The Palliser Novels (68 page)

“Mr Cheesacre, don’t make a fool of yourself. Get up,” said she.

“Never, till you have told me that you will be mine!”

“Then you’ll remain there for ever, which will be inconvenient. I won’t have you take hold of my hand, Mr Cheesacre. I tell you to have done.” Whereupon his grasp upon her hand was released; but he made no attempt to rise.

“I never saw a man look so much like a fool in my life,” said she. “If you don’t get up, I’ll push you over. There; don’t you hear? There’s somebody coming.”

But Cheesacre, whose senses were less acute than the lady’s, did not hear. “I’ll never get up,” said he, “till you have bid me hope.”

“Bid you play the fiddle. Get away from my knees, at any rate. There; — he’ll be in the room now
before — “

Cheesacre now did hear a sound of steps, and the door was opened while he made his first futile attempt to get back to a standing position. The door was opened, and Captain Bellfield entered. “I beg ten thousand pardons,” said he, “but as I did not see Jeannette, I ventured to come in. May I venture to congratulate my friend Cheesacre on his success?”

In the meantime Cheesacre had risen; but he had done so slowly, and with evident difficulty. “I’ll trouble you to leave the room, Captain Bellfield,” said he. “I’m particularly engaged with Mrs Greenow, as any gentleman might have seen.”

“There wasn’t the slightest difficulty in seeing it, old fellow,” said the Captain. “Shall I wish you joy?”

“I’ll trouble you to leave the room, sir,” said Cheesacre, walking up to him.

“Certainly, if Mrs Greenow will desire me to do so,” said the Captain.

Then Mrs Greenow felt herself called upon to speak.

“Gentlemen, I must beg that you will not make my drawing-room a place for quarrelling. Captain Bellfield, lest there should be any misconception, I must beg you to understand that the position in which you found Mr Cheesacre was one altogether of his own seeking. It was not with my consent that he was there.”

“I can easily believe that, Mrs Greenow,” said the Captain.

“Who cares what you believe, sir?” said Mr Cheesacre.

“Gentlemen! gentlemen! this is really unkind. Captain Bellfield, I think I had better ask you to withdraw.”

“By all means,” said Mr Cheesacre.

“As it is absolutely necessary that I should give Mr Cheesacre a definite answer after what has
occurred — “

“Of course,” said Captain Bellfield, preparing to go. “I’ll take another opportunity of paying my respects to you. Perhaps I might be allowed to come this evening?”

To this Mrs Greenow half assented with an uncertain nod, and then the Captain went. As soon as the door was closed behind his back, Mr Cheesacre again prepared to throw himself into his former position, but to this Mrs Greenow decidedly objected. If he were allowed to go down again, there was no knowing what force might be necessary to raise him. “Mr Cheesacre,” she said, “let there be an end to this little farce between us.”

“Farce!” said he, standing with his hand on his heart, and his legs and knickerbockers well displayed.

“It is certainly either a farce or a mistake. If the latter, — and I have been at all to blame, — I ask your pardon most sincerely.”

“But you’ll be Mrs Cheesacre; won’t you?”

“No, Mr Cheesacre; no. One husband is enough for any woman, and mine lies buried at Birmingham.”

“Oh, damn it!” said he, in utter disgust at this further reference to Mr Greenow. The expression, at such a moment, militated against courtesy; but even Mrs Greenow herself felt that the poor man had been subjected to provocation.

“Let us part friends,” said she, offering him her hand.

But he turned his back upon her, for there was something in his eye that he wanted to hide. I believe that he really did love her, and that at this moment he would have taken her, even though he had learned that her fortune was gone.

“Will you not give me your hand,” said she, “in token that there is no anger between us?”

“Do think about it again — do!” said he. “If there’s anything you like to have changed, I’ll change it at once. I’ll give up Oileymead altogether, if you don’t like being so near the farm-yard. I’ll give up anything; so I will. Mrs Greenow, if you only knew how I’ve set my heart upon it!” And now, though his back was turned, the whimpering of his voice told plainly that tears were in his eyes.

