The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “If George wishes to come to the Hall, let him come. If he chooses to tell me that he regrets his conduct to me, I will see him.”

  “What is it?” said George. Then Kate put the note into her brother’s hand.

  “I’ll do nothing of the kind,” he said. “What good should I get by going to the old man’s house?”

  “Every good,” said Kate. “If you don’t go now you never can do so.”

  “Never till it’s my own,” said George.

  “If you show him that you are determined to be at variance with him, it never will be your own; — unless, indeed, it should some day come to you as part of Alice’s fortune. Think of it, George; you would not like to receive everything from her.”

  He walked about the room, muttering maledictions between his teeth and balancing, as best he was able at such a moment, his pride against his profit. “You haven’t answered my question,” said he. “If I go to the Hall, will you write to Alice?”

  “No, George; I cannot write to Alice asking her for the money.”

  “You won’t?”

  “I could not bring myself to do it.”

  “Then, Kate, you and my grandfather may work together for the future. You may get him to leave you the place if you have skill enough.”

  “That is as undeserved a reproach as any woman ever encountered,” said Kate, standing her ground boldly before him. “If you have either heart or conscience, you will feel that it is so.”

  “I’m not much troubled with either one or the other, I fancy. Things are being brought to such a pass with me that I am better without them.”

  “Will you take my money, George; just for the present?”

  “No. I haven’t much conscience; but I have a little left.”

  “Will you let me write to Mrs Greenow?”

  “I have not the slightest objection; but it will be of no use whatsoever.”

  “I will do so, at any rate. And now will you come to the Hall?”

  “To beg that old fool’s pardon? No; I won’t. In the mood I am in at present, I couldn’t do it. I should only anger him worse than ever. Tell him that I’ve business which calls me back to London at once.”

  “It is a thousand pities.”

  “It can’t be helped.”

  “It may make so great a difference to you for your whole life!” urged Kate.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said George. “I’ll go to Vavasor and put up with the old squire’s insolence, if you’ll make this application for me to Alice.” I wonder whether it occurred to him that his sister desired his presence at the Hall solely on his own behalf. The same idea certainly did not occur to Kate. She hesitated, feeling that she would almost do anything to achieve a reconciliation between her grandfather and her brother.

  “But you’ll let me write to Aunt Greenow first,” said she. “It will take only two days, — or at the most three?”

  To this George consented as though he were yielding a great deal; and Kate, with a sore conscience, with a full knowledge that she was undertaking to do wrong, promised that she would apply to Alice for her money, if sufficient funds should not be forthcoming from Mrs Greenow. Thereupon, George graciously consented to proceed to his bedroom, and put together his clothes with a view to his visit to the Hall.

  “I thank Providence, Kate, that circumstances make it impossible for me to stay above two days. I have not linen to last me longer.”

  “We’ll manage that for you at the Hall.”

  “Indeed you won’t do anything of the kind. And look, Kate, when I make that excuse don’t you offer to do so. I will stay there over to-morrow night, and shall go into Kendal early, so as to catch the express train up on Thursday morning. Don’t you throw me over by any counter proposition.”

  Then they started together in the car, and very few words were said till they reached the old lodge, which stood at the entrance to the place. “Eh, Mr George; be that you?” said the old woman, who came out to swing back for them the broken gate. “A sight of you is good for sair een.” It was the same welcome that the inn-keeper had given him, and equally sincere. George had never made himself popular about the place, but he was the heir.

  “I suppose you had better go into the drawing-room,” said Kate; “while I go to my grandfather. You won’t find a fire there.”

  “Manage it how you please; but don’t keep me in the cold very long. Heavens, what a country house! The middle of January, and no fires in the room.”

  “And remember, George, when you see him you must say that you regret that you ever displeased him. Now that you are here, don’t let there be any further misunderstanding.”

  “I think it very probable that there will be,” said George. “I only hope he’ll let me have the old horse to take me back to Shap if there is. There he is at the front door, so I shan’t have to go into the room without a fire.”

