, on the present occasion, done his very best to please his cousin. They were sitting at Basel one evening in the balcony of the big hotel which overlooks the Rhine. The balcony runs the length of the house, and is open to all the company, but it is spacious, and little parties can be formed there with perfect privacy. The swift broad Rhine runs underneath, rushing from the bridge which here spans the river, and every now and then, on summer evenings, loud shouts come up from strong swimmers in the water, who are glorying in the swiftness of the current. The three were sitting there by themselves at the end of the balcony. Coffee was before them on a little table, and George's cigar, as usual, was in his mouth. "'It's nearly all over,' said he, after they had remained silent for some minutes. "'And I do think it has been a success,' said Kate. "'Always accepting about the money. I'm ruined for ever.' "'I'll make your money all straight,' said George. "'Indeed, you'll do nothing of the kind,' said Kate. "'I'm ruined, but you are ruined, Err. But what signifies? It is such a great thing ever to have had six weeks' happiness, that the ruin is, in point of fact, a good speculation. What do you say, Alice? Won't you vote, too, that we've done it well?' "'I think we've done it very well. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly. And now you've got to go home to John Gray and Cambridge sure. It's no wonder you should be melancholy.' That was the thought in Kate's mind, but she did not speak it out on this occasion. "'That's good of you, Alice,' said Kate. "'Is it not, George? I like a person who will give a hearty mead of approbation. But I am giving the mead of approbation to myself. "'I like a person even to do that heartily,' said Kate. "'Not that George and I are thankful for the compliment. We are prepared to admit that we owe almost everything to you. Are we not, George?' "'I'm not, by any means,' said George. "'Well, I am, and I expect to have something pretty said to me in return.' "'Have I been cross once, Alice?' "'No, I don't think you have. You are never cross, though you are often ferocious. "'But I haven't been once ferocious, nor has George.' "'He would have been the most ungrateful man alive if he had,' said Alice. "'We've done nothing since we've started but realize from him that picture in punch of the young gentleman at Jeddo, who had a dozen ladies to wait upon him.' "'And now he has got to go home to his lodgings and wait upon himself again. Poor fellow! I do pity you, George.' "'No, you don't, nor does Alice. I believe girls always think that a bachelor in London has the happiest of all lives. It's because they think so that they generally want to put an end to the man's condition. It's envy that makes us want to get married. Not love,' said Kate. "'It's the devil in some shape, as often as not,' said he. With a man marriage always seems to him to be an evil at the instant.' "'Not always,' said Alice. "'Almost always. But he does it, as he takes physics, because something worse will come if he don't. A man never likes having his tooth pulled out. But all men do have their teeth pulled out. And they who delay it too long suffer the very mischief.' "'I do like George's philosophy,' said Kate, getting up from her chair as she spoke. It is so sharp and has such a pleasant acid taste about it. And then we all know that it means nothing. Alice, I'm going upstairs to begin the final packing. I'll come with you, dear.' "'No, don't. To tell the truth, I'm only going into that man's room, because he won't put up a single thing of his own decently. We'll do ours, of course, when we go to bed. Whatever you disarrange to-night, Master George, you must rearrange for yourself to-morrow morning, for I promise I won't go into your room at five o'clock.' "'How I do hate that early work,' said George. "'I'll be down again very soon,' said Kate. Then we'll take one turn on the bridge and go to bed. Alice and George were left together sitting in the balcony. They had been alone together before many times since their travels had commenced. But they both of them felt that there was something to them in the present moment different from any other period of their journey. There was something that each felt to be sweet, undefinable, and dangerous. Alice had known that it would be better for her to go upstairs with Kate. But Kate's answer had been of such a nature that had she gone, she would have shown that she had some special reason for going. Why should she show such a need? Or why, indeed, should she entertain it? Alice was seated quite at the end of the gallery, and Kate's chair was at her feet in the corner. When Alice and Kate had seated themselves, the waiter had brought a small table for the coffee cups, and George had placed his chair on the other side of that. So that Alice was, as it were, a prisoner. She could not slip away without some special preparation for going, and Kate had so placed her chair in leaving that she must actually have asked George to move it before she could escape. But why should she wish to escape? Nothing could be more lovely and enticing than the scene before her. The night had come on with quick but still unperceived approach, as it does in those parts. For the twilight there is not prolonged as it is with us more northern folk. The night had come on, but there was a rising moon which just sufficed to give a sheen to the water beneath her. The air was deliciously soft. Of that softness which produces no sensation either of warmth or cold, but which just seems to touch one with loving tenderness, as though the unseen spirits of the air kissed one's forehead as they passed on their wings. The Rhine was running at her feet, so near that in the soft half-light it seemed as though she might step into its ripple. The Rhine was running by with that delicious sound of rapidly moving waters, that fresh, refreshing gurgle of the river, which is so delicious to the ear at all times. If you be talking, it wraps up your speech, keeping it for yourselves, making it difficult neither to her who listens nor to him who speaks. If you would sleep, it is of all lullabies the sweetest. If you are alone and would think, it aids all your thoughts. If you are alone and alas would not think, if thinking be too painful, it will dispel your sorrow and give the comfort which music alone can give. Alice felt that the air kissed her, that the river sang for her its sweetest song, that the moon shone for her with its softest light, that light which lends the poetry of half-developed beauty to everything that it touches. Why should she leave it? Nothing was said for some minutes after Kate's departure, and Alice was beginning to shake from her that half-feeling of danger which had come over her. Bavisaur had sat back in his chair, leaning against the house, with his feet raised upon a stool. His arms were folded across his breast, and he seemed to have divided himself between his thoughts and his cigar. Alice was looking full upon the river, and her thoughts had strayed away to her future home among John Gray's flower beds and shrubs. But the river, though it sang to her pleasantly, seemed to sing a song of other things than such a home as that—a song full of mystery, as are all river songs when one tries to understand their words. When are you to be married, Alice? said George, at last. Oh, George! said she. You asked me a question as though you were putting a pistol to my ear. I'm sorry the question was so unpleasant. I didn't say that it was unpleasant, but you asked it so suddenly. The truth is, I didn't expect you to speak at all just then. I suppose I was thinking of something. But if it be not unpleasant, when are you to be married? I do not know. It is not fixed. But about when, I mean, this summer? Certainly not this summer, for the summer will be over when we reach home. This winter? Next spring? Next year? Or in ten years' time? Before the expiration of the ten years, I suppose. Anything more exact than that, I can't say. I suppose you like it? He then said. What? Being married? You see, I've never tried yet. The idea of it. The anticipation. You look forward with satisfaction to the kind of life you will lead at Nethercoats. Don't suppose I am saying anything against it, for I have no conception what sort of a place Nethercoats is. On the whole, I don't know that there is any kind of life better than that of an English country gentleman in his own place. That is, if he can keep it up, and not live as the old squire does, in a state of chronic poverty. Mr. Gray's place doesn't entitle him to be called a country gentleman. But you like the prospect of it? Oh, George, how you do cross-question one. Of course I like it, or I shouldn't have accepted it. That does not follow, but I quite acknowledge that I have no right to cross-question you. If I ever had such a right on the score of cousinship, I have lost it on the score of but we won't mind that, will we, Alice? To this