Mrs. Nowell Corklemore by this time was well established at the Hall,
and did not mean in her kind rich heart to quit the place prematurely.
Almost every day, however, she made some feint of departure, which
rendered every one more alive to the value of her presence.
“How could her dear Nowell exist without her? She felt quite sure he
would come that day—yes, that very day—to fetch her, in their little
simple carriage, that did shake her poor back so dreadfully”—back
thrown into prominence here, being an uncommonly pretty one—“but oh,
how thankful she ought to be for having a carriage at all, and so many
poor things—quite as good, quite as refined, and delicate—could
scarcely afford a perambulator! But she hoped for dear Sir Cradockʼs
sake, and that sweet simple–minded Eoa—who really did require some
little cultivation—that, now she understood them both, and could do
her little of ministering, Mr. Corklemore would let her stay, if it
were only two days longer. And then her Flore, her sweet little Flore!
An angel of light among them.”
Georgie had been married twice; and she was just the sort of woman
who would have been married a dozen times, if a dozen, save one, of
husbands were so unfortunate as to leave her. Her first lord, or rather
vassal, had been the Count de Vance—“a beggarly upstart Frenchman,”
in the language of his successor, who, by–the–by, had never seen, but
heard of him too often; but, according to better authority, “a man one
could truly look up to; so warm–hearted, so agreeable; and never for a
moment tired, dear, of his poor little simple wife.”
Perhaps it is needless to state that Mr. Corklemore long had been so
scientifically henpecked that he loved the operation. Only he was half
afraid to say “Haw,” when his wife was there to cry “Pshaw.”
Sir Cradock Nowell, of course, had seen a good deal of what is called
the world; but his knowledge of women was only enough to teach him the
extent of that subject. He never was surprised much at anything they
did; but he could not pretend to tell the reason of their doing it,
even when they had any, of which he did not often suspect them. He
believed that they would have their way, whenever they could, wherever,
and by whatever means; that very few of them meant what they said,
and none of them knew what they meant; that the primal elements, in
the entire body feminine, were jealousy, impulsiveness, vanity, and
contrariety.
Georgie Corklemore soon found out that he had adopted this, the popular
male opinion; and she did not once attempt to remove it, knowing, as
she did, that nothing could be more favourable to her purposes. So she
took up the part—which suited her as well as any, and enabled her to
say many things which else would have given offence—the part of the
soft, impulsive, warm–hearted, foolish woman, who is apt among men to
become a great pet, if she happens to be good–looking.
Eoa would gladly have yielded her prerogatives to Georgie, but Mrs.
Corklemore was too wide awake to accept any one of them. “No, darling,”
she replied, “for your own sake I will not. It is true that Uncle
Cradock wishes it, and so, no doubt, do you; but you are bound to
acquire all this social knowledge of which you have now so little; and
how can you do so except by instruction and practice?”
“Oh,” cried Eoa, firing up, “if Uncle Cradock wishes it, I am sure Iʼll
leave it to you, and not be laughed at any longer. Iʼll go to him at
once, and tell him so. And, as for being bound, I _wonʼt_ be bound to
learn any nonsense I donʼt like. My papa was as wise as any of you, and
a great deal better; and he never made such a fuss about rubbish as you
do here.”
“Stop, sweet child, stop a moment——”
“I am not a sweet child, and I wonʼt stop. And another thing Iʼll tell
you. I had made up my mind to it before this, mind—before you tried to
turn me out of my place—and itʼs this. You may call me what you like,
but I donʼt mean to call you ‘Cousin Georgie’ any longer. In the first
place, I donʼt like you, and never shall as long as I live; for I never
half believe you: and, in the next place, you are no cousin of mine;
and social usage (or whatever it is you are always bothering me about)
may require me to tell some stories, but not that one, I should fancy.
Or, at any rate, I wonʼt do it.”
“Very well,” replied Mrs. Corklemore, looking up from the softest of
fancy–work, with the very sweetest of smiles; “then I shall be obliged,
in self–defence, to address you as ‘Miss Nowell.’”
“To be sure. Why shouldnʼt you?”
“Well, it can be shown, perhaps, that you are entitled to the name.
Only at first it will seem absurd when applied to a baby like you.”
“A baby like me, indeed!” This was Eoaʼs sore point; and Georgie, who
delighted in making her outrageous, was always harping upon it. “Mrs.
Corklemore, how dare you call me, at my age, a baby?”
Eoa looked down at Georgie, with great eyes flashing fire, and her
clear, bright forehead wrinkling, and her light form poised like an
antelopeʼs on the edge of a cliff. Mrs. Corklemore, not thinking it
worth while to look up at her, carelessly threw back a curl, and went
on with her rug–work.
