The Palliser Novels (14 page)

“Upon my honour I didn’t mean it, Mrs Greenow. I didn’t mean it, indeed.”

“I do not suspect you. 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 Cheesacre?”

“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.”

“Extravagance 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 Cheesacre?”

“If I told you I suppose you’d only laugh at me.”

“No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one 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 laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have 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 Cheesacre; 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 Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table, — “But, Mrs Greenow, care killed a cat, you know.”

“And sometimes I think that care will kill me.”

“No, by George; not if I can prevent it.”

“You’re very kind, Mr Cheesacre; 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 is better able to do it. I don’t pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon 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 farm their own land are worse off than if they’d rent to pay. They’ve 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 Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it’s all my own.” Mr Cheesacre, 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 accepted the bargain.

“If you’d known Greenow, Mr Cheesacre — “

“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 mangels don’t do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; 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, — that isn’t mahogany furnished!”

“What’s furniture to me?” said Mrs Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes.

Just at this moment Maria’s mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make 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 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 Cheesacre and I are talking about farming,” she said.

“Oh; farming!” answered Maria’s mother.

“Mr Cheesacre thinks that turnips are better than early mangels,” said Mrs Greenow.

“Yes, I do,” said Cheesacre,

“I prefer the early mangels,” said Mrs Greenow. “I don’t think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs Walker?”

“I daresay Mr Cheesacre understands 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 much of 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 boats,” 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 Fairstairs’ 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.

“Sober as judges,” said Bellfield, who had himself been looking after the remains of Mr Cheesacre’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 sea, Mrs Greenow.”

“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 Fairstairs. 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 Cheesacre presided, while the sinning Ophelia with her good-for-nothing admirer were under the more mirthful protection of Captain Bellfield.

“Mamma will be so angry,” said Ophelia, “and it was all your fault. I did mean to go into the other boat. Don’t, Mr Fairstairs.” Then they got settled down in their seats, to the satisfaction, let us hope, of them both.

Mr Cheesacre had vainly endeavoured to arrange that Mrs Greenow should return with him. But not only was Captain Bellfield opposed to such a change in their positions, but so also was Mrs Greenow. “I think we’d better go back as we came,” she said, giving her hand to the Captain.

“Oh, certainly,” said Captain Bellfield. “Why should there be any change? Cheesacre, old fellow, mind you look after Mrs Walker. Come along, my hearty.” It really almost appeared that Captain Bellfield was addressing Mrs Greenow as “his hearty,” but it must be presumed that the term of genial endearment was intended for the whole boat’s load. Mrs Greenow took her place on the comfortable broad bench in the stern, and Bellfield seated himself beside her, with the tiller in his hand.

“If you’re going to steer, Captain Bellfield, 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; — perish 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 Bellfield, and therefore pray be careful.”

There was no perishing by water on that occasion. Mr Cheesacre’s boat reached the pier at Yarmouth first, and gave up its load without accident. Very shortly afterwards Captain Bellfield’s crew reached the same place in the same state of preservation. “There,” said he, as he handed out Mrs Greenow. “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 Greenow! Whatever may be our lots hereafter, — yours I mean and mine, — 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 Bellfield. We won’t take you and Mr Cheesacre out of your way; — will we, Kate? We have had a most pleasant day.”

They were now upon the esplanade, and Mrs Greenow’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 Greenow was self-willed, and upon this occasion would have neither of them. “Mr Joe Fairstairs must pass the house,” said she, “and he will see us home. Mr Cheesacre, good night. Indeed you shall not; — not a step.” There was that in her voice which induced Mr Cheesacre to obey her, and which made Captain Bellfield aware that he would only injure his cause if he endeavoured 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 have 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 Greenow, “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, — if they 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 very best thing for them as 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 every thing, and go away.”

That was Mrs Greenow’s doctrine on the subject of flirtation.

We will leave Mrs Greenow with her niece and two sisters at Yarmouth, and returning by stages to London, will call upon Mr Grey at his place in Cambridgeshire as we pass by. I believe it is conceded by all the other counties, that Cambridgeshire possesses fewer rural beauties than any other county in England. It is very flat; it is not well timbered; the rivers are merely dikes; and in a very large portion of the county the farms and fields are divided simply by ditches — not by hedgerows. Such arrangements are, no doubt, well adapted for agricultural purposes, but are not conducive to rural beauty. Mr Grey’s residence was situated in a part of Cambridgeshire in which the above-named characteristics are very much marked. It was in the Isle of Ely, some few miles distant from the Cathedral town, on the side of a long straight road, which ran through the fields for miles without even a bush to cheer it. The name of his place was Nethercoats, and here he lived generally throughout the year, and here he intended to live throughout his life.

His father had held a prebendal stall at Ely in times when prebendal stalls were worth more than they are at present, and having also been possessed of a living in the neighbourhood, had amassed a considerable sum of money. With this he had during his life purchased the property of Nethercoats, and had built on it the house in which his son now lived. He had married late in life, and had lost his wife soon after the birth of an only child. The house had been built in his own parish, and his wife had lived there for a few months and had died there. But after that event the old clergyman had gone back to his residence in the Close at Ely, and there John Grey had had the home of his youth. He had been brought up under his father’s eye, having been sent to no public school. But he had gone to Cambridge, had taken college honours, and had then, his father dying exactly at this time, declined to accept a fellowship. His father had left to him an income of some fifteen hundred a year, and with this he sat himself down, near to his college friends, near also to the old cathedral which he loved, in the house which his father had built.

But though Nethercoats possessed no beauty of scenery, though the country around it was in truth as uninteresting as any country could be, it had many delights of its own. The house itself was as excellent a residence for a country gentleman of small means as taste and skill together could construct. I doubt whether prettier rooms were ever seen than the drawing-room, the library, and the dining-room at Nethercoats. They were all on the ground-floor, and all opened out on to the garden and lawn. The library, which was the largest of the three, was a handsome chamber, and so filled as to make it well known in the University as one of the best private collections in that part of England. But perhaps the gardens of Nethercoats constituted its greatest glory. They were spacious and excellently kept up, and had been originally laid out with that knowledge of gardening without which no garden, merely as a garden, can be effective. And such, of necessity, was the garden of Nethercoats. Fine single forest trees there were none there, nor was it possible that there should have been any such. Nor could there be a clear rippling stream with steep green banks, and broken rocks lying about its bed. Such beauties are beauties of landscape, and do not of their nature belong to a garden. But the shrubs of Nethercoats were of the rarest kind, and had been long enough in their present places to have reached the period of their beauty. Nothing had been spared that a garden could want. The fruit-trees were perfect in their kind, and the glass-houses were so good and so extensive that John Grey in his prudence was some times tempted to think that he had too much of them.