Can You Forgive Her?

banqueting saloon. But Mrs. Greenow had promised to provide the eatables, and enjoyed as much of the éclat as the master of the festival. She had known Mr. Cheesacre now for ten days and was quite intimate with him. He was a stout, florid man, of about forty-five, a bachelor, apparently much attached to ladies’ society, bearing no sign of age except that he was rather bald, and that grey hairs had mixed themselves with his whiskers, very fond of his farming, and yet somewhat ashamed of it when he found himself in what he considered to be polite circles. And he was, moreover, a little inclined to seek the honour which comes from a well-filled and liberally-opened purse. He liked to give a man a dinner and then to boast of the dinner he had given. He was very proud when he could talk of having mounted, for a day’s hunting, any man who might be supposed to be of higher rank than himself. “I had Grimsby with me the other day⁠—the son of old Grimsby of Hatherwick, you know. Blessed if he didn’t stake my bay mare. But what matters? I mounted him again the next day just the same.” Some people thought he was soft, for it was very well known throughout Norfolk that young Grimsby would take a mount wherever he could get it. In these days Mrs. Greenow had become intimate with Mr. Cheesacre, and had already learned that he was the undoubted owner of his own acres.

“It wouldn’t do for me,” she had said to him, “to be putting myself forward, as if I were giving a party myself, or anything of that sort;⁠—would it now?”

“Well, perhaps not. But you might come with us.”

“So I will, Mr. Cheesacre, for that dear girl’s sake. I should never forgive myself if I debarred her from all the pleasures of youth, because of my sorrows. I need hardly say that at such a time as this nothing of that sort can give me any pleasure.”

“I suppose not,” said Mr. Cheesacre, with solemn look.

“Quite out of the question.” And Mrs. Greenow wiped away her tears. “For though as regards age I might dance on the sands as merrily as the best of them⁠—”

“That I’m sure you could, Mrs. Greenow.”

“How’s a woman to enjoy herself if her heart lies buried?”

“But it won’t be so always, Mrs. Greenow.”

Mrs. Greenow shook her head to show that she hardly knew how to answer such a question. Probably it would be so always;⁠—but she did not wish to put a damper on the present occasion by making so sad a declaration. “But as I was saying,” continued she⁠—“if you and I do it between us won’t that be the surest way of having it come off nicely?”

Mr. Cheesacre thought that it would be the best way.

“Exactly so;⁠—I’ll do the meat and pastry and fruit, and you shall do the boats and the wine.”

“And the music,” said Cheesacre, “and the expenses at the place.” He did not choose that any part of his outlay should go unnoticed.

“I’ll go halves in all that if you like,” said Mrs. Greenow. But Mr. Cheesacre had declined this. He did not begrudge the expense, but only wished that it should be recognised.

“And, Mr. Cheesacre,” continued Mrs. Greenow. “I did mean to send the music; I did, indeed.”

“I couldn’t hear of it, Mrs. Greenow.”

“But I mention it now, because I was thinking of getting Blowehard to come. That other man, Flutey, wouldn’t do at all out in the open air.”

“It shall be Blowehard,” said Mr. Cheesacre; and it was Blowehard. Mrs. Greenow liked to have her own way in these little things, though her heart did lie buried.

On the morning of the picnic Mr. Cheesacre came down to Montpelier Parade with Captain Bellfield, whose linen on that occasion certainly gave no outward sign of any quarrel between him and his washerwoman. He was got up wonderfully, and was prepared at all points for the day’s work. He had on a pseudo-sailor’s jacket, very liberally ornamented with brass buttons, which displayed with great judgement the exquisite shapes of his pseudo-sailor’s duck trousers. Beneath them there was a pair of very shiny patent-leather shoes, well adapted for dancing on the sand, presuming him to be anxious of doing so, as Venus offered to do, without leaving any footmarks. His waistcoat was of a delicate white fabric, ornamented with very many gilt buttons. He had bejewelled studs in his shirt, and yellow kid gloves on his hands; having, of course, another pair in his pocket for the necessities of the evening. His array was quite perfect, and had stricken dismay into the heart of his friend Cheesacre, when he joined that gentleman. He was a well-made man, nearly six feet high, with dark hair, dark whiskers, and dark moustache, nearly black, but of that suspicious hue which to the observant beholder seems always to tell a tale of the hairdresser’s shop. He was handsome, too, with well-arranged features⁠—but carrying, perhaps, in his nose some first symptoms of the effects of midnight amusements. Upon the whole, however, he was a nice man to look at⁠—for those who like to look on nice men of that kind.

Cheesacre, too, had adopted something of a sailor’s garb. He had on a jacket of a rougher sort, coming down much lower than that of the captain, being much looser, and perhaps somewhat more like a garment which a possible seaman might possibly wear. But he was disgusted with himself the moment that he saw Bellfield. His heart had been faint, and he had not dared to ornament himself boldly as his friend had done. “I say, Guss, you are a swell,” he exclaimed. It may be explained that Captain Bellfield had been christened Gustavus.

“I don’t know much about that,” said the captain; “my fellow sent me this toggery, and said that it was the sort of thing. I’ll change with you if you like it.” But Cheesacre