LITMIR.BIZ

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      “I don’t know nothing of his ways, Mr Cheesacre; but I’ve been as true to you, sir;—so I have;—as true as true.” And Jeannette put her handkerchief up to her eyes.

      He moved to the door, and then a thought occurred to him. He put his hand to his trousers pocket, and turning back towards the girl, gave her half-a-crown. She curtsied as she took it, and then repeated her last words. “Yes, Mr Cheesacre,—as true as true.” Mr Cheesacre said nothing further, but followed his enemy up to the drawing-room. “What game is up now, I wonder,” said Jeannette to herself, when she was left alone. “They two’ll be cutting each other’s throatses before they’ve done, and then my missus will take the surwiver.” But she made up her mind that Cheesacre should be the one to have his throat cut fatally, and that Bellfield should be the survivor.

      Cheesacre, when he reached the drawing-room, found Bellfield sitting on the same sofa with Mrs Greenow looking at a book of photographs which they both of them were handling together. The outside rim of her widow’s frill on one occasion touched the Captain’s whisker, and as it did so the Captain looked up with a gratified expression of triumph. If any gentleman has ever seen the same thing under similar circumstances, he will understand that Cheesacre must have been annoyed.

      “Yes,” said Mrs Greenow, waving her handkerchief, of which little but a two-inch-deep border seemed to be visible. Bellfield knew at once that it was not the same handkerchief which she had waved before they went down to dinner. “Yes,—there he is. It’s so like him.” And then she apostrophized the carte de visite of the departed one. “Dear Greenow; dear husband! When my spirit is false to thee, let thine forget to visit me softly in my dreams. Thou wast unmatched among husbands. Whose tender kindness was ever equal to thine? whose sweet temper was ever so constant? whose manly care so all-sufficient?” While the words fell from her lips her little finger was touching Bellfield’s little finger, as they held the book between them. Charlie Fairstairs and Mr Cheesacre were watching her narrowly, and she knew that they were watching her. She was certainly a woman of great genius and of great courage.

      Bellfield, moved by the eloquence of her words, looked with some interest at the photograph. There was represented there before him, a small, grey-looking, insignificant old man, with pig’s eyes and a toothless mouth,—one who should never have been compelled to submit himself to the cruelty of the sun’s portraiture! Another widow, even if she had kept in her book the photograph of such a husband, would have scrambled it over silently,—would have been ashamed to show it. “Have you ever seen it, Mr Cheesacre?” asked Mrs Greenow. “It’s so like him.”

      “I saw it at Yarmouth,” said Cheesacre, very sulkily.

      “That you did not,” said the lady with some dignity, and not a little of rebuke in her tone; “simply because it never was at Yarmouth. A larger one you may have seen, which I always keep, and always shall keep, close by my bedside.”

      “Not if I know it,” said Captain Bellfield to himself. Then the widow punished Mr Cheesacre for his sullenness by whispering a few words to the Captain; and Cheesacre in his wrath turned to Charlie Fairstairs. Then it was that he spake out his mind about the Captain’s rank, and was snubbed by Charlie,—as was told a page or two back.

      After that, coffee was brought to them, and here again Cheesacre in his ill-humour allowed the Captain to out-manœuvre him. It was the Captain who put the sugar into the cups and handed them round. He even handed a cup to his enemy. “None for me, Captain Bellfield; many thanks for your politeness all the same,” said Mr Cheesacre; and Mrs Greenow knew from the tone of his voice that there had been a quarrel.

      Cheesacre sitting then in his gloom, had resolved upon one thing,—or, I may perhaps say, upon two things. He had resolved that he would not leave the room that evening till Bellfield had left it; and that he would get a final answer from the widow, if not that night,—for he thought it very possible that they might both be sent away together,—then early after breakfast on the following morning. For the present, he had given up any idea of turning his time to good account. He was not perhaps a coward, but he had not that special courage which enables a man to fight well under adverse circumstances. He had been cowed by the unexpected impertinence of his rival,—by the insolence of a man to whom he thought that he had obtained the power of being always himself as insolent as he pleased. He could not recover his ground quickly, or carry himself before his lady’s eye as though he was unconscious of the wound he had received. So he sat silent, while Bellfield was discoursing fluently. He sat in silence, comforting himself with reflections on his own wealth, and on the poverty of the other, and promising himself a rich harvest of revenge when the moment should come in which he might tell Mrs Greenow how absolutely that man was a beggar, a swindler, and a rascal.

      And he was astonished when an opportunity for doing so came very quickly. Before the neighbouring clock had done striking seven, Bellfield rose from his chair to go. He first of all spoke a word of farewell to Miss Fairstairs; then he turned to his late host; “Good night, Cheesacre,” he said, in the easiest tone in the world; after that he pressed the widow’s hand and whispered his adieu.

      “I thought you were staying at Oileymead?” said Mrs Greenow.

      “I came from there this morning,” said the Captain.

      “But he isn’t going back there, I can tell you,” said Mr Cheesacre.

      “Oh, indeed,” said Mrs Greenow; “I hope there is nothing wrong.”

      “All as right as a trivet,” said the Captain; and then he was off.

      “I promised mamma that I would be home by seven,” said Charlie Fairstairs, rising from her chair. It cannot be supposed that she had any wish to oblige Mr Cheesacre, and therefore this movement on her part must be regarded simply as done in kindness to Mrs Greenow. She might be mistaken in supposing that Mrs Greenow would desire to be left alone with Mr Cheesacre; but it was clear to her that in this way she could give no offence, whereas it was quite possible that she might offend by remaining. A little after seven Mr Cheesacre found himself alone with the lady.

      “I’m sorry to find,” said she, gravely, “that you two have quarrelled.”

      “Mrs Greenow,” said he, jumping up, and becoming on a sudden full of life, “that man is a downright swindler.”

      “Oh, Mr Cheesacre.”

      “He is. He’ll tell you that he was at Inkerman, but I believe he was in prison all the time.” The Captain had been arrested, I think twice, and thus Mr Cheesacre justified to himself this assertion. “I doubt whether he ever saw a shot fired,” he continued.

      “He’s none the worse for that.”

      “But he tells such lies; and then he has not a penny in the world. How much do you suppose he owes me, now?”

      “However much it is, I’m sure you are too much of a gentleman to say.”

      “Well;—yes, I am,” said he, trying to recover himself. “But when I asked him how he intended to pay me, what do you think he said? He said he’d pay me when he got your money.”

      “My money! He couldn’t have said that!”

      “But he did, Mrs Greenow; I give you my word and honour. ‘I’ll pay you when I get the widow’s money,’ he said.”

      “You gentlemen must have a nice way of talking about me when I am absent.”

      “I never said a disrespectful word about you in my life, Mrs Greenow,—or thought one. He does;—he says horrible things.”

      “What horrible things, Mr Cheesacre?”

      “Oh, I can’t tell you;—but he does. What can you expect from such a man as that, who, to my knowledge, won’t have a change of clothes tomorrow, except what he brought in on his back this morning. Where he’s to get a bed tonight, I don’t know, for I doubt whether he’s got half-a-crown in the world.”

      “Poor Bellfield!”

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