Aunt Greenow.
Kate Vavasor remained only three days in London before she started
for Yarmouth; and during those three days she was not much with her
cousin. "I'm my aunt's, body and soul, for the next six weeks," she
said to Alice, when she did come to Queen Anne Street on the morning
after her arrival. "And she is exigeant in a manner I can't at all
explain to you. You mustn't be surprised if I don't even write a
line. I've escaped by stealth now. She went up-stairs to try on some
new weeds for the seaside, and then I bolted." She did not say a
word about George; nor during those three days, nor for some days
afterwards, did George show himself. As it turned out afterwards, he
had gone off to Scotland, and had remained a week among the grouse.
Thus, at least, he had accounted for himself and his movements; but
all George Vavasor's friends knew that his goings out and comings in
were seldom accounted for openly like those of other men.
It will perhaps be as well to say a few words about Mrs. Greenow
before we go with her to Yarmouth. Mrs. Greenow was the only daughter
and the youngest child of the old squire at Vavasor Hall. She was
just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to
think that she was almost justified in her repeated assertion that
the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of
her colour, and by the general juvenility of her appearance. She
certainly did not look forty, and who can expect a woman to proclaim
herself to be older than her looks? In early life she had been taken
from her father's house, and had lived with relatives in one of the
large towns in the north of England. It is certain she had not been
quite successful as a girl. Though she had enjoyed the name of being
a beauty, she had not the usual success which comes from such repute.
At thirty-four she was still unmarried. She had, moreover, acquired
the character of being a flirt; and I fear that the stories which
were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in
them sufficient of truth to justify the character. Now this was
very sad, seeing that Arabella Vavasor had no fortune, and that she
had offended her father and brothers by declining to comply with
their advice at certain periods of her career. There was, indeed,
considerable trouble in the minds of the various male Vavasors with
reference to Arabella, when tidings suddenly reached the Hall that
she was going to be married to an old man.
She was married to the old man; and the marriage fortunately turned
out satisfactorily, at any rate for the old man and for her family.
The Vavasors were relieved from all further trouble, and were as much
surprised as gratified when they heard that she did her duty well
in her new position. Arabella had long been a thorn in their side,
never having really done anything which they could pronounce to be
absolutely wrong, but always giving them cause for fear. Now they
feared no longer. Her husband was a retired merchant, very rich, not
very strong in health, and devoted to his bride. Rumours soon made
their way to Vavasor Hall, and to Queen Anne Street, that Mrs. Greenow
was quite a pattern wife, and that Mr. Greenow considered himself to
be the happiest old man in Lancashire. And now in her prosperity she
quite forgave the former slights which had been put upon her by her
relatives. She wrote to her dear niece Alice, and to her dearest
niece Kate, and sent little presents to her father. On one occasion
she took her husband to Vavasor Hall, and there was a regular renewal
of all the old family feelings. Arabella's husband was an old
man, and was very old for his age; but the whole thing was quite
respectable, and there was, at any rate, no doubt about the money.
Then Mr. Greenow died; and the widow, having proved the will, came up
to London and claimed the commiseration of her nieces.
"Why not go to Yarmouth with her for a month?" George had said to
Kate. "Of course it will be a bore. But an aunt with forty thousand
pounds has a right to claim attention." Kate acknowledged the truth
of the argument and agreed to go to Yarmouth for a month. "Your aunt
Arabella has shown herself to be a very sensible woman," the old
squire had written; "much more sensible than anybody thought her
before her marriage. Of course you should go with her if she asks
you." What aunt, uncle, or cousin, in the uncontrolled possession of
forty thousand pounds was ever unpopular in the family?
Yarmouth is not a very prepossessing place to the eye. To my eye,
at any rate, it is not so. There is an old town with which summer
visitors have little or nothing to do; and there are the new houses
down by the sea-side, to which, at any rate, belongs the full
advantage of sea air. A kind of esplanade runs for nearly a mile
along the sands, and there are built, or in the course of building,
rows of houses appropriated to summer visitors all looking out upon
the sea. There is no beauty unless the yellow sandy sea can be called
beautiful. The coast is low and straight, and the east wind blows
full upon it. But the place is healthy; and Mrs. Greenow was probably
right in thinking that she might there revive some portion of the
health which she had lost in watching beside the couch of her
departing lord.