she at first made no answer, but he repeated the question. Will we, Alice? Will we what? Recurred to the old days. Why should we recur to them? They are past, and as we are again friends and dear cousins, the sting of them is gone. Ah, yes, the sting of them is gone. It is for that reason, because it is so, that we may at last recur to them, without danger. If we regret nothing, if neither of us has anything to regret, why not recur to them, and to talk of them freely? No, George, that would not do, by heavens no, it would drive me mad, and if I know odd of you, it would hardly leave you as calm as you are at present. As I would wish to be left calm, would you? Then I suppose I ought to hold my tongue. But, Alice, I shall never have the power of speaking to you again, as I speak now. Since we have been out together, we have been dear friends. Is it not so? And shall we not always be dear friends? No, certainly not. How will it be possible? Think of it. How can I really be your friend, when you are the mistress of that man's house in Cambridgeshire? George, I mean nothing disrespectful. I truly beg your pardon, if it has seemed so. Let me say that gentleman's house, for he is a gentleman. That he certainly is. You could not have accepted him, were he not so. But how can I be your friend, when you are his wife? I may still call you cousin Alice, and pat your children on the head, if I chance to see them, and shall stop in the streets, and shake hands with him, if I meet him. That is, if my untoward fate does not induce him to cut my acquaintance. But as for friendship, that will be over when you and I shall have parted next Thursday evening at London Bridge. Oh, George, don't say so. But I do. And why on Thursday? Do you mean that you won't come to Queen Anne Street any more? Yes, that is what I do mean. This trip of ours has been very successful, Kate says. Perhaps Kate knows nothing about it. It has been very pleasant, at least to me, and the pleasure has had no drawback. None to me. Me? It has been very pleasant to me also. But the pleasure has had its alloy. Alice, I have nothing to ask from you. Nothing. Anything that you should ask I would do for you. I have nothing to ask. Nothing. But I have one word to say. George, do not say it. Let me go upstairs. Let me go to Kate. Certainly, if you wish it you shall go. He still held his foot against the chair which barred her passage, and did not attempt to rise as he must have done to make way for her passage out. Certainly you shall go to Kate if you refuse to hear me. But after all that has passed between us, after these six weeks of intimate companionship, I think you ought to listen to me. I tell you that I have nothing to ask. I am not going to make love to you. Alice had commenced some attempt to rise, but she had again settled herself in her chair. And now, when he paused for a moment, she made no further sign that she wished to escape, nor did she say a word to intimate her further wish that he should be silent. I am not going to make love to you. He said again. As for making love, as the word goes, that must be over between you and me. It has been made, and marred, and cannot be remade. It may exist, or it may have been expelled. But where it does not exist, it will never be brought back again. It should not be spoken of between you and me. So, no doubt, any proper going duena would say. And so too, little children should be told. But between you and me there can be no necessity for falsehood. We have grown beyond our sugar-toothed ages, and are now men and women. I perfectly understood your breaking away from me. I understood you. And in spite of my sorrow, knew that you were right. I am not going to accuse or to defend myself. But I knew that you were right. Then let there be no more about it. Yes, there must be more about it. I did not understand you when you accepted Mr. Gray. Against him I have not a whisper to make. He may be perfect for ought I know. But knowing you as I thought I did, I could not understand your loving such a man as him. It was as though one who had lived on Brandy should take himself suddenly to a milk diet, and enjoy the change. A milk diet is no doubt the best. But men who have lived on Brandy can't make those changes very suddenly. They perish in the attempt. Not always, George. It may be done with months of agony, but there was no such agony with you. Who can tell? But you will tell me the cure is made, I thought so, and therefore thought that I should find you changed. I thought that you, who had been all fire, would now have turned yourself into soft-flowing milk and honey, and have become fit for the life in store for you. With such a one I might have travelled from Moscow to Malta without danger. The woman, fit to be John Gray's wife, would certainly do me no harm, could not touch my happiness. I might have loved her once. Might still love the memory of what she had been. But her, in her new form, after her new birth, such a one as that, Alice, could be nothing to me. Don't mistake me. I have enough of wisdom in me to know how much better, I, and happier, a woman she might be. It was not that I thought you had descended in the scale, but I gave you credit for virtues which you have not acquired. Alice, that wholesome diet of which I spoke is not your diet. You would starve on it and perish. He had spoken with great energy, but still in a low voice, having turned full round upon the table, with both his arms upon it, and his face stretched out far over towards her. She was looking full at him, and as I have said before, that scar and his gloomy eyes and thick eyebrows seemed to make up the whole of his face. But the scar had never been ugly to her. She knew the story, and when he was her lover, she had taken pride in the mark of the wound. She looked at him, but though he paused, she did not speak. The music of the river was still in her ears, and there came upon her a struggle as though she were striving to understand its song. Were the waters also telling her of the mistake she had made in accepting Mr. Gray as her husband? What her cousin was now telling her, was it not a repetition of words which she had spoken to herself hundreds of times during the last two months? Was she not telling herself daily, hourly, always, in every thought of her life, that in accepting Mr. Gray she had assumed herself to be mistress of virtues which she did not possess? Had she not, in truth, rioted upon Brandy, till the innocence of milk was unfitted for her? This man now came and rudely told her all this. But did he not tell her the truth? She sat silent and convicted, only gazing into his face when his speech was done. I have learned this since we have been again together, Alice, and finding you not the angel I had supposed, finding you to be the same woman I had once loved, the safety that I anticipated has not fallen to my lot. That's all. Here's Kate, and now we'll go for our walk. CHAPTER VI. THE BRIDGE OVER THE RINE 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 railway, she went on with it herself rapidly, as though to cover Alice's confusion, and to 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 Basel. 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 Basel? 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 Hondack. 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 daresay 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 Gray, 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, and 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 is 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 half a penny. 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 will 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 Vavis or 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 arrived 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 nearest 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 am 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 Basel 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 into 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 onto 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 will take my advice, said Kate, at last, standing up with her candle in her hand, you will ask her in plain words to give you another chance. Do it tomorrow at Strasbourg. You'll never have a better opportunity. And bid her throw John Gray over. Don't say anything about John Gray. Leave her to settle that matter with herself. Believe me, that she has quite courage enough to dispose of John Gray 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 anyone 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 Gray 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 be thinking himself that he wouldn't wear out his clothes. I don't see that you're 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, than 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. Gray 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 Gray, our friendship must be over. If you become George's wife, I should become nobody. I have 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 sepulcher, 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 Gray. 