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
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
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