“Of course they won’t, you little fool, you.”
“Dear, dear; I was so sure we should have had the papers all full of it—and perhaps one of them stretched upon his bloody bier! I wonder which it would have been? I always made up my mind that the Captain wouldn’t be wounded in any of his wital parts—unless it was his heart, you know, ma’am.”
“But why should they quarrel at all, Jeannette? It is the most foolish thing.”
“Well, ma’am, I don’t know about that. What else is they to do? There’s some things as you can cry halves about, but there’s no crying halves about this.”
“About what, Jeannette?”—“Why, about you, ma’am.”
“Jeannette, I wonder how you can say such things; as if I, in my position, had ever said a word to encourage either of them. You know it’s not true, Jeannette, and you shouldn’t say so.” Whereupon Mrs. Greenow put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Jeannette, probably in token of contrition, put her apron to hers.
“To be sure, ma’am, no lady could have behaved better through it than you have done, and goodness knows you have been tried hard.”
“Indeed I have, Jeannette.”
“And if gentlemen will make fools of themselves, it isn’t your fault; is it, ma’am?”
“But I’m so sorry that they should have quarrelled. They were such dear friends, you know;—quite all in all to each other.”
“When you’ve settled which it’s to be, ma’am, that’ll all come right again—seeing that gentlefolks like them have given up fighting, as you say.” Then there was a little pause. “I suppose, ma’am, it won’t be Mr. Cheesacre? To be sure, he’s a man as is uncommonly well to do in the world.”
“What’s all that to me, Jeannette? I shall ever regard Mr. Cheesacre as a dear friend who has been very good to me at a time of trouble; but he’ll never be more than that.”
“Then it’ll be the Captain, ma’am? I’m sure, for my part, I’ve always thought the Captain was the nicer gentleman of the two—and have always said so.”
“He’s nothing to me, girl.”
“And as for money—what’s the good of having more than enough? If he can bring love, you can bring money; can’t you, ma’am?”
“He’s nothing to me, girl,” repeated Mrs. Greenow.
“But he will be?” said Jeannette, plainly asking a question.
“Well, I’m sure! What’s the world come to, I wonder, when you sit yourself down there, and cross-examine your mistress in that way! Get to bed, will you? It’s near ten o’clock.”
“I hope I haven’t said anything amiss, ma’am;” and Jeannette rose from her seat.
“It’s my fault for encouraging you,” said Mrs. Greenow. “Go downstairs and finish your work, do; and then take yourself off to bed. Next week we shall have to be packing up, and there’ll be all my things to see to before that.” So Jeannette got up and departed, and after some few further thoughts about Captain Bellfield, Mrs. Greenow herself went to her bedroom.
Mr. Cheesacre, when he drove back to Oileymead alone from Norwich, after dining with Mrs. Greenow, had kept himself hot, and almost comfortable, with passion against Bellfield; and his heat, if not his comfort, had been sustained by his seeing the Captain, with his portmanteau, escaping just as he reached his own homestead. But early on the following morning his mind reverted to Mrs. Greenow, and he remembered, with anything but satisfaction, some of the hard things which she had said to him. He had made mistakes in his manner of wooing. He was quite aware of that now, and was determined that they should be rectified for the future. She had rebuked him for having said nothing about his love. He would instantly mend that fault. And she had bidden him not to be so communicative about his wealth. Henceforth he would be dumb on that subject. Nevertheless, he could not but think that the knowledge of his circumstances which the lady already possessed, must be of service to him. “She can’t really like a poor beggarly wretch who hasn’t got a shilling,” he said to himself. He was very far from feeling that the battle was already lost. Her last word to him had been an assurance of her friendship; and then why should she have been at so much trouble to tell him the way in which he ought to address her if she were herself indifferent as to his addresses? He was, no doubt, becoming tired of his courtship, and heartily wished that the work were over; but he was not minded to give it up. He therefore prepared himself for another attack, and took himself into Norwich without seeking counsel from anyone. He could not trust himself to think that she could really wish to refuse him after all the encouragement she had given him. On this occasion he put on no pink shirt or shiny boots, being deterred from doing so by a remembrance of Captain Bellfield’s ridicule; but, nevertheless, he dressed himself with considerable care. He clothed his nether person in knickerbockers, with tight, leathern, bright-coloured gaiters round his legs, being conscious of certain manly graces and symmetrical proportions which might, as he thought, stand him in good stead. And he put on a new shooting-coat, the buttons on which were elaborate, and a wonderful waistcoat worked over with foxes’ heads. He completed his toilet with a round, low-crowned hat, with dog’s-skin gloves, and a cutting whip. Thus armed he went forth resolved to conquer or to die—as far as death might result from any wound which Mrs. Greenow might be able to give him. He waited, on this occasion, for the coming of no market-day; indeed, the journey into the city was altogether special, and he was desirous that she should know that such was the case. He drove at a great pace into the inn-yard, threw his reins to the ostler, took
