“Dear, dear, dear! I had heard that she was poorly. She is very old, you know. So, Alice, you’ve made it all square with Mr Grey at last?”
“Yes, papa; — if you call that square.”
“Well; I do call it square. It has all come round to the proper thing.”
“I hope he thinks so.”
“What do you think yourself, my dear?”
“I’ve no doubt it’s the proper thing for me, papa.”
“Of course not; of course not; and I can tell you this, Alice, he is a man in a thousand. You’ve heard about the money?”
“What money, papa?”
“The money that George had.” As the reader is aware, Alice had heard nothing special about this money. She only knew, or supposed she knew, that she had given three thousand pounds to her cousin. But now her father explained to her the whole transaction. “We couldn’t have realized your money for months, perhaps,” said he; “but Grey knew that some men must have rope enough before they can hang themselves.”
Alice was unable to say anything on this subject to her father, but to herself she did declare that not in that way or with that hope had John Grey produced his money. “He must be paid, papa,” she said. “Paid!” he answered; “he can pay himself now. It may make some difference in the settlements, perhaps, but he and the lawyers may arrange that. I shan’t think of interfering with such a man as Grey. If you could only know, my dear, what I’ve suffered!” Alice in a penitential tone expressed her sorrow, and then he too assured her that he had forgiven her. “Bless you, my child!” he said, “and make you happy, and good, and — and — and very comfortable.” After that he went back to his club.
Alice made her journey down to Cheltenham without any adventure, and was received by Lady Macleod with open arms. “Dearest Alice, it is so good of you.” “Good!” said Alice, “would I not have gone a thousand miles to you?”
Lady Macleod was very eager to know all about the coming marriage. “I can tell you now, my dear, though I couldn’t do it before, that I knew he’d persist for ever. He told me so himself in confidence.”
“He has persisted, aunt; that is certain.”
“And I hope you’ll reward him. A beautiful woman without discretion is like a pearl in a swine’s snout; but a good wife is a crown of glory to her husband. Remember that, my dear, and choose your part for his sake.”
“I won’t be that unfortunate pearl, if I can help it, aunt.”
“We can all help it, if we set about it in the right way. And Alice, you must be careful to find out all his likes and his dislikes. Dear me! I remember how hard I found it, but then I don’t think I was so clever as you are.”
“Sometimes I think nobody has ever been so stupid as I have.”
“Not stupid, my dear; if I must say the word, it is self-willed. But, dear, all that is forgiven now. Is it not?”
“There is a forgiveness which it is rather hard to get,” said Alice.
There was something said then as to the necessity of looking for pardon beyond this world, which I need not here repeat. To all her old friend’s little sermons Alice was infinitely more attentive than had been her wont, so that Lady Macleod was comforted and took heart of grace, and at last brought forth from under her pillow a letter from the Countess of Midlothian, which she had received a day or two since, and which bore upon Alice’s case. “I was not quite sure whether I’d show it you,” said Lady Macleod, “because you wouldn’t answer her when she wrote to you. But when I’m gone, as I shall be soon, she will be the nearest relative you have on your mother’s side, and from her great position, you know, Alice — ” But here Alice became impatient for the letter. Her aunt handed it to her, and she read as follows: —
Castle Reekie, July, 186––.
Dear Lady Macleod, —
I am sorry to hear of the symptoms you speak about. I strongly advise you to depend chiefly on beef-tea. They should be very careful to send it up quite free from grease, and it should not be too strong of the meat. There should be no vegetables in it. Not soup, you know, but beef-tea. If any thing acts upon your strength, that will. I need not tell one who has lived as you have done where to look for that other strength which alone can support you at such a time as this. I would go to you if I thought that my presence would be any comfort to you, but I know how sensitive you are, and the shock might be too much for you.
If you see Alice Vavasor on her return to England, as you probably will, pray tell her from me that I give her my warmest congratulations, and that I am heartily glad that matters are arranged. I think she treated my attempts to heal the wound in a manner that they did not deserve; but all that shall be forgiven, as shall also her original bad behaviour to poor Mr Grey.
