“But things are so different since that,” said the widow.
“How different? I ain’t different. There’s Oileymead just where it always was, and the owner of it don’t owe a shilling to any man. How are things different?”
“My niece has inherited property.”
“And is that to make a change? Oh! Mrs. Greenow, who would have thought to find you mercenary like that? Inherited property! Is she going to fling a man over because of that?”
Mrs. Greenow endeavoured to explain to him that her niece could hardly be said to have flung him over, and at last pretended to become angry when he attempted to assert his position. “Why, Mr. Cheesacre, I am quite sure she never gave you a word of encouragement in her life.”
“But you always told me I might have her for the asking.”
“And now I tell you that you mayn’t. It’s of no use your going on there to ask her, for she will only send you away with an answer you won’t like. Look here, Mr. Cheesacre; you want to get married, and it’s quite time you should. There’s my dear friend Charlie Fairstairs. How could you get a better wife than Charlie?”
“Charlie Fairstairs!” said Cheesacre, turning up his nose in disgust. “She hasn’t got a penny, nor anyone belonging to her. The man who marries her will have to find the money for the smock she stands up in.”
“Who’s mercenary now, Mr. Cheesacre? Do you go home and think of it; and if you’ll marry Charlie, I’ll go to your wedding. You shan’t be ashamed of her clothing. I’ll see to that.”
They were now close to the gate, and Cheesacre paused before he entered. “Do you think there’s no chance at all for me, then?” said he.
“I know there’s none. I’ve heard her speak about it.”
“Somebody else, perhaps, is the happy man?”
“I can’t say anything about that, but I know that she wouldn’t take you. I like farming, you know, but she doesn’t.”
“I might give that up,” said Cheesacre readily—“at any rate, for a time.”
“No, no, no; it would do no good. Believe me, my friend, that it is of no use.”
He still paused at the gate. “I don’t see what’s the use of my going in,” said he. To this she made him no answer. “There’s a pride about me,” he continued, “that I don’t choose to go where I’m not wanted.”
“I can’t tell you, Mr. Cheesacre, that you are wanted in that light, certainly.”
“Then I’ll go. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to tell the boy with the gig to come after me? That’s six pound ten it will have cost me to come here and go back. Bellfield did it cheaper, of course; he travelled second class. I heard of him as I came along.”
“The expense does not matter to you, Mr. Cheesacre.”
To this he assented, and then took his leave, at first offering his hand to Mrs. Greenow with an air of offended dignity, but falling back almost into humility during the performance of his adieu. Before he was gone he had invited her to bring the Captain to Oileymead when she was married, and had begged her to tell Miss Vavasor how happy he should be to receive her. “And Mr. Cheesacre,” said the widow, as he walked back along the road, “don’t forget dear Charlie Fairstairs.”
They were all standing at the front door of the house when Mrs. Greenow reappeared—Alice, Kate, Captain Bellfield, the Shap boy, and the Shap horse and gig. “Where is he?” Kate asked in a low voice, and everyone there felt how important was the question. “He has gone,” said the widow. Bellfield was so relieved that he could not restrain his joy, but took off his little straw hat and threw it up into the air. Kate’s satisfaction was almost as intense. “I am so glad,” said she. “What on earth should we have done with him?” “I never was so disappointed in my life,” said Alice. “I have heard so much of Mr. Cheesacre, but have never seen him.” Kate suggested that she should get into the gig and drive after him. “He ain’t a been and took hisself off?” suggested the boy, whose face became very dismal as the terrible idea struck him. But, with juvenile craft, he put his hand on the carpetbag, and finding that it did not contain stones, was comforted. “You drive after him, young gentleman, and you’ll find him on the road to Shap,” said Mrs. Greenow. “Mind you give him my love,” said the Captain in his glee, “and say I hope he’ll get his turnips in well.”
This little episode went far to break the day, and did more than anything else could have done to put Captain Bellfield at his ease. It created a little joint-stock fund of merriment between the whole party, which was very much needed. The absence of such joint-stock fund is always felt when a small party is thrown together without such assistance. Some bond is necessary on these occasions, and no other bond is so easy or so pleasant. Now, when the Captain found himself alone for a quarter of an hour
