A letter from Brookfield apprised Wilfrid that Mr. Pole had brought
Mrs. Chump to the place as a visitor, and that she was now in the house.
Formal as a circular, the idea of it appeared to be that the bare fact
would tell him enough and inspire him with proper designs. No reply
being sent, a second letter arrived, formal too, but pointing out
his duty to succour his afflicted family, and furnishing a few tragic
particulars. Thus he learnt, that while Mr. Pole was advancing toward
the three grouped ladies, on the day of Mrs. Chump's arrival, he called
Arabella by name, and Arabella went forward alone, and was engaged in
conversation by Mrs. Chump. Mr. Pole left them to make his way to Adela
and Cornelia. “Now, mind, I expect you to keep to your agreement,” he
said. Gradually they were led on to perceive that this simple-minded man
had understood their recent talk of Besworth to signify a consent to the
stipulation he had previously mentioned to Adela. “Perfect simplicity is
as deceiving as the depth of cunning,” Adela despairingly wrote, much to
Wilfrid's amusement.
A third letter followed. It was of another tenor, and ran thus, in
Adela's handwriting:
“My Darling Wilfrid,
“We have always known that some peculiar assistance would never be
wanting in our extremity--aid, or comfort, or whatever you please to
call it. At all events, something to show we are not neglected. That old
notion of ours must be true. I shall say nothing of our sufferings
in the house. They continue. Yesterday, papa came from town, looking
important. He had up some of his best wine for dinner. All through
the service his eyes were sparkling on Cornelia. I spare you a family
picture, while there is this huge blot on it. Naughty brother! But,
listen! your place is here, for many reasons, as you will be quick
enough to see. After dinner, papa took Cornelia into the library alone,
and they were together for ten minutes. She came out very pale. She had
been proposed for by Sir Twickenham Pryme, our Member for the borough. I
have always been sure that Cornelia was born for Parliament, and he will
be lucky if he wins her. We know not yet, of course, what her decision
will be. The incident is chiefly remarkable to us as a relief to what I
need not recount to you. But I wish to say one thing, dear Wilfrid. You
are gazetted to a lieutenancy, and we congratulate you: but what I have
to say is apparently much more trifling, and it is, that--will you take
it to heart?--it would do Arabella and myself infinite good if we saw a
little more of our brother, and just a little less of a very gentlemanly
organ-player phenomenon, who talks so exceedingly well. He is a very
pleasant man, and appreciates our ideas, and so forth; but it is our
duty to love our brother best, and think of him foremost, and we wish
him to come and remind us of our duty.
“At our Cornelia's request, with our concurrence, papa is silent in the
house as to the purport of the communication made by Sir T.P.
“By the way, are you at all conscious of a sound-like absurdity in
a Christian name of three syllables preceding a surname of one? Sir
Twickenham Pryme! Cornelia's pronunciation of the name first gave me
the feeling. The 'Twickenham' seems to perform a sort of educated
monkey kind of ridiculously decorous pirouette and entrechat before the
'Pryme.' I think that Cornelia feels it also. You seem to fancy elastic
limbs bending to the measure of a solemn church-organ. Sir Timothy? But
Sir Timothy does not jump with the same grave agility as Sir Twickenham!
If she rejects him, it will be half attributable to this.
“My own brother! I expect no confidences, but a whisper warns me that
you have not been to Stornley twice without experiencing the truth of
our old discovery, that the Poles are magnetic? Why should we conceal
it from ourselves, if it be so? I think it a folly, and fraught with
danger, for people not to know their characteristics. If they attract,
they should keep in a circle where they will have no reason to revolt
at, or say, repent of what they attract. My argumentative sister does
not coincide. If she did, she would lose her argument.
“Adieu! Such is my dulness, I doubt whether I have made my meaning
clear.
“Your thrice affectionate
“Adela.
“P.S.--Lady Gosstre has just taken Emilia to Richford for a week. Papa
starts for Bidport to-morrow.”