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 anyone 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 pretense, and dare to speak the truth, we shall acknowledge that it is so. Had Mr. Gray 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 Satter. And which is the Satter? 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. Gray 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 judgment 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. Gray, 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 defense would by no means have satisfied Mr. Gray if Mr. Gray could have heard them, that they would have induced him to offer her back her truth, 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 Basel to London. And during those two days and nights neither George nor Kate spoke a word to Alice of her marriage. Nor was any illusion made to the balcony at the inn, or to the bridge over the river. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kirsten Ferreri. Can You Forgive Her? by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 7 Aunt Greenow 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 exigent 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 upstairs 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 afterward, 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 all his movements, but all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and coming in were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men. It will be perhaps as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter and 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 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 truth to justify the character. Now, this was very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she had offended her brothers and father by declining to comply with their advice at certain periods of her career. There was indeed considerable trouble in the minds of various male Vavasors with reference to Arabella when tidings suddenly reached the hall, that she was going to be married to an old man. Well, she was married to the old man, and the marriage fortunately turned out satisfactorily at any rate for the old man and her family. The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much surprised and 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. Rumors soon made their way to Vavasor Hall and to Queen Anne Street, that Mrs. Greenow was quite the patterned 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 niece. Why not go to Yarmouth with her for a month? George had said, 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 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 which summer visitors have little or nothing to do, and there are the new houses down by the seaside 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 are 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! Jeanette, 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 Jeanette. Kate had also 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 left the station at shortage. 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 again beyond the stones as the saying used to be, she was herself again, and at Ipswich she had ordered Jeanette to get her a glass of sherry with an air which caused 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 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 Montpellier Parade said Mrs. Greenow. They's all large, ma'am, said the driver. The largest, said Mrs. Greenow. There 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 left and right of her. Her ambition in this and 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 a 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. Come, 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 the finest cambrick. "'Dinner, ma'am,' said Jeannette, opening the door. "'Jeannette, I told you to always say that dinner was served.' "'Dinner 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. She especially wrote to Mrs. Jones to have some sweet bread. 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 the banquet on the sweet bread, 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 she did. She turned over all her wardrobe of mourning, showing the richness of each article, the stiffness of the crepe, the fineness of the cambrick, 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 mains,' she said at last, as she carefully folded up a huge black crepe 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. He has 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 did folks say if they saw her in her own carriage? And 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 the 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. Went seated. She was the sinusior 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, 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 the mistress of the place and 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. 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 emulate you on the altar of my grief. I shall force myself to go out for your sake, Kate. But dear aunt, the world will think it so odd at present. I don't care topents 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 of things 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 Jeanette probably had their little jokes downstairs, but this did not hurt Mrs. Greenow. What was said and what 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 behooves the world to speak aloud, and the world does its duty. Numerous people came to call at Montpellier 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 knew 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. When my word, then, she really is handsome, Kate wrote one day to Alice. But she could also frown, and knew well how to put aside, or if need be 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 did you snub that Captain Belfield?' "'Captain Belfield, 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 ninety-seventh were in Manchester, and I'm sure he's never had a shilling to purchase since. 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 the washerwoman. But how do you know, aunt, that Captain Belfield 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 who 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 an earnest, but Mrs. Greenow would push aside all that her niece said as though it were worth nothing. Kate was an unmarried woman with 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 Belfield. 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 thinking when one's a bed, said Jeanette, who was present at the time, child, hold your tongue, said the widow. Yes, ma'am, said Jeanette. 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 Belfield. On purpose to ask after the poor woman who washes his clothes without getting paid for it. But what harm can Captain Belfield do to 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 thinking 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've never thought about getting a husband? Didn't I see Mr. Cheeseacre ask you for a dance last night? Yes he did, while you were talking to Captain Belfield yourself, aunt. Captain Belfield can't hurt me, dear, and why didn't you dance with Mr. Cheeseacre? 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 Belfield, 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 Belfield, as you call it, said Kate. Then she's 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. CHAPTER VIII. OF CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHAPTER VIII. MR. CHEESEAKER. Yarmouth is not a happy place for a picnic. A picnic should be held among green things. Green turf is absolutely inessential. There should be trees, broken ground, small paths, thickets, and hidden recesses. There should, if possible, be rocks, old timber, moss, and brambles. There should certainly be hills and dales, on a small scale. And above all, there should be running water. There should be no expanse. Jones should not be able to see all green's movements, nor should Augusta always have her eye upon her sister Jane. But the spot chosen for Mr. Cheeseacre's picnic at Yarmouth had none of the virtues above described. It was on the seashore. Nothing was visible from the site but sand and sea. There were no trees, and nothing green. Neither was there any running water. But there was a long, dry, flat strand. There was an old boat, half turned over, under which it was proposed to dine. And in addition to this, benches, boards, and some amount of canvas for shelter were provided by the liberality of Mr. Cheeseacre. Therefore it was called Mr. Cheeseacre's picnic. But it was to be a marine picnic. And therefore the essential attributes of other picnics were not required. The idea had come from some boating expeditions, in