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 upstairs 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 grouse1. 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 squire2 at Vavasor Hall. She was just ten years younger than her brother John, and I am inclined to think that she was almost justified3 in her repeated assertion that the difference was much greater than ten years, by the freshness of her colour, and by the general juvenility4 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 flirt5; and I fear that the stories which were told of her, though doubtless more than half false, had in them sufficient of truth to justify7 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 retired8 merchant, very rich, not very strong in health, and devoted9 to his bride. Rumours10 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 renewal11 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 commiseration12 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 seaside, 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 spoke13 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 provincial14. 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 that had created a good deal of attention among the guards and porters.
The fly was procured15; and with considerable exertion16 all Mrs Greenow’s boxes, together with the more moderate belongings17 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 impaired18 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 determined19 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 grandeur20 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 said, “she didn’t see why people should be stuffy21 when they went to the sea-side — 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 hem6 and of the finest cambric.
“Dinner, ma’am,” said Jeannette, opening the door.
“Jeanette, 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 specially22 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 unpacking23 after that banquet on the sweetbread, and all her funereal24 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 amassed25 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 bosom26. 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 whit27 abashed28 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 syllable29 of the classical word, and Mrs Jones thought that her lodger30 had addressed herself to the mortal “remains” of her deceased lord.
“He is left her uncommon31 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 sterling32, 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 tomorrow, 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 eligible33 sitting, and been at home in Yarmouth church, till half the period of her sojourn34 there was over. But Mrs Greenow had done it all. She walked up the middle aisle35 with as much self-possession as though the chancel had belonged to her family for years; and the respectable pew-opener absolutely deserted36 two or three old ladies whom she was attending, to show Mrs Greenow into her seat. When seated, she was the cynosure37 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 worthy38 of remark had happened that morning. It had an effect even upon the curate’s reading; and the incumbent39, while preaching his sermon, could not keep his eyes off that wonderful bonnet40 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 annoyance41 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 interfere42 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, astounded43, 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 intercourse44 could ever do for me lies buried in my darling’s grave. My heart is desolate45, and must remain so. But I’m not going to immolate46 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 to you if I can, and the world may object if it likes.”
Mrs Greenow was probably right in her appreciation47 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 deference48 which was due to the respectability of her possessions. When a recently bereaved49 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 ascertain50 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 reprobate51 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 pier52, “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 scramble53 for the money. He was only a lieutenant54 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 impudence55 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 maternal56 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 mutual57 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 watchfulness58 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 luxurious59 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 improvident60 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 to 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 virtues61 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 squires62 — 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 subsided63 into her novel, while Mrs Greenow busied herself about the good things for the picnic. In truth, the aunt did not understand the niece. Whatsoever64 might be the faults of Kate Vavasor, an unmaidenly desire of catching65 a husband for herself was certainly not one of them.
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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juvenility
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| n.年轻，不成熟 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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rumours
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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funereal
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amassed
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bosom
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whit
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abashed
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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aisle
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deserted
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cynosure
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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bonnet
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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astounded
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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46
immolate
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| v.牺牲 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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reprobate
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| n.无赖汉；堕落的人 | |
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52
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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53
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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