“No, aunt, not yet. If you remember, he went away before I saw him when he came here before.”
“Yes, I know, poor fellow! Between you and me, Kate might have had him if she liked; but perhaps Kate was right.”
“I don’t think he would have suited Kate at all.”
“Because of the farmyard, you mean? Kate shouldn’t give herself airs. Money’s never dirty, you know. But perhaps it’s all for the best. There’s a sweet girl here to whom he is violently attached, and who I hope will become Mrs. Cheesacre. But as I was saying, the friendship between these two men is quite wonderful, and I have always observed that when a man can create that kind of affection in the bosom of another man, he invariably is—the sort of man—the man, in fact, who makes a good husband.”
Alice knew the story of Charlie Fairstairs and her hopes; knew of the quarrels between Bellfield and Cheesacre; knew almost as much of Bellfield’s past life as Mrs. Greenow did herself; and Mrs. Greenow was no doubt aware that such was the case. Nevertheless, she had a pleasure in telling her own story, and told it as though she believed every word that she spoke.
On the following day the two gentlemen came over, according to custom, and Alice observed that Miss Fairstairs hardly spoke to Mr. Cheesacre. Indeed her manner of avoiding that gentleman was so very marked, that it was impossible not to observe it. They drank tea out of doors, and when Mr. Cheesacre on one occasion sauntered across towards the end of the bench on which Charlie was sitting, Charlie got up and walked away. And in strolling about the place afterwards, and in going up through the wood, she was at great pains to attach herself to some other person, so that there should be no such attaching between her and the owner of Oileymead. At one time Mr. Cheesacre did get close up to her and spoke some word, some very indifferent word. He knew that he was being cut and he wanted to avoid the appearance of a scene. “I don’t know, sir,” said Charlie, again moving away with excellent dignity, and she at once attached herself to Alice who was close by. “I know you have just come home from Switzerland,” said Charlie. “Beautiful Switzerland! My heart pants for Switzerland. Do tell me something about Switzerland!” Mr. Cheesacre had heard that Alice was the dear friend of a lady who would probably some day become a duchess. He therefore naturally held her in awe, and slunk away. On this occasion Mrs. Greenow clung lovingly to her future husband, and the effect was that Mr. Cheesacre found himself to be very much alone and unhappy. He had generally enjoyed these days at Vavasor Hall, having found himself, or fancied himself, to be the dominant spirit there. That Mrs. Greenow was always in truth the dominant spirit I need hardly say; but she knew how to make a companion happy, and well also how to make him wretched. On the whole of this day poor Cheesacre was very wretched.
“I don’t think I shall go there any more,” he said to Bellfield, as he drove the gig back to Penrith that evening.
“Not go there any more, Cheesy,” said Bellfield; “why, we are to have the dinner out in the field on Friday. It’s your own bespeak.”
“Well, yes; I’ll go on Friday, but not after that.”
“You’ll stop and see me turned off, old fellow?”
“What’s the use? You’ll get your wife, and that’s enough for you. The truth is, that since that girl came down from London with her d⸺d airs;”—the girl from London with the airs was poor Alice—“the place is quite changed. I’m blessed if the whole thing isn’t as dark as ditch-water. I’m a plain man, I am; and I do hate your swells.” Against this view of the case Captain Bellfield argued stoutly; but Cheesacre had been offended, and throughout the next day he was cross and touchy. He wouldn’t play billiards, and on one occasion hinted that he hoped he should get that money soon.
“You did it admirably, my dear,” said Mrs. Greenow that night to Charlie Fairstairs. The widow was now on terms almost more confidential with Miss Fairstairs than with her own niece, Kate Vavasor. She loved a little bit of intrigue; and though Kate could intrigue, as we have seen in this story, Kate would not join her aunt’s intrigues. “You did it admirably. I really did not think you had so much in you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charlie, blushing at the praise.
“And it’s the only way, my dear;—the only way, I mean, for you with such a one as him. And if he does come round, you’ll find him an excellent husband.”
“I don’t think he cares for me a bit,” said Charlie whimpering.
“Pooh, nonsense! Girls never know whether men care for them or not. If he asks you to marry him, won’t that be a sign that he cares for you? and if he don’t, why, there’ll be no harm done.”
“If he thinks it’s his money—” began Charlie.
“Now, don’t talk nonsense, Charlie,” said Mrs. Greenow, “or you’ll make me sick. Of course it’s his money, more or less. You don’t mean to tell me you’d go and fall in love with him if he was like Bellfield, and hadn’t got a rap? I can afford that sort of thing; you can’t. I don’t mean to say you ain’t to love him. Of course, you’re to love him; and I’ve no doubt you will, and make him a very good wife. I always think that worldliness and sentimentality are like brandy-and-water. I don’t like either of them separately, but taken together they make a very nice drink. I