which mackerel had been caught, enduring which food had been eaten, not altogether comfortably in the boats. Then a thought had suggested itself to Captain Belfield that they might land and eat their food, and his friend Mr. Cheeseacre had promised his substantial aid. A lady had surmised that Ormsby Sands would be the very place for dancing in the cool of the evening. They might dance on the sand, she said, and yet no footing seen. And so the thing had progressed, and the picnic had been inaugurated. It was Mr. Cheeseacre's picnic undoubtedly. Mr. Cheeseacre was to supply the boats, the wine, the cigars, the music, and the carpenters' work necessary for the turning of the old boat into a banqueting saloon. But Mrs. Greenow had promised to provide via eatables, and enjoyed as much of the eclat as the master of the festival. She had known Mr. Cheeseacre now for ten days and was quite intimate with him. He was a stout, floored man of about forty-five, a bachelor, apparently much attached to ladies' society, bearing no sign of age except that he was rather bald, and that grey hairs had mixed themselves in with his whiskers, very fond of farming and yet somewhat ashamed of it when he found himself in what he considered to be polite circles. And he was moreover a little inclined to seek the honour which comes from a well-filled and liberally opened purse. He liked to give a man a dinner, and then boast of the dinner he had given. He was very proud when he could talk of having mounted, for a day's hunting, any man who might be supposed to be of higher rank than himself. I had Grimsby with me the other day, the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwick, you know, blessed if he didn't stake my bay mare. But what matters? I mounted him again the next day, just the same. Some people thought he was soft, for it was very well known throughout Norfolk that young Grimsby would take a mount wherever he could get it. In these days Mrs. Greenow had become intimate with Mr. Cheeseacre, and had already learned that he was the undoubted owner of his acres. It wouldn't do for me, she had said to him, to be putting myself forward, as if I were giving a party myself or anything of that sort, would it now? Well, perhaps not, but you might come with us. So I will, Mr. Cheeseacre, for that dear girl's sake. I should never forgive myself if I debarred her from all the pleasures of youth because of my sorrows. I need hardly say that at such a time as this nothing of that sort can give me any pleasure. I suppose not, said Mr. Cheeseacre, with a solemn look. Quite out of the question. And Mrs. Greenow wiped away her tears. For though, as regards age, I might dance on the sands as merrily as the best of them. That I'm sure you could, Mrs. Greenow. How is a woman to enjoy herself if her heart lies buried? But it won't be so always, Mrs. Greenow. Mrs. Greenow shook her head to show that she hardly knew how to answer such a question. Surely it would be so always, but she did not wish to put a damper on the present occasion by making so sad a declaration. If you and I do it between us, won't that be the surest way of having it come off nicely? Mr. Cheeseacre thought that it would be the best way. Exactly so. I'll do the meat and pastry and fruit, and you shall do the boats and wine." And the music, said Cheeseacre, and the expenses at the place. He did not choose that any part of his outlay should go unnoticed. I'll go halves in all that if you like, said Mrs. Greenow. But Mr. Cheeseacre declined this. He did not begrudge the expense, but only wished that it should be recognized. And Mr. Cheeseacre continued Mrs. Greenow. I did mean to send the music. I did indeed. I couldn't hear of it, Mrs. Greenow. But I mention it now, because I was thinking of getting blowhard to come. That other man flutie wouldn't do it all out in the open air. It shall be blowhard, said Mr. Cheeseacre. And it was blowhard. Mrs. Greenow liked to have her own way in these little things, so her heart did lie buried. On the morning of the picnic, Mr. Cheeseacre came down to Montellier Parade with Captain Belfield, whose linen on that occasion certainly gave no outward sign of any quarrel between him and his washerwoman. He was got up wonderfully, and was prepared at all points for the day's work. He had on a pseudo-sailor's jacket, very liberally ornamented with brass buttons, which displayed with great judgment the exquisite shapes of his pseudo-sailor's duck trousers. Beneath them was a pair of very shiny, patent leather shoes, well adapted for dancing on the sand, presuming him to be anxious of doing so, as Venus offered to do without leaving any footmarks. His waistcoat was of a delicate white fabric, ornamented with very many gilt buttons. He had bejeweled studs in his shirt, and yellow kid gloves on his hands, having, of course, another pair in his pocket for the necessities of the evening. His array was quite perfect, and had stricken dismay into the heart of his friend Cheeseacre when he joined that gentleman. He was a well-made man, nearly six feet high, with dark hair, dark whiskers, and dark moustache, nearly black, but of that suspicious hue which to the observant beholder seems always to tell a tale of the hairdresser's shop. He was handsome, too, with well-arranged features, but carrying, perhaps in his nose, some first symptoms of the effects of midnight amusements. Upon the whole, however, he was a nice man to look at, for those who liked to look on nice men of that kind. Cheeseacre, too, had adopted something of a sailor's garb. He had on a jacket of the rougher sort, coming down much lower than that of the captain, being much looser, and perhaps somewhat more like a garment which a possible seaman might possibly wear. But he was disgusted with himself the moment that he saw Belfield. His heart had been faint, and he had not dared to ornament himself boldly as his friend had done. I say, Gus, you are as well," he exclaimed. It may be explained that Captain Belfield had been christened Gustavus. "'I don't know much about that,' said the captain. "'My fellow sent me this togery, and said that it was the sort of thing. I'll change with you, if you like it.' But Cheeseacre could not have worn that jacket, and he walked on, hating himself. It will be remembered that Mrs. Greenough had spoken with considerable severity of Captain Belfield's pretensions when discussing his character with her niece, but nevertheless, on the present occasion, she received him with most gracious smiles. It may be that her estimate of his character had been altered, or that she was making sacrifice of her own feelings in consideration of Mr. Cheeseacre, who was known to be the captain's intimate friend, but she had smiles for both of them. She had a wondrous power of smiling, and could, upon occasion, give signs of peculiar favour to half a dozen different gentlemen in as many minutes. They found her in the midst of hampers which were not yet wholly packed, while Mrs. Jones, Jeanette, and the cook of the house moved around her on the outside of the circle, ministering to her wants. She had in her hand an outspread clean napkin, and she wore fastened round her dress a huge coarse apron, that she might thus be protected from some possible abolition of gravy, or escape of salad mixture or cream. But in other respects, she was clothed in the fullest honours of widowhood. She had not mitigated her weeds by half an inch. She had scorned to make any compromise between the world of pleasure and the world of woe. There she was, a widow, declared by herself to be of four months standing with a buried heart, making ready a dainty banquet with skill and liberality. She was ready, on the instant, to sit down upon the baskets in which the gross pie had just been carefully inhumed, and talked about her sainted lamb with a deluge of tears. If anybody didn't like it, that person might do the other thing. Mr. Cheesaker and Captain Belfield thought that they did like it. Oh, Mr. Cheesaker, if you haven't caught me before I've half done! Captain Belfield! I hope you think my apron be coming. Everything that you wear, Mrs. Greenow, is always becoming. Oh, don't talk in that way, when you know. But never mind. We will think of nothing sad today if we can help it. Will we, Mr. Cheesaker? Oh, dear! Ah, no, I should think not, unless it should come on to rain. It won't rain. We won't think of such a thing. But by the by, Captain Belfield, I and my niece do mean to send out a few things just in a bag, you know, so that we may tidy ourselves up a little after the sea. I don't want it mentioned, because if it gets about among the other ladies, they'd think we wanted to make a dressing of it, and there wouldn't be room for them all would there. No, there wouldn't, said Mr. Cheesaker, who had been out on the previous evening, inspecting and perhaps limiting the carpenters in their work. That's just it, said Mrs. Greenow, but there won't be any harm, will there, Mr. Cheesaker, in