  The old man was standing at the hall steps when the car drove up, as though to welcome his grandson. He put out his hand to help Kate down the steps, keeping his eye all the time on George’s face.

  “So you’ve come back,” the squire said to him.

  “Yes, sir; — I’ve come back, like the prodigal son in the parable.”

  “The prodigal son was contrite. I hope you are so.”

  “Pretty well for that, sir. I’m sorry there has been any quarrel, and all that, you know.”

  “Go in,” said the squire, very angrily. “Go in. To expect anything gracious from you would be to expect pearls from swine. Go in.”

  George went in, shrugging his shoulders as his eyes met his sister’s. It was in this fashion that the reconciliation took place between Squire Vavasor and his heir.

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  Mr Cheesacre’s Hospitality

  As the winter wore itself away, Mr Cheesacre, happy as he was amidst the sports of Norfolk, and prosperous as he might be with the augean spoils of Oileymead, fretted himself with an intense anxiety to bring to a close that affair which he had on his hands with the widow Greenow. There were two special dangers which disturbed him. She would give herself and all her money to that adventurer, Bellfield; or else she would spend her own money so fast before he got hold upon it, that the prize would be greatly damaged. “I’m –––– if she hasn’t been and set up a carriage!” he said to himself one day, as standing on the pavement of Tombland, in Norwich, he saw Mrs Greenow issue forth from the Close in a private brougham, accompanied by one of the Fairstairs girls. “She’s been and set up her carriage as sure as my name’s Cheesacre!”

  Whatever reason he might have to fear the former danger, we may declare that he had none whatever as to the latter. Mrs Greenow knew what she was doing with her money as well as any lady in England. The private carriage was only a hired brougham taken by the month, and as to that boy in buttons whom she had lately established, why should she not keep a young servant, and call him a page, if it gave her any comfort to do so? If Mr Cheesacre had also known that she had lent the Fairstairs family fifty pounds to help them through with some difficulty which Joe had encountered with the Norwich tradespeople, he would have been beside himself with dismay. He desired to obtain the prize unmutilated, — in all its fair proportions. Any such clippings he regarded as robberies against himself.

  But he feared Bellfield more than he feared the brougham. That all is fair in love and war was no doubt, at this period, Captain Bellfield’s maxim, and we can only trust that he found in it some consolation, or ease to his conscience, in regard to the monstrous lies which he told his friend. In war, no doubt, all stratagems are fair. The one general is quite justified in making the other believe that he is far to the right, when in truth he is turning his enemy’s left flank. If successful, he will be put upon a pedestal for his clever deceit, and crowned with laurels because of his lie. If Bellfield could only be successful, and achieve for himself the mastery over those forty thousand pounds, the world would forgive him and place, on his brow also, some not uncomfortabl
e crown. In the mean time, his stratagems were as deep and his lies as profound as those of any general.