This short and rather blunt exercise in Fine Shades was read impatiently
by Wilfrid. “Why doesn't she write plain to the sense?” he asked, with
the usual injustice of men, who demand a statement of facts, forgetting
how few there are to feed the post; and that indication and suggestion
are the only language for the multitude of facts unborn and possible.
Twilight best shows to the eye what may be.
“I suppose I must go down there,” he said to himself, keeping a
meditative watch on the postscript, as if it possessed the capability of
slipping away and deceiving him. “Does she mean that Cornelia sees
too much of this man Barrett? or, what does she mean?” And now he saw
meanings in the simple passages, and none at all in the intricate ones;
and the double-meanings were monsters that ate one another up till
nothing remained of them. In the end, however, he made a wrathful guess
and came to a resolution, which brought him to the door of the house
next day at noon. He took some pains in noting the exact spot where he
had last seen Emilia half in moonlight, and then dismissed her image
peremptorily. The house was apparently empty. Gainsford, the footman,
gave information that he thought the ladies were upstairs, but did not
volunteer to send a maid to them. He stood in deferential footman's
attitude, with the aspect of a dog who would laugh if he could, but
being a footman out of his natural element, cannot.
“Here's a specimen of the new plan of treating servants!” thought
Wilfrid, turning away. “To act a farce for their benefit! That fellow
will explode when he gets downstairs. I see how it is. This woman,
Chump, is making them behave like schoolgirls.”
He conceived the idea sharply, and forthwith, without any preparation,
he was ready to treat these high-aspiring ladies like schoolgirls. Nor
was there a lack of justification; for when they came down to his
shouts in the passage, they hushed, and held a finger aloft, and looked
altogether so unlike what they aimed at being, that Wilfrid's sense of
mastery became almost contempt.
“I know perfectly what you have to tell me,” he said. “Mrs. Chump is
here, you have quarrelled with her, and she has shut her door, and you
have shut yours. It's quite intelligible and full of dignity. I really
can't smother my voice in consequence.”
He laughed with unnecessary abandonment. The sensitive young women
wanted no other schooling to recover themselves. In a moment they were
seen leaning back and contemplating him amusedly, as if he had been the
comic spectacle, and were laughing for a wager. There are few things so
sour as the swallowing of one's own forced laugh. Wilfrid got it
down, and commenced a lecture to fill the awkward pause. His sisters
maintained the opera-stall posture of languid attention, contesting his
phrases simply with their eyebrows, and smiling. He was no match for
them while they chose to be silent: and indeed if the business of life
were conducted in dumb show, women would beat men hollow. They posture
admirably. In dumb show they are equally good for attack and defence.
But this is not the case in speech. So, when Arabella explained that
their hope was to see Mrs. Chump go that day, owing to the rigorous
exclusion of all amusement and the outer world from the house, Wilfrid
regained his superior footing and made his lecture tell. In the middle
of it, there rang a cry from the doorway that astonished even him, it
was so powerfully Irish.
“The lady you have called down is here,” said Arabella's cold glance, in
answer to his.
They sat with folded hands while Wilfrid turned to Mrs. Chump, who
advanced, a shock of blue satin to the eye, crying, on a jump: “Is ut
Mr. Wilfrud?”
“It's I, ma'am.” Wilfrid bowed, and the censorious ladies could not deny
that, his style was good, if his object was to be familiar. And if that
was his object, he was paid for it. A great thick kiss was planted on
his cheek, with the motto: “Harm to them that thinks ut.”
Wilfrid bore the salute like a man who presumes that he is flattered.
“And it's you!” said Mrs. Chump. “I was just off. I'm packed, and
bonnutted, and ready for a start; becas, my dear, where there's none but
women, I don't think it natural to stop. You're splendid! How a little
fella like Pole could go and be father to such a mighty big son, with
your bit of moustache and your blue eyes! Are they blue or a bit of grey
in 'em?” Mrs. Chump peered closely. “They're kill'n', let their colour
be anyhow. And I that knew ye when ye were no bigger than my garter!
