“However much it is, I’m sure you are too much of a gentleman to say.”
“Well;—yes, I am,” said he, trying to recover himself. “But when I asked him how he intended to pay me, what do you think he said? He said he’d pay me when he got your money.”
“My money! He couldn’t have said that!”
“But he did, Mrs. Greenow; I give you my word and honour. ‘I’ll pay you when I get the widow’s money,’ he said.”
“You gentlemen must have a nice way of talking about me when I am absent.”
“I never said a disrespectful word about you in my life, Mrs. Greenow—or thought one. He does;—he says horrible things.”
“What horrible things, Mr. Cheesacre?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you;—but he does. What can you expect from such a man as that, who, to my knowledge, won’t have a change of clothes tomorrow, except what he brought in on his back this morning. Where he’s to get a bed tonight, I don’t know, for I doubt whether he’s got half-a-crown in the world.”
“Poor Bellfield!”
“Yes; he is poor.”
“But how gracefully he carries his poverty.”
“I should call it very disgraceful, Mrs. Greenow.” To this she made no reply, and then he thought that he might begin his work. “Mrs. Greenow—may I say Arabella?”
“Mr. Cheesacre!”
“But mayn’t I? Come, Mrs. Greenow. You know well enough by this time what it is I mean. What’s the use of shilly-shallying?”
“Shilly-shallying, Mr. Cheesacre! I never heard such language. If I bid you good night, now, and tell you that it is time for you to go home, shall you call that shilly-shallying?”
He had made a mistake in his word and repented it. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greenow; I do indeed. I didn’t mean anything offensive.”
“Shilly-shallying, indeed! There’s very little shall in it, I can assure you.”
The poor man was dreadfully crestfallen, so much so that the widow’s heart relented, and she pardoned him. It was not in her nature to quarrel with people;—at any rate, not with her lovers. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Greenow,” said the culprit, humbly. “It is granted,” said the widow; “but never tell a lady again that she is shilly-shallying. And look here, Mr. Cheesacre, if it should ever come to pass that you are making love to a lady in earnest—”
“I couldn’t be more in earnest,” said he.
“That you are making love to a lady in earnest, talk to her a little more about your passion and a little less about your purse. Now, good night.”
“But we are friends.”
“Oh yes;—as good friends as ever.”
Cheesacre, as he drove himself home in the dark, tried to console himself by thinking of the miserable plight in which Bellfield would find himself at Norwich, with no possessions but what he had brought into the town that day in a small bag. But as he turned in at his own gate he met two figures emerging; one of them was laden with a portmanteau, and the other with a hat case.
“It’s only me, Cheesy, my boy,” said Bellfield. “I’ve just come down by the rail to fetch my things, and I’m going back to Norwich by the 9:20.
“If you’ve stolen anything of mine I’ll have you prosecuted,” roared Cheesacre, as he drove his gig up to his own door.
XLI
A Noble Lord Dies
George Vavasor remained about four days beneath his grandfather’s roof; but he was not happy there himself, nor did he contribute to the happiness of anyone else. He remained there in great discomfort so long, being unwilling to leave till an answer had been received to the request made to Aunt Greenow, in order that he might insist on Kate’s performance of her promise with reference to Alice, if that answer should be unfavourable. During these five days Kate did all in her power to induce her brother to be, at any rate, kind in his manner towards his grandfather, but it was in vain. The Squire would not be the first to be gracious; and George, quite as obstinate as the old man, would take no steps in that direction till encouraged to do so by graciousness from the other side. Poor Kate entreated each of them to begin, but her entreaties were of no avail. “He is an ill-mannered cub,” the old man said, “and I was a fool to let him into the house. Don’t mention his name to me again.” George argued the matter more at length. Kate spoke to him of his own interest in the matter, urging upon him that he might, by such conduct, drive the Squire to exclude him altogether from the property.
“He must do as he likes,” George said, sulkily.
“But for Alice’s sake!” Kate answered.
“Alice would be the last to expect me to submit to unreasonable ill-usage for the sake of money. As regards myself, I confess that I’m very fond of money and am not particularly squeamish. I would do anything that a man can do to secure it. But this I can’t do. I never injured him, and I never asked him to injure himself. I never attempted to borrow money from him. I have never cost him a shilling. When I was in the wine business he might have enabled me to make a large fortune simply by settling on me then the reversion of property which, when he dies, ought to be my own. He was so perversely ignorant that he would make no inquiry, but chose to think that I was ruining myself, at the only time of my life when I was really doing well.”
“But he had a right to act as he pleased,” urged Kate.
“Certainly he had. But he had no right to resent my asking such a favour at his hands. He was an ignorant old fool not to do it; but I should never have quarrelled with him on that account. Nature made him a fool, and it wasn’t his
