give me so much pleasure,” said Bellfield. After that he turned again to Mrs Greenow and went on with his private conversation.
There was no more speaking, nor was there much time for other after-dinner ceremonies. The three horns, the cymbals, the triangle, and the drum were soon heard tuning-up behind the banqueting-hall, and the ladies went to the further end of the old boat to make their preparations for the dance. Then it was that the thoughtful care of Mrs Greenow, in having sent Jeannette with brushes, combs, clean handkerchiefs, and other little knick-knackeries, became so apparent. It was said that the widow herself actually changed her cap,—which was considered by some to be very unfair, as there had been an understanding that there should be no dressing. On such occasions ladies are generally willing to forego the advantage of dressing on the condition that other ladies shall forego the same advantage; but when this compact is broken by any special lady, the treason is thought to be very treacherous. It is as though a fencer should remove the button from the end of his foil. But Mrs Greenow was so goodnatured in tendering the services of Jeannette to all the young ladies, and was so willing to share with others those good things of the toilet which her care had provided, that her cap was forgiven her by the most of those present.
When ladies have made up their minds to dance they will dance let the circumstances of the moment be ever so antagonistic to that exercise. A ploughed field in February would not be too wet, nor the side of a house too uneven. In honest truth the sands of the seashore are not adapted for the exercise. It was all very well for Venus to make the promise, but when making it she knew that Adonis would not keep her to her word. Let any lightest-limbed nymph try it, and she will find that she leaves most palpable footing. The sands in question were doubtless compact, firm, and sufficiently moist to make walking on them comfortable; but they ruffled themselves most uncomfortably under the unwonted pressure to which they were subjected. Nevertheless our friends did dance on the sands; finding, however, that quadrilles and Sir Roger de Coverley suited them better than polkas and waltzes.
“No, my friend, no,” Mrs Greenow said to Mr Cheesacre when that gentleman endeavoured to persuade her to stand up; “Kate will be delighted I am sure to join you,—but as for me, you must excuse me.”
But Mr Cheesacre was not inclined at that moment to ask Kate Vavasor to dance with him. He was possessed by an undefined idea that Kate had snubbed him, and as Kate’s fortune was, as he said, literally nothing, he was not at all disposed to court her favour at the expense of such suffering to himself.
“I’m not quite sure that I’ll dance myself,” said he, seating himself in a corner of the tent by Mrs Greenow’s side. Captain Bellfield at that moment was seen leading Miss Vavasor away to a new place on the sands, whither he was followed by a score of dancers; and Mr Cheesacre saw that now at last he might reap the reward for which he had laboured. He was alone with the widow, and having been made bold by wine, had an opportunity of fighting his battle, than which none better could ever be found. He was himself by no means a poor man, and he despised poverty in others. It was well that there should be poor gentry, in order that they might act as satellites to those who, like himself, had money. As to Mrs Greenow’s money, there was no doubt. He knew it all to a fraction. She had spread for herself, or some one else had spread for her, a report that her wealth was almost unlimited; but the forty thousand pounds was a fact, and any such innocent fault as that little fiction might well be forgiven to a woman endorsed with such substantial virtues. And she was handsome too. Mr Cheesacre, as he regarded her matured charms, sometimes felt that he should have been smitten even without the forty thousand pounds. “By George! there’s flesh and blood,” he had once said to his friend Bellfield before he had begun to suspect that man’s treachery. His admiration must then have been sincere, for at that time the forty thousand pounds was not an ascertained fact. Looking at the matter in all its bearings Mr Cheesacre thought that he couldn’t do better. His wooing should be fair, honest, and above board. He was a thriving man, and what might not they two do in Norfolk if they put their wealth together?
“Oh, Mr Cheesacre, you should join them,” said Mrs Greenow; “they’ll not half enjoy themselves without you. Kate will think that you mean to neglect her.”
“I shan’t dance, Mrs Greenow, unless you like to stand up for a set.”
“No, my friend, no; I shall not do that. I fear you forget how recent has been my bereavement. Your asking me is the bitterest reproach to me for having ventured to join your festive board.”
“Upon my honour I didn’t mean it, Mrs Greenow. I didn’t mean it, indeed.”
“I do not suspect you. It would have been unmanly.”
“And nobody can say that of me. There isn’t a man or woman in Norfolk that wouldn’t say I was manly.”
“I’m quite sure of that.”
“I have my faults, I’m aware.”
“And what are your faults, Mr Cheesacre?”
“Well; perhaps I’m extravagant. But it’s only in these kind of things you know, when I spend a little money for the sake of making my friends happy. When I’m about, on the lands at home, I ain’t extravagant, I can tell you.”
“Extravagance is a great vice.”
“Oh, I ain’t extravagant in that sense;—not a bit in the world. But when a man’s enamoured, and perhaps looking out for a wife, he does like to be a little free, you know.”
“And are you looking out for a wife, Mr Cheesacre?”
“If I told you I suppose you’d only laugh at me.”
“No; indeed I would not. I am not given to joking when any one that I regard speaks to me seriously.”
“Ain’t you though? I’m so glad of that. When one has really got a serious thing to say, one doesn’t like to have fun poked at one.”
“And, besides, how could I laugh at marriages, seeing how happy I have been in that condition?—so—very—happy,” and Mrs Greenow put up her handkerchief to her eyes.
“So happy that you’ll try it again some day; won’t you?”
“Never, Mr Cheesacre; never. Is that the way you talk of serious things without joking? Anything like love—love of that sort—is over for me. It lies buried under the sod with my poor dear departed saint.”
“But, Mrs Greenow,”—and Cheesacre, as he prepared to argue the question with her, got nearer to her in the corner behind the table,—”But, Mrs Greenow, care killed a cat, you know.”
“And sometimes I think that care will kill me.”
“No, by George; not if I can prevent it.”
“You’re very kind, Mr Cheesacre; but there’s no preventing such care as mine.”
“Isn’t there though? I’ll tell you what, Mrs Greenow; I’m in earnest, I am indeed. If you’ll inquire, you’ll find there isn’t a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don’t pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There’s not an acre that won’t do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they’d rent to pay. They’ve borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don’t owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in
