Can You Forgive Her? (97 page)

They were now close to the gate, and Cheesacre paused before he entered. ‘Do you think there’s no chance at all for me, then?’ said he.

‘I know there’s none. I’ve heard her
speak about it.’

‘Somebody else, perhaps, is the happy man?’

‘I can’t say anything about that, but I know that she wouldn’t take you. I like farming, you know, but she doesn’t.’

‘I might give that up,’ said Cheesacre readily, – ‘at any rate, for a time.’

‘No, no, no; it would do no good. Believe me, my friend, that it is of no use.’

He still paused at the gate. ‘I don’t see what’s the use
of my going in,’ said he. To this she made him no answer. ‘There’s a pride about me,’ he continued, ‘that I don’t choose to go where I’m not wanted.’

‘I can’t tell you, Mr Cheesacre, that you are wanted in that light, certainly.’

‘Then I’ll go. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell the boy with the gig to come after me? That’s six pound ten it will have cost me to come here and go back. Bellfield
did it cheaper, of course; he travelled second class. I heard of him as I came along.’

‘The expense does not matter to you, Mr Cheesacre.’

To this he assented, and then took his leave, at first offering his hand to Mrs Greenow with an air of offended dignity, but falling back almost into humility during the performance of his adieu. Before he was gone he had invited her to bring the Captain
to Oileymead when she was married, and had begged her to tell Miss Vavasor how happy he should be to receive her. ‘And Mr Cheesacre,’ said the widow, as he walked back along the road, ‘don’t forget dear Charlie Fairstairs.’

They were all standing at the front door of the house when Mrs Greenow re-appeared, – Alice, Kate, Captain Bellfield, the Shap boy, and the Shap horse and gig. ‘Where is he?’
Kate asked in a low voice, and everyone there felt how important was the question. ‘He has gone,’ said the widow. Bellfield was so relieved that he could not restrain his joy, but took off his little straw hat and threw it up into the air. Kate’s satisfaction was almost as intense. ‘I am so glad,’ said she. ‘What on earth should we have done with him?’ ‘I never was so disappointed in my life,’
said Alice. ‘I have heard so much of Mr Cheesacre, but have never seen him.’ Kate suggested that she should get into the gig and drive after him. ‘He ain’t a been and took himself off?’ suggested the boy, whose face became very dismal as the terrible idea struck him. But, with juvenile craft, he put his hand on the carpet-bag, and finding that it did not contain stones, was comforted. ‘You drive
after him, young gentleman, and you’ll find him on the road to Shap,’ said Mrs Greenow. ‘Mind you give him my love,’ said the Captain in his glee, ‘and say I hope he’ll get his turnips in well.’

This little episode went far to break the day, and did more than anything else could have done to put Captain Bellfield at his ease. It created a little joint-stock fund of merriment between the whole
party, which was very much needed. The absence of such joint-stock fund is always felt when a small party is thrown together without such assistance. Some bond is necessary on these occasions, and no other bond is so easy or so pleasant. Now, when the Captain found himself alone for a quarter of an hour with Alice, he had plenty of subjects for small-talk. ‘Yes, indeed. Old Cheesacre, in spite of
his absurdities, is not a bad sort of fellow at
bottom; – awfully fond of his money, you know, Miss Vavasor, and always boasting about it.’ ‘That’s not pleasant,’ said Alice. ‘No, the most unpleasant thing in the world. There’s nothing I hate so much, Miss Vavasor, as that kind of talking. My idea is this, – when a man has lots of money, let him make the best use he can of it, and say nothing
about it. Nobody ever heard me talking about my money.’ He knew that Alice knew that he was a pauper; but, nevertheless, he had the satisfaction of speaking of himself as though he were not a pauper.

In this way the afternoon went very pleasantly. For an hour before dinner Captain Bellfield was had into the drawing-room and was talked to by his widow on matters of business; but he had of course
known that this was necessary. She scolded him soundly about those sheriff’s officers. Why had he not told her? ‘As long as there’s anything kept back, I won’t have you,’ said she. ‘I won’t become your wife till I’m quite sure there’s not a penny owing that is not shown in the list’ Then I think he did tell her all, – or nearly all. When all was counted it was not so very much. Three or four hundred
pounds would make him a new man, and what was such a sum as that to his wealthy widow! Indeed, for a woman wanting a husband of that sort, Captain Bellfield was a safer venture than would be a man of a higher standing among his creditors. It is true Bellfield might have been a forger, or a thief, or a returned convict, – but then his debts could not be large. Let him have done his best, he could
not have obtained credit for a thousand pounds; whereas, no one could tell the liabilities of a gentleman of high standing. Burgo Fitzgerald was a gentleman of high standing, and his creditors would have swallowed up every shilling that Mrs Greenow possessed; but with Captain Bellfield she was comparatively safe.