She was a little touched. No woman would feel disposed to marry a man simply because he cried, and perhaps few women would be less likely to give way to such tenderness than Mrs Greenow. She understood men and women too well, and had seen too much both of the world’s rough side and of its smooth side to fall into such a blunder as that; but she was touched. “My friend,” she said, putting her hand upon his arm, “think no more of it.”

“But I can’t help thinking of it,” said he, almost blubbering in his earnestness.

“No, no, no,” said she, still touching him with her hand. “Why, Mr Cheesacre, how can you bring yourself to care for an old woman like me, when so many pretty young ladies would give their eyes to get a kind word from you?”

“I don’t want any young lady,” said he.

“There’s Charlie Fairstairs, who would make as good a wife as any girl I know.”

“Psha! Charlie Fairstairs, indeed!” The very idea of having such a bride palmed off upon him did something to restore him to his manly courage.

“Or my niece, Kate Vavasor, who has a nice little fortune of her own, and who is as accomplished as she is good-looking.”

“She’s nothing to me, Mrs Greenow.”

“That’s because you never asked her to be anything. If I get her to come back to Yarmouth next summer, will you think about it? You want a wife, and you couldn’t do better if you searched all England over. It would be so pleasant for us to be such near friends; wouldn’t it?” And again she put her hand upon his arm.

“Mrs Greenow, just at present there’s only one woman in the world that I can think of.”

“And that’s my niece.”

“And that’s yourself. I’m a broken-hearted man, — I am, indeed. I didn’t ever think I should feel so much about a thing of the kind — I didn’t, really. I hardly know what to do with myself; but I suppose I’d better go back to Oileymead.” He had become so painfully unconscious of his new coat and his knickerbockers that it was impossible not to pity him. “I shall always hate the place now,” he said, — “always.”

“That will pass away. You’d be as happy as a king there, if you’d take Kate for your queen.”

“And what’ll you do, Mrs Greenow?”

“What shall I do?” — “Yes; what will you do?”

“That is, if you marry Kate? Why, I’ll come and stay with you half my time, and nurse the children, as an old grand-aunt should.”

“But about — .” Then he hesitated, and she asked him of what he was thinking.

“You don’t mean to take that man Bellfield, do you?”

“Come, Mr Cheesacre, that’s rank jealousy. What right can you have to ask me whether I shall take any man or no man? The chances are that I shall remain as I am till I’m carried to my grave; but I’m not going to give any pledge about it to you or to any one.”

“You don’t know that man, Mrs Greenow; you don’t, indeed. I tell it you as your friend. Does not it stand to reason, when he has got nothing in the world, that he must be a beggar? It’s all very well saying that when a man is courting a lady, he shouldn’t say much about his money; but you won’t make me believe that any man will make a good husband who hasn’t got a shilling. And for lies, there’s no beating him!”

“Why, then, has he been such a friend of yours?”

“Well, because I’ve been foolish. I took up with him just because he looked pleasant, I suppose.”

“And you want to prevent me from doing the same thing.”

“If you were to marry him, Mrs Greenow, it’s my belief I should do him a mischief; it is, really. I don’t think I could stand it; — a mean, skulking beggar! I suppose I’d better go now?”

“Certainly, if that’s the way you choose to talk about my friends.”

“Friends, indeed! Well, I won’t say any more at present. I suppose if I was to talk for ever it wouldn’t be any good?”

“Come and talk to Kate Vavasor for ever, Mr Cheesacre.”

To this he made no reply, but went forth from the house, and got his gig, and drove himself home to Oileymead, thinking of his disappointment with all the bitterness of a young lover. “I didn’t ever think I should ever care so much about anything,” he said, as he took himself up to bed that night.

That evening Captain Bellfield did call in the Close, as he had said he would do, but he was not admitted. “Her mistress was very bad with a headache,” Jeannette said.