Alice was becoming weary of so much forgiveness, and told herself, as she was reading the letter, that that of Lady Midlothian was at any rate unnecessary. “I trust that we may yet meet and be friends,” continued Lady Midlothian. “I am extremely gratified at finding that she has been thought so much of by Mr Palliser. I’m told that Mr Palliser and Mr Grey have become great friends, and if this is so, Alice must be happy to feel that she has had it in her power to confer so great a benefit on her future husband as he will receive from this introduction.” “I ain’t a bit happy, and I have conferred no benefit on Mr Grey,” exclaimed Alice, who was unable to repress the anger occasioned by the last paragraph.
“But it is a great benefit, my dear.”
“Mr Palliser has every bit as much cause to be gratified for that as Mr Grey, and perhaps more.”
Poor Lady Macleod could not argue the matter in her present state. She merely sighed, and moved her shrivelled old hand up and down upon the counterpane. Alice finished the letter without further remarks. It merely went on to say how happy the writer would be to know something of her cousin as Mrs Grey, as also to know something of Mr Grey, and then gave a general invitation to both Mr and Mrs Grey, asking them to come to Castle Reekie whenever they might be able. The Marchioness, with whom Lady Midlothian was staying, had expressly desired her to give this message. Alice, however, could not but observe that Lady Midlothian’s invitation applied only to another person’s house.
“I’m sure she means well,” said Alice.
“Indeed she does,” said Lady Macleod, “and then you know you’ll probably have children; and think what a thing it will be for them to know the Midlothian family. You shouldn’t rob them of their natural advantages.”
Alice remained a week with her aunt, and went from thence direct to Westmoreland. Some order as to bridal preparations we must presume she gave on that single day which she passed in London. Much advice she had received on this head from Lady Glencora, and no inconsiderable amount of assistance was to be rendered to her at Matching during the fortnight she would remain there before her marriage. Something also, let us hope, she might do at Cheltenham. Something no doubt she did do. Something also might probably be achieved among the wilds in Westmoreland, but that something would necessarily be of a nature not requiring fashionable tradespeople. While at Cheltenham, she determined that she would not again return to London before her marriage. This resolve was caused by a very urgent letter from Mr Grey, and by another, almost equally urgent, from Lady Glencora. If the marriage did not take place in September she would not be present at it. The gods of the world, — of Lady Glencora’s world, — had met together and come to a great decision. Lady Glencora was to be removed in October to Gatherum Castle, and remain there till the following spring, so that the heir might, in truth, be born in the purple. “It is such a bore,” said Lady Glencora, “and I know it will be a girl. But the Duke isn’t to be there, except for the Christmas week.” An invitation for the ceremony at Matching had been sent from Mr Palliser to Mr Vavasor, and another from Lady Glencora to Kate, “whom I long to know,” said her ladyship, “and with whom I should like to pick a crow, if I dared, as I’m sure she did all the mischief.”
CHAPTER LXXVIII
Mr C
heesacre’s Fate
It must be acknowledged that Mrs Greenow was a woman of great resources, and that she would be very prudent for others, though I fear the verdict of those who know her must go against her in regard to prudence in herself. Her marriage with Captain Bellfield was a rash act, — certainly a rash act, although she did take so much care in securing the payment of her own income into her own hands; but the manner in which she made him live discreetly for some months previous to his marriage, the tact with which she renewed the friendship which had existed between him and Mr Cheesacre, and the skill she used in at last providing Mr Cheesacre with a wife, oblige us all to admit that, as a general, she had great powers.