Upon the whole I think that she was lucky in her choice; or, perhaps, I might more
truly say, that she had chosen with prudence. He was no forger, or thief – in the ordinary sense of the word; nor was he a returned convict He was simply an idle scamp, who had hung about the world for forty years, doing nothing, without principle, shameless, accustomed to eat dirty puddings, and to be kicked – morally kicked – by such men as Cheesacre. But
he was moderate in his greediness, and
possessed of a certain appreciation of the comfort of a daily dinner, which might possibly suffice to keep him from straying very wide as long as his intended wife should be able to keep the purse-strings altogether in her own hands. Therefore, I say that Mrs Greenow had been lucky in her choice, and not altogether without prudence.

‘I think of taking this house,’ said she, ‘and of living here.’

‘What, in Westmoreland!’ said the Captain, with something of dismay in his tone. What on earth would he do with himself all his life in that gloomy place!

‘Yes, in Westmoreland. Why not in Westmoreland as well as anywhere else? If you don’t like Westmoreland, it’s not too late yet, you know.’ In answer to this the poor Captain was obliged to declare that he had no objection whatever to Westmoreland.

‘I’ve been talking to my niece about it,’ continued Mrs Greenow, ‘and I find that such an arrangement can be made very conveniently. The property is left between her and her uncle, – the father of my other niece, and neither of them want to live here.’

‘But won’t you be rather dull, my dear?’

‘We could go to Yarmouth, you know, in the autumn,’ Then the Captain’s visage became somewhat bright
again. ‘And perhaps, if you are not extravagant, we could manage a month or so in London during the winter, just to see the plays and do a little shopping.’ Then the Captain’s face became very bright. ‘That will be delightful’ said he. ‘And as for being dull,’ said the widow, ‘when people grow old they must be dull. Dancing can’t go on for ever.’ In answer to this the widow’s Captain assured the
widow that she was not at all old; and now, on this occasion, that ceremony came off successfully which had been interrupted on the Shap road by the noise of Mr Cheesacre’s wheels. ‘There goes my cap,’ said she. ‘What a goose you are! What will Jeannette say?’ ‘Bother Jeannette,’ said the Captain in his bliss. ‘She can do another cap, and many more won’t be wanted.’ Then I think the ceremony was repeated.

Upon the whole the Captain’s visit was satisfactory – at any rate to the Captain. Everything was settled. He was to go away on
Saturday morning, and remain in lodgings at Penrith till the wedding, which they agreed to have celebrated at Vavasor Church. Kate promised to be the solitary bridesmaid. There was some talk of sending for Charlie Fairstairs, but the idea was abandoned. ‘We’ll have her
afterwards,’ said the widow to Kate, ‘when you are gone, and we shall want her more’ And I’ll get Cheesacre here, and make him marry her. There’s no good in paying for two journeys.’ The Captain was to be allowed to come over from Penrith twice a week previous to his marriage; or perhaps, I might more fairly say, that he was commanded to do so. I wonder how he felt when Mrs Greenow gave him his first
five-pound note, and told him that he must make it do for a fortnight? – whether it was all joy, or whether there was about his heart any touch of manly regret?

‘Captain Bellfield, of Vavasor Hall, Westmoreland. It don’t sound badly,’ he said to himself, as he travelled away on his first journey to Penrith.

O
N
the night of Lady Monk’s party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in vain. The old butler and factotum of the house, who was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife’s triumphs, was interrogated by
his mistress, and said that he thought Mr Burgo had left the house. Lady Monk herself knocked at her nephew’s door, when she went upstairs, ascending an additional flight of stairs with her weary old limbs in order that she might do so; she even opened the door and saw the careless d́bris of his toilet about the room. But he was gone. ‘Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it,’ she said to herself,
as she went down to her own room.