Jeanette's going out with our things? She'll ride in the cart, you know, with the eatables. I know Jeanette's a friend of yours. We shall be delighted to have Jeanette, said Mr. Cheesaker. Thank you, sir, said Jeanette, with a curtsy. Jeanette, don't you let Mr. Cheesaker turn your head, and mind your behave yourself and be useful? Well, let me see. What else is there? Mrs. Jones, you might as well give me that ham now. Captain Belfield, hand it over. Don't you put it in the basket, because you'd turn it the wrong side down. There now, if you haven't nearly made me upset the apricot pie. Then, in the transfer of the dishes between the Captain and the widow, there occurred some little innocent bi-play which seemed to give offence to Mr. Cheesaker, so that that gentleman turned his back upon the hampers, and took a step away towards the door. Mrs. Greenow saw the thing at a glance, and immediately applied herself to cure the wound. What do you think, Mr. Cheesaker, said she, Kate wouldn't come down because she didn't choose that you should see her with an apron on over her frock? I'm sure I don't know why Miss Vavasor should care about my seeing her. Nor I, either, that's just what I said. Do step up into the drawing-room, you'll find her there, and you can make her answer for herself." She wouldn't come down for me, said Mr. Cheesaker. But he didn't stir. Perhaps he wasn't willing to leave his friend with the widow. At length the last of the dishes was packed, and Mrs. Greenow went upstairs with the two gentlemen. There they found Kate, and two or three other ladies, who had promised to embark under the protection of Mrs. Greenow's wings. They were the two Miss Fairstairs, whom Miss Greenow had especially patronized, and who rebayed that lady for her kindness by an amount of outspoken eulogy which startled Kate by its audacity. Your dear aunt, Fanny Fairstairs, had said on coming into the room, I don't think I ever came across a woman with such genuine milk of human kindness. Dior, with so much true wit, said her sister Charlotte, who had been called Charlie on the sands of Yarmouth for the last twelve years. When the widow came into the room they flew at her and devoured her with kisses, and swore that they had never seen her looking so well. But as the bright new gloves, which both the girls wore, had been presents for Mrs. Greenow, they certainly did owe her some affection. There are not many ladies who would venture to bestow such gifts upon their friends after so very short an acquaintance. But Mrs. Greenow had a power that was quite her own in such matters. She was already on a very confidential footing with the Miss Fairstairs, and had given them much useful advice as to their future prospects. And then there was a Mrs. Green, whose husband was first lieutenant on board a man of war on the West Indian station. Mrs. Green was a quiet, lady-like little woman, rather pretty, very silent, and, as one would have thought, hardly adapted for the special intimacy of Mrs. Greenow. But Mrs. Greenow had found out that she was alone, not very rich, and in want of the solace of society. Therefore she had, from sheer good nature, forced herself upon Mrs. Green, and Mrs. Green, with much trepidation, had consented to be taken to the picnic. I know your husband would like it, Mrs. Greenow had said, and I hope I may live to tell him that I made you go. There came in also a brother of the Fairstairs girl, Joe Fairstairs, a lanky, useless, idle young man, younger than them, who was supposed to earn his bread in an attorney's office at Norwich, or rather to be preparing to earn it at some future time, and who was a heavy burden on all his friends. We told Joe to come to the house, said Fanny to the widow apologetically, because we thought he might be useful in carrying down the cloaks. Mrs. Greenow smiled graciously upon Joe, and assured him that she was charmed to see him, without any reference to such services as those they mentioned. And then they started. When they got to the door, both Cheesaker and the Captain made an attempt to get possession of the widow's arm, but she had it all arranged. Captain Belfield found himself constrained to attend to Mrs. Green, while Mr. Cheesaker walked down to the beach beside Kate Vavasor. I'll take your arm, Mr. Joe, said the widow, and the girls shall come with us. But when they got to the boats, round which the other comers to the picnic were already assembled, Mr. Cheesaker, although both the boats were for the day his own, found himself separated from the widow. He got into that which contained Kate Vavasor, and was shoved off from the beach while he saw Captain Belfield arranging Mrs. Greenow's drapery. He had declared to himself that it should be otherwise, and that as he had to pay the piper, the piper should play as he liked it, but Mrs. Greenow, with a word or two, had settled it all, and Mr. Cheesaker had found himself to be powerless. How absurd Belfield looks in that jacket, doesn't he? He said to Kate, as he took his seat in that boat. Do you think so? I thought it was so very pretty and becoming for the occasion. Mr. Cheesaker hated Captain Belfield, and regretted more than ever that he had not done something for his own personal adornment. He could not endure to think that his friend, who paid for nothing, should carry away the honours of the morning, and defraud him of the delights which should justly belong to him. It may be becoming, said Cheesaker, but don't you think it's awfully extravagant? As to that, I can't tell. You see, I don't at all know what is the price of a jacket covered all over with little brass buttons. And the waistcoat, Mrs. Vavasor, said Cheesaker, almost solemnly. The waistcoat I should think must have been very expensive. Oh, dreadful! And he's got nothing, Mrs. Vavasor, literally nothing. Do you know—and he reduced his voice to a whisper as he made this communication—I lent him twenty pounds the day before yesterday. I did indeed. You won't mention it again, of course. I tell you, because as you are seeing a good deal of him just now, I think it right that you should know on what sort of a footing he stands. It's all fair, as they say in Love and War, and this small breach of confidence was, we must presume, a love strategy on the part of Mr. Cheesaker. He was at this time smitten with the charms both of the widow and the niece, and he constantly found that the captain was interfering with him on whichever side he turned himself. On the present occasion he had desired to take the widow for his share, and was on the whole inclined to think that the widow was the more worthy of his attentions. He had made certain little inquiries within the last day or two, the answers to which had been satisfactory. These he had by no means communicated to his friend, to whom indeed he had expressed an opinion that Mrs. Greenow was, after all, only a flash in the pan. She does very well, pour passer le temps, the captain had answered. Mr. Cheesaker had not quite understood the exact gist of the captain's meaning, but had felt certain that his friend was playing him false. I don't want it to be mentioned again, Miss Fabisore, he continued. Such things should not be mentioned at all, Cade replied, having been angered at the insinuation that the nature of Captain Belfield's footing could be a matter of any moment to her. No, they shouldn't, and therefore I know that I'm quite safe with you, Miss Fabisore. He's a very pleasant fellow, very, and has seen the world, but he's better for eating and drinking with than he is for buying and selling with, as we say in Norfolk. Do you like Norfolk, Miss Fabisore? I never was in it before, and now I've only seen Yarmouth. A nice place, Yarmouth, very, but you should come up and see our lands. I suppose you don't know that we feed one-third of England during the winter months. Dear me! We do, though. Nobody knows what a county Norfolk is. Taking it all together, including the game, you know, and Lord Nelson, and its watering-places and the rest of it, I don't think there's a county in England to beat it. Fancy feeding, one-third of all England and Wales. With bread and cheese, do you mean, and those sorts of things? Beef, said Mr. Cheeseacre, and in his patriotic energy he repeated the word aloud. Yes, indeed, but if you were to tell them that in London they wouldn't believe you—ah, you certainly should come down and see our lands. The 7.45 a.m. train would take you through Norwich to my door, as one may say, and then you would be back by the 6.22 p.m. In this way he brought himself back again into good humour, feeling that in the absence of the widow he could not do better than make progress with the niece. In the meantime Mrs. Greenough and the captain were getting on very comfortably in the old boat. Take an ore, captain, one of the men had said to him as soon as he had placed the ladies. Not to-day, Jack, he had answered. I'll content myself with being bosun this morning. The best thing, as a