“Because you are a baby, and nothing more, Eoa.”
In a moment she was tossed through the air, and sitting on Eoaʼs head,
low satin chair and all. She had not time to shriek, so rapid was her
elation. Little Flore, running in at the moment, clapped her hands and
shouted, “Oh, ma, have a yide, a nice yide, same as me have yesterday.
Me next, me next. Oh, ah!”
Eoa, with the greatest ease, her figure as straight as a poplar–tree,
bore the curule chair and its occupant to the end of the room, and
there deposited them carefully on a semi–grand piano.
“Thatʼs how we nurse the babies in India,” she cried, with a smile of
sweet temper, “but it takes a big baby to do it, and some practice,
I can tell you. Now, Iʼll not let you down, Mrs. Corklemore,—and if
visitors come in, what will they think of our social usages? Down you
donʼt come, till you have promised solemnly never to call me a baby
again.”
“My dear,” began Georgie, trying hard not to look ridiculous—though
the position was so unfavourable—“my dear child——”
“No, not my dear child, even! _Miss Nowell_, if you please, and nothing
else.”
“Miss Nowell, if you will only lift me down—oh, it is polished so
nastily, I am slipping off already—I will promise solemnly to call you
only what you like, all the rest of my life.”
Eoa lifted her off in an instant. “But mind, I will be even with you,”
cried Georgie, through her terror, when safe on the floor once more.
“I donʼt care _that_ for you,” answered Eoa, snapping her fingers like
a copper–cap; “only I will have proper respect shown to me by people
I particularly dislike. People I love may call me what, or do with me
what, they please. My father was just the same; and I donʼt want to be
any better than he was; and I donʼt believe God wants it.”
“He must be easily contented, then.”
Georgie, with all her deliciousness, could never pass a chance of
sarcasm.
“Now Iʼll go and have it out with Uncle Cradock, about having you for
my ayah.”
Mrs. Corklemore trembled far more at those words than at finding
herself on the piano. This strange girl—whom she had so despised—was
baffling all her tactics, and with no other sword and shield but those
of truth and candour.
“Iʼve been a fool,” said Georgie to herself, for about the first time
in her life; “I have strangely underrated this girl, and shall have
hard work now to get round her. But it must be done. Come, though I
have been so rash, I have two to one in my favour, now I see the way to
handle it. But she must not tell the old noodle; that will never do.”
“I thought, Miss Nowell,” she continued aloud, “that it would not be
considered honourable, even among East Indians, to repeat to a third
person what was said familiarly and in confidence.”
“Of course not. What makes you speak of it? Do you mean to say I would
do such a thing?”
“No, I am sure you would not, knowingly. But if you think for a moment,
you will see that what I said just now, especially as to Sir Cradockʼs
opinions, was told to you in pure confidence, and meant to go no
further.”
“Oh,” answered Eoa, “then please not to tell me anything in pure
confidence again, because I canʼt keep secrets, and you have no right
to load me with them, without ever asking my leave even. But Iʼll try
not to let it out, unless you provoke me before him.”
With this half promise Georgie was obliged to be content. She knew
well enough that, if Eoa brought the question before her uncle, the
truth would come out that Sir Cradock had never dreamed for a moment
of substituting Georgie, the daughter of his cousin, for Eoa, the
only daughter of his only brother Clayton. He knew, of course, that
the Eastern maiden had no artificial polish; but he saw that she had
an inborn truth, a delicacy of feeling, and a native sympathy, which
wanted only experience to be better than any polish.
From that day forth, Mrs. Corklemore (aided perhaps by physical terror)
formed a higher estimate of Eoaʼs powers. So she changed her tactics
altogether, and employed her daughter, that sharp little Flore, to
cover the next advance. Flore was a little beauty; so far as anything
artificial can be really beautiful. Dressed, as she was, in the height
of French fashion, and herself nine–tenths of a Frenchwoman—for there
is no such thing as a French _girl_, as we Englishmen understand
girlhood—she always looked like a butterfly, just born in and just
about to pop out of a bower; for little Flore was “divinely beautiful.”
This angel was now nearly four years old, and would look at you with
the loveliest eyes that ever appealed from the cradle to heaven, and
throw her exaggerated little figure back, and tell you the biggest lie
that an angel ever wiped her mouth over. Oh, you lovely child! I would
rather have Loo Jupp, who knows a number of bad words, which you would
faint to hear of. But Loo wonʼt tell a lie. Her father beat her out of
it the very first time she tried.