When Alice reached Vavasor Hall she found Charlie Fairstairs established there on a long visit. Charlie and Kate were to be the two bridesmaids, and, as Kate told her cousin in their first confidential intercourse on the evening of Alice’s arrival, there were already great hopes in the household that the master of Oileymead might be brought to surrender. It was true that Charlie had not a shilling, and that Mr Cheesacre had set his heart on marrying an heiress. It was true that Miss Fairstairs had always stood low in the gentleman’s estimation, as being connected with people who were as much without rank and fashion as they were without money, and that the gentleman loved rank and fashion dearly. It was true that Charlie was no beauty, and that Cheesacre had an eye for feminine charms. It was true that he had despised Charlie, and had spoken his contempt openly; — that he had seen the girl on the sands at Yarmouth every summer for the last ten years, and about the streets of Norwich every winter, and had learned to regard her as a thing poor and despicable, because she was common in his eyes. It is thus that the Cheesacres judge of people. But in spite of all these difficulties Mrs Greenow had taken up poor Charlie’s case, and Kate Vavasor expressed a strong opinion that her aunt would win.
“What has she done to the man?” Alice asked.
“Coaxed him; simply that. She has made herself so much his master that he doesn’t know how to say no to her. Sometimes I have thought that he might possibly run away, but I have abandoned that fear now. She has little confidences with him from day to day, which are so alluring to him that he cannot tear himself off. In the middle of one of them he will find himself engaged.”
“But, the unfortunate girl! Won’t it be a wretched marriage for her?”
“Not at all. She’ll make him a very good wife. He’s one of those men to whom any woman, after a little time, will come to be the same. He’ll be rough with her once a month or so, and perhaps tell her that she brought no money with her; but that won’t break any bones, and Charlie will know how to fight her own battles. She’ll save his money if she brings none, and in a few years’ time they will quite understand each other.”
Mr Cheesacre and Captain Bellfield were at this time living in lodgings together, at Penrith, but came over and spent every other day at Vavasor, returning always to their lodgings in the evening. It wanted but eight days to the marriage when Alice arrived, and preparations for that event were in progress. “It’s to be very quiet, Alice,” said her aunt; “as quiet as such a thing can be made. I owe that to the memory of the departed one. I know that he is looking down upon me, and that he approves all that I do. Indeed, he told me once that he did not want me to live desolate for his sake. If I didn’t feel that he was looking down and approving it, I should be wretched indeed.” She took Alice up to see her trousseau, and gave the other expectant bride some little hints which, under present circumstances, might be useful. “Yes, indeed; only three-and-sixpence a piece, and they’re quite real. Feel them. You wouldn’t get them in the shops under six.” Alice did feel them, and wondered whether her aunt could have saved the half-crown honestly. “I had my eyes about me when I was up in town, my dear. And look here, these are quite new, — have never been on yet, and I had them when I was married before. There is nothing like being careful, my dear. I hate meanness, as everybody knows who knows me; but there is nothing like being careful. You have a lot of rich people about you just now, and will have ever so many things given you which you won’t want. Do you put them all by, and be careful. They may turn out useful, you know.” Saying this, Mrs Greenow folded up, among her present bridal belongings, sundries of the wealth which had accrued to her in an earlier stage of her career.
And then Mrs Greenow opened her mind to Alice about the Captain. “He’s as good as gold, my dear; he is, indeed, — in his own way. Of course, I know that he has faults, and I should like to know who hasn’t. Although poor dear Greenow certainly was more without them than anybody else I ever knew.” As this remembrance came upon Mrs Greenow she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Alice observed that that which she held still bore the deepest hem of widowhood. They would be used, no doubt, till the last day, and then put by in lavender for future possible occasions. “Bellfield may have been a little extravagant. I dare say he has. But how can a man help being extravagant when he hasn’t got any regular income? He has been ill-treated in his profession; very. It makes my blood curdle when I think of it. After fighting his country’s battles through blood, and dust, and wounds; — but I’ll tell you about that another time.”
“I suppose a man seldom does make a fortune, aunt, by being a soldier?”
“Never, my dear; much better be a tailor. Don’t you ever marry a soldier. But as I was saying, he is the best-tempered creature alive, and the staunchest friend I ever met. You should hear what Mr Cheesacre says of him! But you don’t know Mr Cheesacre?”