"Omnibus;--no, indeed. Jeannette, get me a fly." These were the first
words Mrs. Greenow spoke as she put her foot upon the platform at the
Yarmouth station. Her maid's name was Jenny; but Kate had already
found, somewhat to her dismay, that orders had been issued before
they left London that the girl was henceforth to be called Jeannette.
Kate had also already found that her aunt could be imperious; but
this taste for masterdom had not shown itself so plainly in London
as it did from the moment that the train had left the station at
Shoreditch. In London Mrs. Greenow had been among Londoners, and her
career had hitherto been provincial. Her spirit, no doubt, had been
somewhat cowed by the novelty of her position. But when she felt
herself to be once beyond the stones as the saying used to be, she
was herself again; and at Ipswich she had ordered Jeannette to get
her a glass of sherry with an air which had created a good deal of
attention among the guards and porters.
The fly was procured; and with considerable exertion all Mrs.
Greenow's boxes, together with the more moderate belongings of her
niece and maid, were stowed on the top of it, round upon the driver's
body on the coach box, on the maid's lap, and I fear in Kate's also,
and upon the vacant seat.
"The large house in Montpelier Parade," said Mrs. Greenow.
"They is all large, ma'am," said the driver.
"The largest," said Mrs. Greenow.
"They're much of a muchness," said the driver.
"Then Mrs. Jones's," said Mrs. Greenow. "But I was particularly told
it was the largest in the row."
"I know Mrs. Jones's well," said the driver, and away they went.
Mrs. Jones's house was handsome and comfortable; but I fear Mrs.
Greenow's satisfaction in this respect was impaired by her
disappointment in finding that it was not perceptibly bigger than
those to the right and left of her. Her ambition in this and in
other similar matters would have amused Kate greatly had she been
a bystander, and not one of her aunt's party. Mrs. Greenow was
good-natured, liberal, and not by nature selfish; but she was
determined not to waste the good things which fortune had given, and
desired that all the world should see that she had forty thousand
pounds of her own. And in doing this she was repressed by no
feeling of false shame. She never hesitated in her demands through
bashfulness. She called aloud for such comfort and grandeur as
Yarmouth could afford her, and was well pleased that all around
should hear her calling. Joined to all this was her uncontrolled
grief for her husband's death.
"Dear Greenow! sweet lamb! Oh, Kate, if you'd only known that man!"
When she said this she was sitting in the best of Mrs. Jones's
sitting-rooms, waiting to have dinner announced. She had taken a
drawing-room and dining-room, "because," as she had said, "she didn't
see why people should be stuffy when they went to the seaside;--not
if they had means to make themselves comfortable."
"Oh, Kate, I do wish you'd known him!"
"I wish I had," said Kate,--very untruly. "I was unfortunately away
when he went to Vavasor Hall."
"Ah, yes; but it was at home, in the domestic circle, that Greenow
should have been seen to be appreciated. I was a happy woman,
Kate, while that lasted." And Kate was surprised to see that real
tears--one or two on each side--were making their way down her
aunt's cheeks. But they were soon checked with a handkerchief of the
broadest hem and of the finest cambric.
"Dinner, ma'am," said Jeannette, opening the door.
"Jeannette, I told you always to say that dinner was served."
"Dinner's served then," said Jeannette in a tone of anger.
"Come, Kate," said her aunt. "I've but little appetite myself, but
there's no reason you shouldn't eat your dinner. I specially wrote to
Mrs. Jones to have some sweetbread. I do hope she's got a decent cook.
It's very little I eat myself, but I do like to see things nice."