bosun does, is to pipe all hands to the grog, said the man. I won't be behind in that either, said the captain, and so they all went on swimmingly. What a fine, generous fellow your friend Mr. Cheeseacre has said the widow. Yes, he is. He's a capital fellow, in his way. Some of these Norfolk farmers are no end of good fellows. And I suppose he's something more than a common farmer. He's visited by the people about where he lives, isn't he? Oh, yes, in a sort of way. The county people, you know, keep themselves very much to themselves. That's of course, but his house—he has a good sort of place, hasn't he? Yes, yes, a very good house—a little too near the horse-pond for my taste. But when a man gets his money out of the till he mustn't be ashamed at the counter, must he, Mrs. Greeno? But he could live like a gentleman if he let his own land, couldn't he? That depends upon how a gentleman wishes to live. Here the privacy of their conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from a young lady to the effect that Charlie Fairstairs was becoming sick. This, Charlie Stoutly denied, and proved the truth of her assertion by her behaviour. Soon after this they completed their marine adventures, and prepared to land close to the spot at which the banquet was being prepared. CHAPTER IX. THE RIVALS. There had been a pretense of fishing, but no fish had been caught. It was soon found that such an amusement would interfere with the ladies' dresses, and the affairs had become too serious to allow of any trivial interruption. I really think, Mr. Cheesaker, an anxious mother had said, that you'd better give it up. The water off the nasty cord has got all over Mariah's dress already. Mariah made a frank protest that it did not signify in the least, but the fishing was given up, not without an inward feeling on the part of Mr. Cheesaker, that if Mariah chose to come out with him in his boat having been invited, especially a fish, she ought to have put up with the natural results. There are people who like to take everything and never like to give anything, he said to Kate afterwards, as he was walking up with her to the picnic dinner. But he was unreasonable and unjust. The girls had graced his party with their best hats and freshest muff-muslins, not that they might see him catch a mackerel, but that they might flirt and dance to the best advantage. You can't suppose that any girl would like to be drenched with sea-water when she's taken so much trouble with her starch, said Kate. Then she shouldn't come fishing, said Mr. Cheesaker. I hate such heirs. But when they arrived at the old boat, Mrs. Greenow shone forth preeminently as the mistress of the occasion, altogether overshadowing Mr. Cheesaker by the extent of her authority. There was a little contest for supremacy between them, invisible to the eyes of the multitude, but Mr. Cheesaker, in such a matter, had not a chance against Mrs. Greenow. I am disposed to think that she would have reigned even though she had not contributed to the eatables, but with that point in her favour, she was able to make herself supreme. Jeanette, too, was her servant, which was a great thing. Mr. Cheesaker soon gave way, and though he bustled about and was conspicuous, he bustled about in obedience to orders received, and became a head-servant. Belfield also made himself useful, but he drove Mr. Cheesaker into paroxysms of suppressed anger by giving directions, and by having those directions obeyed—a man to whom he had lent twenty pounds the day before yesterday, and who had not contributed so much as a bottle of champagne. We're to dine at four, and now it's half-past three, said Mrs. Greenow, addressing herself to the multitude. And to begin to dance at six, said an eagerly young lady. Mariah, hold your tongue, said the young lady's mother. Yes, we'll dine at four, said Mr. Cheesaker, and as for the music, I've ordered it to be here punctual at half-past five, where to have three horns, cymbals, triangle, and a drum. How very nice, isn't it, Mrs. Greenow, said Charlie Fairstairs. And now suppose we begin to unpack, said Captain Belfield. Half the fun is in arranging the things. Oh, dear, yes, more than half, said Fanny Fairstairs. Belfield, don't mind about the hampers, said Cheesaker. Dine is a ticklish thing to handle, and there's my man there to manage it. It's odd if I don't know more about wine than the boots from the hotel, said Belfield. This allusion to the boots almost cowed Mr. Cheesaker, and made him turn away, leaving Belfield with the widow. There was a great unpacking, during which Captain Belfield and Mrs. Greenow constantly had their heads in the same hamper. I by no means intend to insinuate that there is anything wrong with this. People engaged together in unpacking pies and cold chickens must have their heads in the same hamper. The great intimacy was thereby produced, and the widow seemed to have laid aside altogether that prejudice of hers with reference to the washerwoman. There was a long table placed on the sand, sheltered by the upturned boat from the land side, but open towards the sea, and over this supported on poles there was an awning. Upon the whole the arrangement was not an uncomfortable one for people who had selected so very uncomfortable a dining room as the sand of the seashore. Much was certainly due to Mr. Cheesaker for the expenditure he had incurred, and something perhaps to Captain Belfield for his ingenuity in having suggested it. Now came the placing of the guests for dinner, and Mr. Cheesaker made another great effort. I'll tell you what, he said aloud, Belfield and I will take the two ends of the table, and Mrs. Greenow shall sit at my right hand. This was not only boldly done, but there was a propriety in it which at first sight seemed to be irresistible. Much as he had hated and did hate the Captain, he had skillfully made the proposition in such a way as to flatter him, and it seemed for a few moments as though he were going to have it all his way. But Captain Belfield was not a man to submit to defeat in such a matter as this without effort. I don't think that will do, said he. Mrs. Greenow gives the dinner, and Cheesaker gives the wine. We must have them at the two ends of the table. I'm sure Mrs. Greenow won't refuse to allow me to hand her to the place which belongs to her. I will sit at her right hand and be her minister. Mrs. Greenow did not refuse. And so the matter was adjusted. Mr. Cheesaker took his seat in despair. It was nothing to him that he had Cate Vavasor at his left hand. He liked talking to Cate very much, but he could not enjoy that pleasure while Captain Belfield was in the very act of making progress with the widow. One would think that he had given it himself, wouldn't you, he said to Mariah's mother, who sat at his right hand. The lady did not in the least understand him. Given what, said she? Why, the music and the wine and all the rest of it. There are some people full of that kind of impudence. How they managed to carry it on without ever paying a shilling I never could tell. I know I have to pay my way, and something over and beyond generally. Mariah's mother said, yes, indeed. She had other daughters there besides Mariah, and was looking down the table to see whether they were judiciously placed. Her beauty, her youngest one, Ophelia, was sitting next to that ne'er-du-well Joe fair-stairs, and this made her unhappy. Ophelia, my dear, you are dreadfully in the draught. There's a seat up here just opposite where you'll be more comfortable. There's no draught here, mamma, said Ophelia, without the slight sign of moving. Perhaps Ophelia liked the society of that lanky, idle, useless young man. The mirth of the table certainly came from Mrs. Greenow's end. The widow had hardly taken her place before she got up again and changed with the captain. It was found that the captain could better carve the great grouse pie from the end than from the side. Cheesaker, when he saw this, absolutely threw down his knife and fork violently upon the table. Is anything the matter, said Mariah's mother? Matter, said he. Then he shook his head in grief of heart and vexation of spirit, and resumed his knife and fork. Kate watched it all and was greatly amused. I never saw a man so nearly broken-hearted, she said, in her letter to Alice the next day. 11, 13, 18, 21, said Cheesaker to himself, reckoning up in his misery the number of pounds sterling which he would have to pay for being ill-treated in this way. Ladies and gentlemen, said Captain Belfield, as soon as the eating was over, if I may be permitted to get upon my legs for two minutes, I'm going to propose a toast to you. The real patron of the feast had not actually yet swallowed his last bit of cheese. The thing was indecent in the violence of its injustice. If you please, Captain Belfield, said the patron, indifferent to the cheese in his throat, I will propose the toast. Nothing on earth could be better, my dear fellow, said the captain, and I'm sure