  It must not be supposed that Cheesacre ever believed him. In the first place, he knew that Bellfield was not a man to be believed in any way. Had he not been living on lies for the last ten years? But then a man may lie in such a way as to deceive, though no one believe him. Mr Cheesacre was kept in an agony of doubt while Captain Bellfield occupied his lodgings in Norwich. He fee’d Jeannette liberally. He even fee’d Charlie Fairstairs, — Miss Fairstairs I mean, — with gloves, and chickens from Oileymead, so that he might know whether that kite fluttered about his dovecoat, and of what nature were the flutterings. He went even further than this, and fee’d the Captain himself, — binding him down not to flutter as value given in return for such fees. He attempted even to fee the widow, — cautioning her against the fluttering, as he tendered to her, on his knees, a brooch as big as a breast-plate. She waved aside the breast-plate, declaring that the mourning ring which contained poor Greenow’s final grey lock of hair, was the last article from a jeweller’s shop which should ever find a place about her person. At the same time she declared that Captain Bellfield was nothing to her; Mr Cheesacre need have no fears in that quarter. But then, she added, neither was he to have any hope. Her affections were all buried under the cold sod. This was harassing. Nevertheless, though no absolute satisfaction was to be attained in the wooing of Mrs Greenow, there was a pleasantness in the occupation which ought to have reconciled her suitors to their destiny. With most ladies, when a gentleman has been on his knees before one of them in the morning, with outspoken protestations of love, with clearly defined proffers of marriage, with a minute inventory of the offerer’s worldly wealth, — down even to the “mahogany-furnitured” bed-chambers, as was the case with Mr Cheesacre, and when all these overtures have been peremptorily declined, — a gentleman in such a case, I say, would generally feel some awkwardness in sitting down to tea with the lady at the close of such a performance. But with Mrs Greenow there was no such awkwardness. After an hour’s work of the nature above described she would play the hostess with a genial hospitality, that eased off all the annoyance of disappointment; and then at the end of the evening, she would accept a squeeze of the hand, a good, palpable, long-protracted squeeze, with that sort of “don’t; — have done now,” by which Irish young ladies allure their lovers. Mr Cheesacre, on such occasions, would leave the Close, swearing that she should be his on the next market-day, — or at any rate, on the next Saturday. Then, on the Monday, tidings would reach him that Bellfield had passed all Sunday afternoon with his lady-love, — Bellfield, to whom he had lent five pounds on purpose that he might be enabled to spend that very Sunday with some officers of the Suffolk volunteers at Ipswich. And hearing this, he would walk out among those rich heaps, at the back of his farmyard, uttering deep curses against the falsehood of men and the fickleness of women.

  Driven to despair, he at last resolved to ask Bellfield to come to Oileymead for a month. That drilling at Norwich, or the part of it which was supposed to be profitable, was wearing itself out. Funds were low with the Captain, — as he did not scruple to tell his friend Cheesacre, and he accepted the invitation. “I’ll mount you with the harriers, old fellow,” Cheesacre had said; “and give you a little shooting. Only I won’t have you go out when I’m not with you.” Bellfield agreed, Each of them understood the nature of the bargain; though Bellfield, I think, had somewhat the clearer understanding in the matter. He would not be so near the widow as he had been at Norwich, but he would not be less near than his kind host. And his host would no doubt watch him closely; — but then he also could watch his host. There was a railway station not two miles from Oileymead, and the journey thence into Norwich was one of half an hour. Mr Cheesacre would doubtless be very jealous of such journeys, but with all his jealousy he could not prevent them. And then, in regard to this arrangement, Mr Cheesacre paid the piper, whereas Captain Bellfield paid nothing. Would it not be sweet to him if he could carry off his friend’s prize from under the very eaves of his friend’s house?

  And Mrs Greenow also understood the arrangement. “Going to Oileymead; are you?” she said when Captain Bellfield came to tell her of his departure. Charlie Fairstairs was with her, so that the Captain could not utilize the moment in any special way. “It’s quite delightful,” continued the widow, “to see how fond you two gentlemen are of each other.”

  “I think gentlemen always like to go best to gentlemen’s houses where there are no ladies,” said Charlie Fairstairs, whose career in life had not as yet been satisfactory to her.

  “As for that,” said Bellfield, “I wish with all my heart that dear old Cheesy would get a wife. He wants a wife badly, if ever a man did, with all that house full of blankets and crockery. Why don’t you set your cap at him, Miss Fairstairs?”

  “What; — at a farmer!” said Charlie who was particularly anxious that her dear friend, Mrs Greenow, should not marry Mr Cheesacre, and who weakly thought to belittle him accordingly.

  “Give him my kind love,” said Mrs Greenow, thereby resenting the impotent interference. “And look here, Captain Bellfield, suppose you both dine with me next Saturday. He always comes in on Saturday, and you might as well come too.”

  Captain Bellfield declared that he would only be too happy.

  “And Charlie shall come to set her cap at Mr Cheesacre,” said the widow, turning a soft and gracious eye on the Captain.