The next day was Sunday; and it was beautiful to see how Mrs. Greenow
went to church in all the glory of widowhood. There had been a great
unpacking after that banquet on the sweetbread, and all her funereal
millinery had been displayed before Kate's wondering eyes. The charm
of the woman was in this,--that she was not in the least ashamed of
anything that she did. She turned over all her wardrobe of mourning,
showing the richness of each article, the stiffness of the crape,
the fineness of the cambric, the breadth of the frills,--telling the
price of each to a shilling, while she explained how the whole had
been amassed without any consideration of expense. This she did with
all the pride of a young bride when she shows the glories of her
trousseau to the friend of her bosom. Jeannette stood by the while,
removing one thing and exhibiting another. Now and again through the
performance, Mrs. Greenow would rest a while from her employment, and
address the shade of the departed one in terms of most endearing
affection. In the midst of this Mrs. Jones came in; but the widow was
not a whit abashed by the presence of the stranger. "Peace be to his
manes!" she said at last, as she carefully folded up a huge black
crape mantilla. She made, however, but one syllable of the classical
word, and Mrs. Jones thought that her lodger had addressed herself to
the mortal "remains" of her deceased lord.
[Illustration: "Peace be to his manes."]
"He is left her uncommon well off, I suppose," said Mrs. Jones to
Jeannette.
"You may say that, ma'am. It's more nor a hundred thousand of
pounds!"
"No!"
"Pounds of sterling, ma'am! Indeed it is;--to my knowledge."
"Why don't she have a carriage?"
"So she do;--but a lady can't bring her carriage down to the sea when
she's only just buried her husband as one may say. What'd folks say
if they saw her in her own carriage? But it ain't because she can't
afford it, Mrs. Jones. And now we're talking of it you must order a
fly for church to-morrow, that'll look private, you know. She said I
was to get a man that had a livery coat and gloves."
The man with the coat and gloves was procured; and Mrs. Greenow's
entry into church made quite a sensation. There was a thoughtfulness
about her which alone showed that she was a woman of no ordinary
power. She foresaw all necessities, and made provision for all
emergencies. Another would not have secured an eligible sitting, and
been at home in Yarmouth church, till half the period of her sojourn
there was over. But Mrs. Greenow had done it all. She walked up the
middle aisle with as much self-possession as though the chancel had
belonged to her family for years; and the respectable pew-opener
absolutely deserted two or three old ladies whom she was attending,
to show Mrs. Greenow into her seat. When seated, she was the cynosure
of all eyes. Kate Vavasor became immediately aware that a great
sensation had been occasioned by their entrance, and equally aware
that none of it was due to her. I regret to say that this feeling
continued to show itself throughout the whole service. How many
ladies of forty go to church without attracting the least attention!
But it is hardly too much to say that every person in that church had
looked at Mrs. Greenow. I doubt if there was present there a single
married lady who, on leaving the building, did not speak to her
husband of the widow. There had prevailed during the whole two hours
a general though unexpressed conviction that something worthy of
remark had happened that morning. It had an effect even upon the
curate's reading; and the incumbent, while preaching his sermon,
could not keep his eyes off that wonderful bonnet and veil.
On the next morning, before eleven, Mrs. Greenow's name was put down
at the Assembly Room. "I need hardly say that in my present condition
I care nothing for these things. Of course I would sooner be alone.
But, my dear Kate, I know what I owe to you."
Kate, with less intelligence than might have been expected from one
so clever, began to assure her aunt that she required no society;
and that, coming thus with her to the seaside in the early days of
her widowhood, she had been well aware that they would live retired.
But Mrs. Greenow soon put her down, and did so without the slightest
feeling of shame or annoyance on her own part. "My dear," she said,
"in this matter you must let me do what I know to be right. I should
consider myself to be very selfish if I allowed my grief to interfere
with your amusements."
"But, aunt, I don't care for such amusements."
"That's nonsense, my dear. You ought to care for them. How are you to
settle yourself in life if you don't care for them?"
"My dear aunt, I am settled."
"Settled!" said Mrs. Greenow, astounded, as though there must have
been some hidden marriage of which she had not heard. "But that's
nonsense. Of course you're not settled; and how are you to be, if I
allow you to shut yourself up in such a place as this,--just where a
girl has a chance?"