I should be the last man in the world to take the job out of the hands of one who would do it so much better than I can. But as it's your health that we're going to drink, I really don't see how you're to do it." Cheesaker grunted and sat down. He certainly could not propose his own health, nor did he complain of the honour that was to be done to him. It was very proper that his health should be drunk, and he had now to think of the words in which he would return thanks. But the extent of his horror may be imagined when Belfield got up and made a most brilliant speech in praise of Mrs. Greeno. For full five minutes he went on, without mentioning the name of Cheesaker. Yarmouth, he said, had never in his days been so blessed as it had been this year by the presence of the lady who is now with them. She had come among them, he declared, forgetful of herself and of her great sorrows, with the sole desire of adding something to the happiness of others. Then Mrs. Greeno had taken out her pocket handkerchief, sweeping back the broad ribbons of her cap over her shoulders. Altogether the scene was very affecting, and Cheesaker was driven to madness. They were the very words that he had intended to speak himself. I hate this kind of thing, he said to Kate, it's so fulsome. After dinner speeches never mean anything, said Kate. At last, when Belfield had come to an end of praising Mrs. Greeno, he told the guests that he wished to join his friend Mr. Cheesaker in the toast. The more so as it could hardly be hoped that Mrs. Greeno would herself rise to return thanks. There was no better fellow than his friend Cheesaker, whom he had known for he would not say how many years. He was quite sure they would all have the most sincere pleasure in joining the health of Mr. Cheesaker with that of Mrs. Greeno. Then there was a clattering of glasses and a murmuring of health, and Mr. Cheesaker slowly got up on his legs. I'm very much obliged to this company, said he, and to my friend Belfield, who really is—but perhaps that doesn't signify now. I've had the greatest pleasure in getting up this little thing, and I've made up my mind to propose Mrs. Greeno's health. But no doubt it has been in better hands. Perhaps considering all things Belfield might have waited. With such a subject on my hands I couldn't wait a moment. I didn't interrupt you, Captain Belfield, and perhaps you'll let me go on without interrupting me. We've all drunk Mrs. Greeno's health, and I'm sure she's very much obliged, and so am I for the honour you've done me. I've taken some trouble in getting up this little thing, and I hope you like it. I think somebody said something about liberality. I beg to assure you that I don't think of that for a moment. Somebody must pay for these sorts of things, and I'm always very glad to take my turn. I dare say Belfield will give us the next picnic, and if he'll appoint a day before the end of the month I shall be happy to be one of the party. Then he sat down with some inward satisfaction, fully convinced that he had given his enemy a fatal blow. Nothing on earth would give me so much pleasure, said Belfield. After that he turned again to Mrs. Greeno and went on with his private conversation. There was no more speaking, nor was there much time for other after-dinner ceremonies. The three horns, the cymbals, the triangle, and the drum were soon heard tuning up behind the banqueting-hall, and the ladies went to the further end of the old boat to make their preparations for the dance. Then it was that the thoughtful care of Mrs. Greeno, in having sent Jeanette with brushes, combs, clean handkerchiefs, and other little knick-knackeries, became so apparent. It was said that the widow herself actually changed her cap, which was considered by some to be very unfair, as there had been an understanding that there should be no dressing. On such occasions ladies are generally willing to forego the advantage of dressing, on the condition that other ladies shall forego the same advantage. But when this compact is broken by any special lady, the treason is thought to be very treacherous. It is as though a fencer should remove the button from the end of his foil. But Mrs. Greeno was so good-natured in tendering the services of Jeanette to all the young ladies, and was so willing to share with others those good things of the toilette which her care had provided, that her cap was forgiven her by most of those present. When ladies have made up their mind to dance, they will dance let the circumstances of the moment be ever so antagonistic to the exercise. A plowed field in February would not be too wet, nor the side of a house too uneven. In honest truth the sands of the seashore are not adapted for the exercise. It was all very well for Venus to make the promise, but when making it she knew that Adonis would not keep her to her word. Let any lightest-limbed nymph try it, and she will find that she doubtless leaves most palpable footing. The sands in question were doubtless compact, firm, and sufficiently moist to make walking on them uncomfortable. But they ruffled themselves most uncomfortably under the unwanted pressure to which they were subjected. Nevertheless our friends did dance on the sands, finding, however, that quadrilles and Sir Roger DeCoverly suited them better than polkas and waltzes. No, my friend, no. Mrs. Greeno said, to Mr. Cheesaker, when that gentleman endeavored to persuade her to stand up, Kate will be delighted, I'm sure, to join you. But as for me, you must excuse me." But Mr. Cheesaker was not inclined at that moment to ask Kate Vavasor to dance with him. He was possessed by an undefined idea that Kate had snubbed him. And as Kate's fortune was, as he said, literally nothing, he was not at all disposed to court her favour at the expense of such suffering to himself. I'm not quite sure that I'll dance myself, said he, leading himself in a corner of the tent by Mrs. Greeno's side. Captain Belfield at that moment was seen leading Miss Vavasor away to a new place on the sands, whether he was followed by a score of dancers, and Mr. Cheesaker saw that now at last he might reap the reward for which he had laboured. He was alone with the widow. And having been made bold by wine, had an opportunity of fighting his battle, than which none better could ever be found. He was himself by no means a poor man, and he despised poverty and others. It was well that there should be poor gentry in order that they might act as satellites to those who, like himself, had money. As to Mrs. Greeno's money, there was no doubt. He knew it all to a fraction. She had spread for herself, or someone else had spread for her, a report that her wealth was almost unlimited. But the forty thousand pounds was a fact, and any such innocent fault as that little fiction might well be forgiven to a woman endowed with such substantial virtues. And she was handsome, too. Mr. Cheesaker, as he regarded her matured charms, sometimes felt that he should have been smitten even without the forty thousand pounds. By George there's flesh and blood he had once said to his friend Belfilt before he had begun to suspect the man's treachery. His admiration, then, must have been sincere, for at the time forty thousand pounds was not an ascertained fact. Looking at the matter in all its bearings, Mr. Cheesaker thought that he couldn't do better. His wooing should be fair, honest, and above-board. He was a thriving man. And what might not they two do in Norfolk if they put their wealth together? "'Oh, Mr. Cheesaker, you should join them,' said Mrs. Greeno. They'll not have enjoyed themselves without you. Kate will think that you mean to neglect her.' "'I shan't dance, Mrs. Greeno, unless you like to stand up for a set.' "'No, my friend, no. I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. You're asking me as the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board.' "'Upon my honour, I didn't mean it, Mrs. Greeno. I didn't mean it, indeed. I do not, sister. It would have been unmanly.' "'And nobody can say that of me. There isn't a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn't say I was manly.' "'I'm quite sure of that. I have my faults, I'm aware.' "'And what are your faults, Mr. Cheesaker?' "'Well, perhaps I'm extravagant. But it's only in these kind of things, you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I'm about on the lands at home, I ain't extravagant, I can tell you.' "'Extravagant is a great vice.' "'Oh, I ain't extravagant in that sense. Not a bit in the world. But when a man's enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know.' "'And are you looking out for a wife, Mr. Cheesaker?' "'If I told you, I suppose you'd only laugh at me.' "'No, indeed I would not. I'm not given to joking when anyone that I regard speaks to me seriously.' "'Ain't you, though? I'm so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn't like to have fun poked at one.' "'And besides, how could I love marriages and how happy I've been in that condition?' "'So—very happy.' And Mrs. Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes. "'So happy that you'll try it again some day, won't you?' "'Never, Mr. Cheesaker. Never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love. Love of that sort is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor, dear, departed saint.' "'But, Mrs. Greenow—' And Cheesaker, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table. But Mrs. Greenow, care kill to catch, you know. And sometimes I think that care will kill me. "'No, by George, not if I can prevent it.' "'You're very kind, Miss Cheesaker. But there's no preventing such care as mine.' "'Isn't there, though? I'll tell you what, Mrs. Greenow, I'm in earnest. I am indeed. If you'll inquire, you'll find there isn't a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or better able to do it. I don't pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit on seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There's not an acre that won't do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together and see what it comes to. And mind you, some of these fellows that farmed their own land are worse off than if they had rent to pay. They borrowed so much to carry on with that the interest is more than rent. I don't owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain't any of my paper flying about, Mrs. Greenow. I'm Samuel Cheesaker of Oilymead, and it's all my own.' Mr. Cheesaker, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. It's all my own, Mrs. Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you'll please to take it." Then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand pledge from her as a token that she had accepted the bargain. If you'd known, Greenow, Mr. Cheesaker—I've no doubt he was a very good sort of man. If you'd known him you would not have addressed me in this way. What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangals don't do on a bit of land, then I sew late turnips, and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangals—I'll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain't a bedroom in my house—not one of the front ones, as in Mahoggy furnished. What's furniture to me, said Mrs. Greenow, with her hankerchief to her eyes? Just at this moment Mariah's mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Cheesaker felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness which naturally made difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say, but drawing himself suddenly a foot and a half away from the widow's side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs. Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. Mr. Cheesaker and I are talking about farming, she said. Oh, farming?—answered Mariah's mother. Mr. Cheesaker thinks that turnips are better than early mangals, said Mrs. Greenow. Yes, I do, said Cheesaker. I prefer early mangals, said Mrs. Greenow. I don't think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs. Walker? I daresay Mr. Cheesaker understand what he's about when he's at home, said the lady. I know what a bit of land can do, as well as any man in Norfolk, said the gentleman. It may be very well in Norfolk, said Mrs. Greenow, rising from her seat, but the practice isn't thought of much in the other counties with which I am better acquainted. I'd just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boat, said Mrs. Walker. My ophelia is so delicate. At this moment the delicate ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstair's arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a galop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But under such circumstances Mrs. Walker's solicitude was not unreasonable. The erratic steps of the distant dancers were recalled, and preparations were made for the return journey. Others had strayed besides the delicate ophelia and the idle Joe, and some little time was taken up in collecting the party. The boats had to be drawn down, and the boatmen fetched from their cans and tobacco pipes. I hope they're sober, said Mrs. Walker, with a look of great dismay. Mrs. Judges, said Belfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr. Cheesaker's hampers, while that gentleman had been so much better engaged in the tent. Because, continued Mrs. Walker, I know that they play all manner of tricks when they're in liquor. They'd think nothing of taking us out to see Mrs. Greeno. Oh, I do wish they would, said Ophelia. Ophelia, mind you come in the boat with me, said her mother, and she looked very savage when she gave the order. It was Mrs. Walker's intention that that boat should not carry Joe fair stares. But Joe and her daughter together were too clever for her. When the boats went off she found herself to be in that one over which Mr. Cheesaker presided, while the sending Ophelia, with her good-for-nothing admirer, were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Belfield. Mama will be so angry, said Ophelia, and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don't, Mr. Fair Stares. When they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope of them both. Mr. Cheesaker had vainly endeavored to arrange that Mrs. Greeno should return with him, but not only was Captain Belfield opposed to such a change in their position, but so also was Mrs. Greeno. I think we'd better go back as we came, she said, giving her hand to the Captain. Oh, certainly, said Captain Belfield, why should there be any change? Cheesaker old fellow, mind you look after Mrs. Walker. Come along, my hearty. It really almost appeared that Captain Belfield was addressing Mrs. Greeno as his hearty, but it must be presumed that the term of genial adelement was intended for the whole boat's load. Mrs. Greeno took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Belfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand. If you're going to steer, Captain Belfield, I beg that you'll be careful. Careful. And with you on board, said the Captain, don't you know that I would sooner perish beneath the waves than that a drop of water should touch you roughly? But you see, we might perish beneath the waves together. Together. What a sweet word that is. Parish together. If it were not that there might be something better even than that, I would wish to perish in such company. But I should not wish anything of the kind, Captain Belfield, and therefore pray be careful. There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr. Cheesaker's boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Belfield's crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. There, said he, as he handed out Mrs. Greeno, I have brought you to no harm at any rate as yet. And as I hope will not do so hereafter. May the heavens forbid it, Mrs. Greeno. Whatever may be our lots hereafter—yours in mine, I mean—I trust that yours may be free from all disaster. Oh, that I might venture to hope that at some future day the privilege might be mine of protecting you from all danger. I can protect myself very well, I can assure you. Good night, Captain Belfield. We won't take you and Mr. Cheesaker out of your way, will we, Kate? We've had a most pleasant day. They were now upon the Elinad, and Mrs. Greeno's house was to the right, whereas the lodgings of both the gentlemen were to the left. Each of them fought hard for the privilege of accompanying the widow to her door, but Mrs. Greeno was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. Mr. Joe Fairsters must pass the house, said she, and he will see us home. Mr. Cheesaker, good night. Indeed you shall not, not a step. There was that in her voice which induced Mr. Cheesaker to obey her, and which made Captain Belfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavored to make further progress in it on the present occasion. Well, Kate, what do you think of the day? The aunt said when she was alone with her niece. I never think much about such days, aunt. It was all very well, but I fear I've not the temperament fitted for enjoying the fun. I envied Ophelia Walker because she made herself thoroughly happy. I do like to see girls enjoy themselves, said Mrs. Greeno. I do indeed, and young men too. It seems so natural. Why shouldn't young people flirt? Or old people either, for the matter of that. Or old people either. I don't do any harm to anybody. I'll tell you what it is, Kate. People have become so very virtuous that they're driven into all manner of abominable resources for amusement and occupation. If I had sons and daughters, I should think a little flirting the best thing for them is a safety valve. When people get to be old, there's a difficulty. They want to flirt with the young people, and the young people don't want them. If the old people would be content to flirt together, I don't see why they should ever give it up, till they're obliged to give up everything and go away. That was Mrs. Greeno's doctrine on the subject of flirtation.