“But I and Kate think a great deal of them,—a very great deal, I can assure you. Do you know, we had a long debate this morning whether or no we would return them to Oileymead?”
“Return them, Mrs Greenow!”
“Yes, indeed: what are women, situated as we are, to do under such circumstances? When gentlemen will be too liberal, their liberality must be repressed.”
“And have I been too liberal, Mrs Greenow? What is a young turkey and a stick of celery when a man is willing to give everything that he has in the world?”
“You’ve got a great deal more in the world, Mr Cheesacre, than you’d like to part with. But we won’t talk of that, now.”
“When shall we talk of it?”
“If you really have anything to say, you had by far better speak to Kate herself.”
“Mrs Greenow, you mistake me. Indeed, you mistake me.” Just at this moment, as he was drawing close to the widow, she heard, or fancied that she heard, Jeannette’s step, and, going to the sitting-room door, called to her maid. Jeannette did not hear her, but the bell was rung, and then Jeannette came. “You may take these things down, Jeannette,” she said. “Mr Cheesacre has promised that no more shall come.”
“But I haven’t promised,” said Mr Cheesacre.
“You will oblige me and Kate, I know;—and, Jeannette, tell Miss Vavasor that I am ready to walk with her.”
Then Mr Cheesacre knew that he could not say those few words on that occasion; and as the hour of his train was near, he took his departure, and went out of the Close, followed by the little boy, carrying the basket, the cloth, and the tin can.
Chapter XX.
Which Shall It Be?
The next day was Sunday, and it was well known at the lodging-house in the Close that Mr Cheesacre would not be seen there then. Mrs Greenow had specially warned him that she was not fond of Sunday visitors, fearing that otherwise he might find it convenient to give them too much of his society on that idle day. In the morning the aunt and niece both went to the Cathedral, and then at three o’clock they dined. But on this occasion they did not dine alone. Charlie Fairstairs, who, with her family, had come home from Yarmouth, had been asked to join them; and in order that Charlie might not feel it dull, Mrs Greenow had, with her usual goodnature, invited Captain Bellfield. A very nice little dinner they had. The captain carved the turkey, giving due honour to Mr Cheesacre as he did so; and when he nibbled his celery with his cheese, he was prettily jocose about the richness of the farmyard at Oileymead.
“He is the most generous man I ever met,” said Mrs Greenow.
“So he is,” said Captain Bellfield, “and we’ll drink his health. Poor old Cheesy! It’s a great pity he shouldn’t get himself a wife.”
“I don’t know any man more calculated to make a young woman happy,” said Mrs Greenow.
“No, indeed,” said Miss Fairstairs. “I’m told that his house and all about it is quite beautiful.”
“Especially the straw-yard and the horsepond,” said the Captain. And then they drank the health of their absent friend.
It had been arranged that the ladies should go to church in the evening, and it was thought that Captain Bellfield would, perhaps, accompany them; but when the time for starting came, Kate and Charlie were ready, but the widow was not, and she remained,—in order, as she afterwards explained to Kate, that Captain Bellfield might not seem to be turned out of the house. He had made no offer churchwards, and,—”Poor man,” as Mrs Greenow said in her little explanation, “if I hadn’t let him stay there, he would have had no resting-place for the sole of his foot, but some horrid barrack-room!” Therefore the Captain was allowed to find a resting-place in Mrs Greenow’s drawing-room; but on the return of the young ladies from church, he was not there, and the widow was alone, “looking back,” she said, “to things that were gone;—that were gone. But come, dears, I am not going to make you melancholy.” So they had tea, and Mr Cheesacre’s cream was used with liberality.
Captain Bellfield had not allowed the opportunity to slip idly from his hands. In the first quarter of an hour after the younger ladies had gone, he said little or nothing, but sat with a wineglass before him, which once or twice he filled from the decanter. “I’m afraid the wine is not very good,” said Mrs Greenow. “But one can’t get good wine in lodgings.”
“I’m not thinking very much about it, Mrs Greenow; that’s the truth,” said the Captain. “I daresay the wine is very good of its kind.” Then there was another period of silence between them.
“I suppose you find it rather dull, living in lodgings; don’t you?” asked the Captain.
“I don’t know quite what you mean by dull, Captain Bellfield; but a woman circumstanced as I am, can’t find her life very gay. It’s not a full twelvemonth yet since I lost all that made life desirable, and sometimes I wonder at myself for holding up as well as I do.”
“It’s wicked to give way to grief too much, Mrs Greenow.”
“That’s what my dear Kate always says to me, and I’m sure I do my best to overcome it.” Upon this soft tears trickled down her cheek, showing in their course that she at any rate used no paint in producing that freshness of colour which was one of her great charms. Then she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and removing it, smiled faintly on the Captain. “I didn’t intend to treat you to such a scene as this, Captain Bellfield.”
“There is nothing on earth, Mrs Greenow, I desire so much, as permission to dry those tears.”
“Time alone can do that, Captain Bellfield;—time alone.”
“But cannot time be aided by love and friendship and affection?”
“By friendship, yes. What would life be worth without the solace of friendship?”
“And how much better is the warm glow of love?” Captain Bellfield, as he asked this question, deliberately got up, and moved his chair over to the widow’s side. But the widow as deliberately changed her position to the corner of a sofa. The Captain did not at once follow her, nor did he in any way show that he was aware that she had fled from him.
“How much better is the warm glow of love?” he said again, contenting himself with looking into her face with all his eyes. He had hoped that he would have been able to press her hand by this time.
“The warm, glow of love, Captain Bellfield, if you have ever felt it—”
“If I have ever felt it! Do I not feel it now, Mrs Greenow? There can be no longer any mask kept upon my feelings. I never could restrain the yearnings of my heart when they have been strong.”
“Have they often been strong, Captain Bellfield?”
“Yes; often;—in various scenes of life; on the field of battle—”
“I did not know that you had seen active service.”
“What!—not on the plains of Zuzuland, when with fifty picked men I kept five hundred Caffres at bay for seven weeks;—never knew the comfort of a bed, or a pillow to my head, for seven long weeks!”
“Not for seven weeks?” said Mrs Greenow.
“No. Did I not see active service at Essiquebo, on the burning coast of Guiana, when all the wild Africans from the woods rose up to destroy the colony; or again at the mouth of the Kitchyhomy River, when I made good the capture of a slaver by my own hand and my own sword!”
“I really hadn’t heard,” said