It was in vain that Kate tried to stop her. It was not easy to stop
Mrs. Greenow when she was supported by the full assurance of being
mistress of the place and of the occasion. "No, my dear; I know very
well what I owe to you, and I shall do my duty. As I said before,
society can have no charms now for such a one as I am. All that
social intercourse could ever do for me lies buried in my darling's
grave. My heart is desolate, and must remain so. But I'm not going to
immolate you on the altars of my grief. I shall force myself to go
out for your sake, Kate."
"But, dear aunt, the world will think it so odd, just at present."
"I don't care twopence for the world. What can the world do to me?
I'm not dependent on the world,--thanks to the care of that sainted
lamb. I can hold my own; and as long as I can do that the world won't
hurt me. No, Kate, if I think a thing's right I shall do it. I mean
to make the place pleasant for you if I can, and the world may object
if it likes."
Mrs. Greenow was probably right in her appreciation of the value of
her independence. Remarks may perhaps have been made by the world of
Yarmouth as to her early return to society. People, no doubt, did
remind each other that old Greenow was hardly yet four months buried.
Mrs. Jones and Jeannette probably had their little jokes down-stairs.
But this did not hurt Mrs. Greenow. What was said, was not said in her
hearing, Mrs. Jones's bills were paid every Saturday with admirable
punctuality; and as long as this was done everybody about the
house treated the lady with that deference which was due to the
respectability of her possessions. When a recently bereaved widow
attempts to enjoy her freedom without money, then it behoves the
world to speak aloud;--and the world does its duty.
Numerous people came to call at Montpelier Parade, and Kate was
astonished to find that her aunt had so many friends. She was indeed
so bewildered by these strangers that she could hardly ascertain whom
her aunt had really known before, and whom she now saw for the first
time. Somebody had known somebody who had known somebody else, and
that was allowed to be a sufficient introduction,--always presuming
that the existing somebody was backed by some known advantages of
money or position. Mrs. Greenow could smile from beneath her widow's
cap in a most bewitching way. "Upon my word then she is really
handsome," Kate wrote one day to Alice. But she could also frown, and
knew well how to put aside, or, if need be, to reprobate any attempt
at familiarity from those whose worldly circumstances were supposed
to be disadvantageous.
"My dear aunt," said Kate one morning after their walk upon the pier,
"how you did snub that Captain Bellfield!"
"Captain Bellfield, indeed! I don't believe he's a captain at all. At
any rate he has sold out, and the tradesmen have had a scramble for
the money. He was only a lieutenant when the 97th were in Manchester,
and I'm sure he's never had a shilling to purchase since that."
"But everybody here seems to know him."
"Perhaps they do not know so much of him as I do. The idea of his
having the impudence to tell me I was looking very well! Nothing can
be so mean as men who go about in that way when they haven't money
enough in their pockets to pay their washerwomen."
"But how do you know, aunt, that Captain Bellfield hasn't paid his
washerwoman?"
"I know more than you think, my dear. It's my business. How could I
tell whose attentions you should receive and whose you shouldn't, if
I didn't inquire into these things?"
It was in vain that Kate rebelled, or attempted to rebel against this
more than maternal care. She told her aunt that she was now nearly
thirty, and that she had managed her own affairs, at any rate with
safety, for the last ten years;--but it was to no purpose. Kate would
get angry; but Mrs. Greenow never became angry. Kate would be quite
in earnest; but Mrs. Greenow would push aside all that her niece said
as though it were worth nothing. Kate was an unmarried woman with a
very small fortune, and therefore, of course, was desirous of being
married with as little delay as possible. It was natural that she
should deny that it was so, especially at this early date in their
mutual acquaintance. When the niece came to know her aunt more
intimately, there might be confidence between them, and then they
would do better. But Mrs. Greenow would spare neither herself nor her
purse on Kate's behalf, and she would be a dragon of watchfulness in
protecting her from the evil desires of such useless men as Captain
Bellfield.
"I declare, Kate, I don't understand 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 a-thinking 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 to-morrow, 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.