THE COMPLETE PALLISER NOVELS (All 6 Novels in One Edition). Anthony Trollope
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there felt how important was the question. “He has gone,” said the widow. Bellfield was so relieved that he could not restrain his joy, but took off his little straw hat and threw it up into the air. Kate’s satisfaction was almost as intense. “I am so glad,” said she. “What on earth should we have done with him?” “I never was so disappointed in my life,” said Alice. “I have heard so much of Mr Cheesacre, but have never seen him.” Kate suggested that she should get into the gig and drive after him. “He ain’t a been and took hisself off?” suggested the boy, whose face became very dismal as the terrible idea struck him. But, with juvenile craft, he put his hand on the carpetbag, and finding that it did not contain stones, was comforted. “You drive after him, young gentleman, and you’ll find him on the road to Shap,” said Mrs Greenow. “Mind you give him my love,” said the Captain in his glee, “and say I hope he’ll get his turnips in well.”
This little episode went far to break the day, and did more than anything else could have done to put Captain Bellfield at his ease. It created a little joint-stock fund of merriment between the whole party, which was very much needed. The absence of such joint-stock fund is always felt when a small party is thrown together without such assistance. Some bond is necessary on these occasions, and no other bond is so easy or so pleasant. Now, when the Captain found himself alone for a quarter of an hour with Alice, he had plenty of subjects for small-talk. “Yes, indeed. Old Cheesacre, in spite of his absurdities, is not a bad sort of fellow at bottom;—awfully fond of his money, you know, Miss Vavasor, and always boasting about it.” “That’s not pleasant,” said Alice. “No, the most unpleasant thing in the world. There’s nothing I hate so much, Miss Vavasor, as that kind of talking. My idea is this,—when a man has lots of money, let him make the best use he can of it, and say nothing about it. Nobody ever heard me talking about my money.” He knew that Alice knew that he was a pauper; but, nevertheless, he had the satisfaction of speaking of himself as though he were not a pauper.
In this way the afternoon went very pleasantly. For an hour before dinner Captain Bellfield was had into the drawing-room and was talked to by his widow on matters of business; but he had of course known that this was necessary. She scolded him soundly about those sheriff’s officers. Why had he not told her? “As long as there’s anything kept back, I won’t have you,” said she. “I won’t become your wife till I’m quite sure there’s not a penny owing that is not shown in the list.” Then I think he did tell her all,—or nearly all. When all was counted it was not so very much. Three or four hundred pounds would make him a new man, and what was such a sum as that to his wealthy widow! Indeed, for a woman wanting a husband of that sort, Captain Bellfield was a safer venture than would be a man of a higher standing among his creditors. It is true Bellfield might have been a forger, or a thief, or a returned convict,—but then his debts could not be large. Let him have done his best, he could not have obtained credit for a thousand pounds; whereas, no one could tell the liabilities of a gentleman of high standing. Burgo Fitzgerald was a gentleman of high standing, and his creditors would have swallowed up every shilling that Mrs Greenow possessed; but with Captain Bellfield she was comparatively safe.
Upon the whole I think that she was lucky in her choice; or, perhaps, I might more truly say, that she had chosen with prudence. He was no forger, or thief—in the ordinary sense of the word; nor was he a returned convict. He was simply an idle scamp, who had hung about the world for forty years, doing nothing, without principle, shameless, accustomed to eat dirty puddings, and to be kicked—morally kicked—by such men as Cheesacre. But he was moderate in his greediness, and possessed of a certain appreciation of the comfort of a daily dinner, which might possibly suffice to keep him from straying very wide as long as his intended wife should be able to keep the purse-strings altogether in her own hands. Therefore, I say that Mrs Greenow had been lucky in her choice, and not altogether without prudence.
“I think of taking this house,” said she, “and of living here.”
“What, in Westmoreland!” said the Captain, with something of dismay in his tone. What on earth would he do with himself all his life in that gloomy place!
“Yes, in Westmoreland. Why not in Westmoreland as well as anywhere else? If you don’t like Westmoreland, it’s not too late yet, you know.” In answer to this the poor Captain was obliged to declare that he had no objection whatever to Westmoreland.
“I’ve been talking to my niece about it,” continued Mrs Greenow, “and I find that such an arrangement can be made very conveniently. The property is left between her and her uncle,—the father of my other niece, and neither of them want to live here.”
“But won’t you be rather dull, my dear?”
“We could go to Yarmouth, you know, in the autumn.” Then the Captain’s visage became somewhat bright again. “And perhaps, if you are not extravagant, we could manage a month or so in London during the winter, just to see the plays and do a little shopping.” Then the Captain’s face became very bright. “That will be delightful,” said he. “And as for being dull,” said the widow, “when people grow old they must be dull. Dancing can’t go on for ever.” In answer to this the widow’s Captain assured the widow that she was not at all old; and now, on this occasion, that ceremony came off successfully which had been interrupted on the Shap road by the noise of Mr Cheesacre’s wheels. “There goes my cap,” said she. “What a goose you are! What will Jeannette say?” “Bother Jeannette,” said the Captain in his bliss. “She can do another cap, and many more won’t be wanted.” Then I think the ceremony was repeated.
Upon the whole the Captain’s visit was satisfactory—at any rate to the Captain. Everything was settled. He was to go away on Saturday morning, and remain in lodgings at Penrith till the wedding, which they agreed to have celebrated at Vavasor Church. Kate promised to be the solitary bridesmaid. There was some talk of sending for Charlie Fairstairs, but the idea was abandoned. “We’ll have her afterwards,” said the widow to Kate, “when you are gone, and we shall want her more. And I’ll get Cheesacre here, and make him marry her. There’s no good in paying for two journeys.” The Captain was to be allowed to come over from Penrith twice a week previous to his marriage; or perhaps, I might more fairly say, that he was commanded to do so. I wonder how he felt when Mrs Greenow gave him his first five-pound note, and told him that he must make it do for a fortnight?—whether it was all joy, or whether there was about his heart any touch of manly regret?
“Captain Bellfield, of Vavasor Hall, Westmoreland. It don’t sound badly,” he said to himself, as he travelled away on his first journey to Penrith.
Chapter LXVI.
Lady Monk’s Plan
On the night of Lady Monk’s party, Burgo Fitzgerald disappeared; and when the guests were gone and the rooms were empty, his aunt inquired for him in vain. The old butler and factotum of the house, who was employed by Sir Cosmo to put out the lamps and to see that he was not robbed beyond a certain point on these occasions of his wife’s triumphs, was interrogated by his mistress, and said that he thought Mr Burgo had left the house. Lady Monk herself knocked at her nephew’s door, when she went upstairs, ascending an additional flight of stairs with her weary old limbs in order that she might do so; she even opened the door and saw the careless debris of his toilet about the room. But he was gone. “Perhaps, after all, he has arranged it,” she said to herself, as she went down to her own room.
But Burgo, as we know, had not “arranged it.” It may be remembered that when Mr Palliser came back to his wife in the supper-room at Lady Monk’s, bringing with him the scarf which Lady Glencora had left upstairs, Burgo was no longer with her. He had become well aware that he had no chance left, at any rate for that night. The poor fool, acting upon his aunt’s implied advice rather than his own hopes, had secured a postchaise, and stationed it in Bruton Street, some five minutes’ walk from his aunt’s house. And he had purchased feminine wrappings, cloaks, &c.—things that he thought might be necessary for his companion. He had, too, ordered rooms at the new hotel near the Dover Station,—the