Early in April, the Easter recess being all over, Lady Monk gave a grand party in London. Lady Monk’s town house was in Gloucester Square. It was a large mansion, and Lady Monk’s parties in London were known to be very great affairs. She usually gave two or three in the season, and spent a large portion of her time and energy in so arranging matters that her parties should be successful. As this was her special line in life, a failure would have been very distressing to her; — and we may also say very disgraceful, taking into consideration, as we should do in forming our judgement on the subject, the very large sums of Sir Cosmo’s money which she spent in this way. But she seldom did fail. She knew how to select her days, so as not to fall foul of other events. It seldom happened that people could not come to her because of a division which occupied all the Members of Parliament, or that they were drawn away by the superior magnitude of some other attraction in the world of fashion. This giving of parties was her business, and she had learned it thoroughly. She worked at it harder than most men work at their trades, and let us hope that the profits were consolatory.

It was generally acknowledged to be the proper thing to go to Lady Monk’s parties. There were certain people who were asked, and who went as a matter of course, — people who were by no means on intimate terms with Lady Monk, or with Sir Cosmo; but they were people to have whom was the proper thing, and they were people who understood that to go to Lady Monk’s was the proper thing for them. The Duchess of St Bungay was always there, though she hated Lady Monk, and Lady Monk always abused her; but a card was sent to the Duchess in the same way as the Lord Mayor invites a Cabinet Minister to dinner, even though the one man might believe the other to be a thief. And Mrs Conway Sparkes was generally there; she went everywhere. Lady Monk did not at all know why Mrs Conway Sparkes was so favoured by the world; but there was the fact, and she bowed to it. Then there were another set, the members of which were or were not invited, according to circumstances, at the time; and these were the people who were probably the most legitimate recipients of Lady Monk’s hospitality. Old family friends of her husband were among the number. Let the Tuftons come in April, and perhaps again in May; then they will not feel their exclusion from that seventh heaven of glory, — the great culminating crush in July. Scores of young ladies who really loved parties belonged to this set. The mothers and aunts knew Lady Monk’s sisters and cousins. They accepted so much of Lady Monk’s good things as she vouchsafed them, and were thankful. Then there was another lot, which generally became, especially on that great July occasion, the most numerous of the three. It comprised all those who made strong interest to obtain admittance within her ladyship’s house, — who struggled and fought almost with tooth and nail to get invitations. Against these people Lady Monk carried on an internecine war. Had she not done so she would have been swamped by them, and her success would have been at an end; but yet she never dreamed of shutting her doors against them altogether, or of saying boldly that none such should hamper her staircases. She knew that she must yield, but her effort was made to yield to as few as might be possible. When she was first told by her factotum in these operations that Mr Bott wanted to come, she positively declined to have him. When it was afterwards intimated to her that the Duchess of St Bungay had made a point of it, she sneered at the Duchess, and did not even then yield. But when at last it was brought home to her understanding that Mr Palliser wished it, and that Mr Palliser probably would not come himself unless his wishes were gratified, she gave way. She was especially anxious that Lady Glencora should come to her gathering, and she knew that Lady Glencora could not be had without Mr Palliser.

It was very much desired by her that Lady Glencora should be there. “Burgo,” said she to her nephew, one morning, “look here.” Burgo was at the time staying with his aunt, in Gloucester Square, much to the annoyance of Sir Cosmo, who had become heartily tired of his nephew. The aunt and the nephew had been closeted together more than once lately, and perhaps they understood each other better now than they had done down at Monkshade. The aunt had handed a little note to Burgo, which he read and then threw back to her. “You see that she is not afraid of coming,” said Lady Monk.

“I suppose she doesn’t think much about it,” said Burgo.

“If that’s what you really believe, you’d better give it up. Nothing on earth would justify such a step on your part except a thorough conviction that she is attached to you.”

Burgo looked at the fireplace, almost savagely, and his aunt looked at him very keenly. “Well,” she said, “if there’s to be an end of it, let there be an end of it.”

“I think I’d better hang myself,” he said.

“Burgo, I will not have you here if you talk to me in that way. I am trying to help you once again; but if you look like that, and talk like that, I will give it up.”

“I think you’d better give it up.”

“Are you becoming cowardly at last? With all your faults I never expected that of you.”

“No; I am not a coward. I’d go out and fight him at two paces’ distance with the greatest pleasure in the world.”

“You know that’s nonsense, Burgo. It’s downright braggadocio. Men do not fight now; nor at any time would a man be called upon to fight, because you simply wanted to take his wife from him. If you had done it, indeed!”