Can You Forgive Her? - Anthony Trollope

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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 athinking 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.

       Mr Cheesacre

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      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 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

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