“I declare, Kate, I don’t understand you,” she said one morning to her niece as they sat together over a late breakfast. They had fallen into luxurious habits, and I am afraid it was past eleven o’clock, although the breakfast things were still on the table. Kate would usually bathe before breakfast, but Mrs. Greenow was never out of her room till half-past ten. “I like the morning for contemplation,” she once said. “When a woman has gone through all that I have suffered she has a great deal to think of.” “And it is so much more comfortable to be a-thinking when one’s in bed,” said Jeannette, who was present at the time. “Child, hold your tongue,” said the widow. “Yes, ma’am,” said Jeannette. But we’ll return to the scene at the breakfast-table.
“What don’t you understand, aunt?”
“You only danced twice last night, and once you stood up with Captain Bellfield.”
“On purpose to ask after that poor woman who washes his clothes without getting paid for it.”
“Nonsense, Kate; you didn’t ask him anything of the kind, I’m sure. It’s very provoking. It is indeed.”
“But what harm can Captain Bellfield do me?”
“What good can he do you? That’s the question. You see, my dear, years will go by. I don’t mean to say you ain’t quite as young as ever you were, and nothing can be nicer and fresher than you are;—especially since you took to bathing.”
“Oh, aunt, don’t!”
“My dear, the truth must be spoken. I declare I don’t think I ever saw a young woman so improvident as you are. When are you to begin to think about getting married if you don’t do it now?”
“I shall never begin to think about it, till I buy my wedding clothes.”
“That’s nonsense—sheer nonsense. How are you to get wedding clothes if you have never thought about getting a husband? Didn’t I see Mr. Cheesacre ask you for a dance last night?”
“Yes, he did; while you were talking to Captain Bellfield yourself, aunt.”
“Captain Bellfield can’t hurt me, my dear. And why didn’t you dance with Mr. Cheesacre?”
“He’s a fat Norfolk farmer, with not an idea beyond the virtues of stall-feeding.”
“My dear, every acre of it is his own land—every acre! And he bought another farm for thirteen thousand pounds only last autumn. They’re better than the squires—some of those gentlemen farmers; they are indeed. And of all men in the world they’re the easiest managed.”
“That’s a recommendation, no doubt.”
“Of course it is;—a great recommendation.”
Mrs. Greenow had no idea of joking when her mind was intent on serious things. “He’s to take us to the picnic tomorrow, and I do hope you’ll manage to let him sit beside you. It’ll be the place of honour, because he gives all the wine. He’s picked up with that man Bellfield, and he’s to be there; but if you allow your name to be once mixed up with his, it will be all over with you as far as Yarmouth is concerned.”
“I don’t at all want to be mixed up with Captain Bellfield, as you call it,” said Kate. Then she subsided into her novel, while Mrs. Greenow busied herself about the good things for the picnic. In truth, the aunt did not understand the niece. Whatsoever might be the faults of Kate Vavasor, an unmaidenly desire of catching a husband for herself was certainly not one of them.
VIII
Mr. Cheesacre
Yarmouth is not a happy place for a picnic. A picnic should be held among green things. Green turf is absolutely an essential. There should be trees, broken ground, small paths, thickets, and hidden recesses. There should, if possible, be rocks, old timber, moss, and brambles. There should certainly be hills and dales—on a small scale; and above all, there should be running water. There should be no expanse. Jones should not be able to see all Greene’s movements, nor should Augusta always have her eye upon her sister Jane. But the spot chosen for Mr. Cheesacre’s picnic at Yarmouth had none of the virtues above described. It was on the seashore. Nothing was visible from the site but sand and sea. There were no trees there and nothing green;—neither was there any running water. But there was a long, dry, flat strand; there was an old boat half turned over, under which it was proposed to dine; and in addition to this, benches, boards, and some amount of canvas for shelter were provided by the liberality of Mr. Cheesacre. Therefore it was called Mr. Cheesacre’s picnic.
But it was to be a marine picnic, and therefore the essential attributes of other picnics were not required. The idea had come from some boating expeditions, in which mackerel had been caught, and during which food had been eaten, not altogether comfortably, in the boats. Then a thought had suggested itself to Captain Bellfield that they might land and eat their food, and his friend Mr. Cheesacre had promised his substantial aid. A lady had surmised that Ormesby sands would be the very place for dancing in the cool of the evening. They might “Dance on the sand,” she said, “and yet no footing seen.” And so the thing had progressed, and the picnic been inaugurated.
It was Mr. Cheesacre’s picnic undoubtedly. Mr. Cheesacre was to supply the boats, the wine, the cigars, the music, and the carpenter’s work necessary for the turning of the old boat into a