But Burgo, as we know, had not ‘arranged it’. It may be
remembered that when Mr Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room at Lady Monk’s, bringing with him the scarf which Lady Glencora had left upstairs, Burgo was no longer with her. He had become well aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night The poor fool, acting upon his aunt’s
implied advice rather than his own hopes, had secured a post-chaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street, some five minutes’ walk from his aunt’s house. And he had purchased feminine wrappings, cloaks, &c. – things that he thought might be necessary for his companion. He had, too, ordered rooms at the new hotel near the Dover Station, – the London Bridge Station, – from whence was to start on the following
morning a train to catch the tidal boat for Boulogne. There was a dressing-bag there for which he had paid twenty-five guineas out of his aunt’s money, not having been able to induce the tradesman to grant it to him on credit; and there were other things, – slippers, collars, stockings, handkerchiefs, and what else might, as he thought, under such circumstances be most necessary. Poor thoughtful,
thoughtless fool!

The butler was right He did leave the house. He saw Lady Glencora taken to her carriage from some back hiding-place in the hall, and then slipped out, unmindful of his shining boots, and dress coat and jewelled studs. He took a Gibus hat
¹
, – his own, or that of some other unfortunate, – and slowly made his way down to the place in Bruton Street. There was the carriage and pair
of horses, all in readiness; and the driver, when he had placed himself by the door of the vehicle, was not long in emerging from the neighbouring public-house. ‘All ready, your honour,’ said the man. ‘I shan’t want you tonight,’ said Burgo, hoarsely; – ‘go away.’ ‘And about the things, your honour?’ ‘Take them to the devil. No; stop. Take them back with you, and ask somebody to keep them till
I send for them. I shall want them and another carriage in a day or two.’ Then he gave the man half a sovereign, and went away, not looking at the little treasures which he had spent so much of his money in selecting for his love. When he was gone, the waterman and the driver turned them over with careful hands and gloating eyes. ‘It’s a ’eiress, I’ll go bail,’ said the waterman. ‘Pretty dear! I suppose
her parints was too many for her,’
said the driver. But neither of them imagined the enormity which the hirer of the chaise had in truth contemplated.

Burgo from thence took his way back into Grosvenor Square, and from thence down Park Street, and through a narrow passage and a mews which there are in those parts, into Park Lane. He had now passed the position of Mr Palliser’s house, having come
out on Park Lane at a spot nearer to Piccadilly; but he retraced his steps, walking along by the rails of the Park, till he found himself opposite to the house. Then he stood there, leaning back upon the railings, and looking up at Lady Glencora’s windows. What did he expect to see? Or was he, in truth, moved by love of that kind which can take joy in watching the slightest shadow that is made
by the one loved object, – that may be made by her, or, by some violent conjecture of the mind, may be supposed to have been so made? Such love as that is, I think, always innocent Burgo Fitzgerald did not love like that. I almost doubt whether he can be said to have loved at all. There was in his breast a mixed, feverish desire, which he took no trouble to analyse. He wanted money. He wanted the
thing of which this Palliser had robbed him. He wanted revenge, – though his desire for that was not a burning desire. And among other things, he wanted the woman’s beauty of the woman whom he coveted. He wanted to kiss her again as he had once kissed her, and to feel that she was soft, and lovely, and loving for him. But as for seeing her shadow, unless its movement indicated some purpose in his
favour, – I do not think that he cared much about that.

And why then was he there? Because in his unreasoning folly he did not know what step to take, or what step not to take. There are men whose energies hardly ever carry them beyond looking for the thing they want She might see him from the window, and come to him. I do not say that he thought that it would be so. I fancy that he never thought
at all about that or about anything. If you lie under a tree, and open your mouth, a plum may fall into it. It was probably an undefined idea of some such chance as this which brought him against the railings in the front of Mr Palliser’s house; that, and a feeling made up partly of despair and partly of lingering romance that he was better there, out in the
night air, under the gas-lamps, than
he could be elsewhere. There he stood and looked, and cursed his ill-luck. But his curses had none of the bitterness of those which George Vavasor was always uttering. Through it all there remained about Burgo one honest feeling, – one conviction that was true, – a feeling that it all served him right, and that he had better, perhaps, go to the devil at once, and give nobody any more trouble. If
he loved no one sincerely, neither did he hate any one; and whenever he made any self-inquiry into his own circumstances, he always told himself that it was all his own fault. When he cursed his fate, he only did so because cursing is so easy. George Vavasor would have ground his victims up to powder if he knew how; but Burgo Fitzgerald desired to hurt no one.