  “I shall be happy to come,” — said Charlie, quite delighted; “but not with that object. Mr Cheesacre is very respectable, I’m sure.” Charlie’s mother had been the daughter of a small squire who had let his land to tenants, and she was, therefore, justified by circumstances in looking down upon a farmer.

  The matter was so settled, — pending the consent of Mr Cheesacre; and Bellfield went out to Oileymead. He knew the ways of the house, and was not surprised to find himself left alone till after dusk; nor was he much surprised when he learned that he was not put into one of the mahogany-furnitured chambers, but into a back room looking over the farm-yard in which there was no fire-place. The Captain had already endured some of the evils of poverty, and could have put up with this easily had nothing been said about it. As it was, Cheesacre brought the matter forward, and apologized, and made the thing difficult.

  “You see, old fellow,” he said, “there are the rooms, and of course they’re empty. But it’s such a bore hauling out all the things and putting up the curtains. You’ll be very snug where you are.”

  “I shall do very well,” said Bellfield rather sulkily.

  “Of course you’ll do very well. It’s the warmest room in the house in one way.” He did not say in what way. Perhaps the near neighbourhood of the stables may have had a warming effect.

  Bellfield did not like it; but what is a poor man to do under such circumstances? So he went up-stairs and washed his hands before dinner in the room without a fire-place, flattering himself that he would yet be even with his friend Cheesacre.

  They dined together not in the best humour, and after dinner they sat down to enjoy themselves with pipes and brandy and water. Bellfield, having a taste for everything that was expensive, would have preferred cigars; but his friend put none upon the table. Mr Cheesacre, though he could spend his money liberally when occasion required such spending, knew well the value of domestic economy. He wasn’t going to put himself out, as he called it, for Bellfield! What was good enough for himself was good enough for Bellfield. “A beggar, you know; just a regular beggar!” as he was betrayed into saying to Mrs Greenow on some occasion just at this period. “Poor fellow! He only wants money to make him almost perfect,” Mrs Greenow had answered; — and Mr Cheesacre had felt that he had made a mistake.

  Both the men became talkative, if not good-humoured, under the effects of the brandy and water, and the Captain then communicated Mrs Greenow’s invitation to Mr Cheesacre. He had had his doubts as to the propriety of doing so, — think
ing that perhaps it might be to his advantage to forget the message. But he reflected that he was at any rate a match for Cheesacre when they were present together, and finally came to the conclusion that the message should be delivered. “I had to go and just wish her goodbye you know,” he said apologetically, as he finished his little speech.

  “I don’t see that at all,” said Cheesacre.

  “Why, my dear fellow, how foolishly jealous you are. If I were to be downright uncivil to her, as you would have me be, it would only call attention to the thing.”

  “I’m not a bit jealous. A man who sits upon his own ground as I do hasn’t any occasion to be jealous.”

  “I don’t know what your own ground has to do with it, — but we’ll let that pass.”

  “I think it has a great deal to do with it. If a man does intend to marry he ought to have things comfortable about him; unless he wants to live on his wife, which I look upon as about the meanest thing a man can do. By George, I’d sooner break stones than that.”

  This was hard for any captain to bear, — even for Captain Bellfield; but he did bear it, — looking forward to revenge.

  “There’s no pleasing you, I know,” said he. “But there’s the fact. I went to say goodbye to her, and she asked me to give you that message. Shall we go or not?”

  Cheesacre sat for some time silent, blowing out huge clouds of smoke while he meditated a little plan. “I’ll tell you what it is, Bellfield,” he said at last. “She’s nothing to you, and if you won’t mind it, I’ll go. Mrs Jones shall get you anything you like for dinner, — and, — and — I’ll stand you a bottle of the ‘34 port!”

  But Captain Bellfield was not going to put up with this. He had not sold himself altogether to work Mr Cheesacre’s will. “No, old fellow,” said he; “that cock won’t fight. She has asked me to dine with her on Saturday, and I mean to go. I don’t intend that she shall think that I’m afraid of her, — or of you either.”