“No, aunt, not yet. If you remember, he went away before I saw him when he came here before.”
“Yes, I know, poor fellow! Between you and me, Kate might have had him if she liked; but perhaps Kate was right.”
“I don’t think he would have suited Kate at all.”
“Because of the farmyard, you mean? Kate shouldn’t give herself airs. Money’s never dirty, you know. But perhaps it’s all for the best. There’s a sweet girl here to whom he is violently attached, and who I hope will become Mrs Cheesacre. But as I was saying, the friendship between these two men is quite wonderful, and I have always observed that when a man can create that kind of affection in the bosom of another man, he invariably is, — the sort of man, — the man, in fact, who makes a good husband.”
Alice knew the story of Charlie Fairstairs and her hopes; knew of the quarrels between Bellfield and Cheesacre; knew almost as much of Bellfield’s past life as Mrs Greenow did herself; and Mrs Greenow was no doubt aware that such was the case. Nevertheless, she had a pleasure in telling her own story, and told it as though she believed every word that she spoke.
On the following day the two gentlemen came over, according to custom, and Alice observed that Miss Fairstairs hardly spoke to Mr Cheesacre. Indeed her manner of avoiding that gentleman was so very marked, that it was impossible not to observe it. They drank tea out of doors, and when Mr Cheesacre on one occasion sauntered across towards the end of the bench on which Charlie was sitting, Charlie got up and walked away. And in strolling about the place afterwards, and in going up through the wood, she was at great pains to attach herself to some other person, so that there should be no such attaching between her and the owner of Oileymead. At one time Mr Cheesacre did get close up to her and spoke some word, some very indifferent word. He knew that he was being cut and he wanted to avoid the appearance of a scene. “I don’t know, sir,” said Charlie, again moving away with excellent dignity, and she at once attached herself to Alice who was close by. “I know you have just come home from Switzerland,” said Charlie. “Beautiful Switzerland! My heart pants for Switzerland. Do tell me something about Switzerland!” Mr Cheesacre had heard that Alice was the dear friend of a lady who would probably some day become a duchess. He therefore naturally held her in awe, and slunk away. On this occasion Mrs Greenow clung lovingly to her future husband, and the effect was that Mr Cheesacre found himself to be very much alone and unhappy. He had generally enjoyed these days at Vavasor Ha
ll, having found himself, or fancied himself, to be the dominant spirit there. That Mrs Greenow was always in truth the dominant spirit I need hardly say; but she knew how to make a companion happy, and well also how to make him wretched. On the whole of this day poor Cheesacre was very wretched.
“I don’t think I shall go there any more,” he said to Bellfield, as he drove the gig back to Penrith that evening.
“Not go there any more, Cheesy,” said Bellfield; “why, we are to have the dinner out in the field on Friday. It’s your own bespeak.”
“Well, yes; I’ll go on Friday, but not after that.”
“You’ll stop and see me turned off, old fellow?”
“What’s the use? You’ll get your wife, and that’s enough for you. The truth is, that since that girl came down from London with her d––––d airs;” — the girl from London with the airs was poor Alice, — “the place is quite changed. I’m blessed if the whole thing isn’t as dark as ditch-water. I’m a plain man, I am; and I do hate your swells.” Against this view of the case Captain Bellfield argued stoutly; but Cheesacre had been offended, and throughout the next day he was cross and touchy. He wouldn’t play billiards, and on one occasion hinted that he hoped he should get that money soon.
“You did it admirably, my dear,” said Mrs Greenow that night to Charlie Fairstairs. The widow was now on terms almost more confidential with Miss Fairstairs than with her own niece, Kate Vavasor. She loved a little bit of intrigue; and though Kate could intrigue, as we have seen in this story, Kate would not join her aunt’s intrigues. “You did it admirably. I really did not think you had so much in you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charlie, blushing at the praise.
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