Oh, sir! don't talk of ut; I'll be thinkin', of my coffin. Ye're glad to
see me? Say, yes. Do!”
“Very glad,” quoth Wilfrid.
“Upon your honour, now?”
“Upon my honour!”
“My dears” (Mrs. Chump turned to the ladies), “I'll stop; and just thank
your brother for't, though you can't help being garls.”
Reduced once more to demonstrate like schoolgirls by this woman, the
ladies rose together, and were retiring, when Mrs. Chump swung round and
caught Arabella's hand. “See heer,” she motioned to Wilfrid. Arabella
made a bitter effort to disengage herself. “See, now! It's jeal'sy of
me, Mr. Wilfrud, becas I'm a widde and just an abom'nation to garls,
poor darlin's! And twenty shindies per dime we've been havin', and me
such a placable body, if ye'll onnly let m' explode. I'm all powder,
avery bit! and might ha' been christened Saltpetre, if born a boy. She
hasn't so much as a shot to kill a goose, says Chump, poor fella! But he
went, anyway. I must kiss somebody when I talk of 'm. Mr. Wilfrud, I'll
take the girls, and entitle myself to you.”
Arabella was the first victim. Her remonstrance was inarticulate.
Cornelia's “Madam!” was smothered. Adela behaved better, being more
consciously under Wilfrid's eye; she prepared her pocket-handkerchief,
received the salute, and deliberately effaced it.
“There!” said Mrs. Chump; “duty to begin with. And now for you, Mr.
Wilfrud.”
The ladies escaped. Their misery could not be conveyed to the mind. The
woman was like a demon come among them. They felt chiefly degraded, not
by her vulgarity, but by their inability to cope with it, and by the
consequent sickening sense of animal inefficiency--the block that was
put to all imaginative delight in the golden hazy future they figured
for themselves, and which was their wine of life. An intellectual
adversary they could have combated; this huge brogue-burring engine
quite overwhelmed them. Wilfrid's worse than shameful behaviour was
a common rallying-point; and yet, so absolutely critical were they
by nature, their blame of him was held mentally in restraint by the
superior ease of his manner as contrasted with their own lamentably
silly awkwardness. Highly civilized natures do sometimes, and keen wits
must always, feel dissatisfied when they are not on the laughing side:
their dread of laughter is an instinctive respect for it.
Dinner brought them all together again. Wilfrid took his father's seat,
facing his Aunt Lupin, and increased the distress of his sisters by his
observance of every duty of a host to the dreadful intruder, whom he
thus established among them. He was incomprehensible. His visit to
Stornley had wrought in him a total change. He used to like being
petted, and would regard everything as right that his sisters did,
before he went there; and was a languid, long-legged, indifferent
cavalier, representing men to them: things made to be managed, snubbed,
admired, but always virtually subservient and in the background. Now,
without perceptible gradation, his superiority was suddenly manifest;
so that, irritated and apprehensive as they were, they could not, by the
aid of any of their intricate mental machinery, look down on him.
They tried to; they tried hard to think him despicable as well as
treacherous. His style was too good. When he informed Mrs. Chump that
he had hired a yacht for the season, and added, after enlarging on the
merits of the vessel, “I am under your orders,” his sisters were as
creatures cut in twain--one half abominating his conduct, the other
approving his style. The bow, the smile, were perfect. The ladies had to
make an effort to recover their condemnatory judgement.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Chump; “and if you've got a yacht, Mr. Wilfrud, won't
ye have a great parcel o' the arr'stocracy on board?”
“You may spy a title by the aid of a telescope,” said Wilfrid.
“And I'm to come, I am?”
“Are you not elected captain?”
“Oh, if ye've got lords and real ladies on board, I'll come, be sure of
ut! I'll be as sick as a cat, I will. But, I'll come, if it's the rroon
of my stomach. I'd say to Chump, 'Oh, if ye'd only been born a lord, or
would just get yourself struck a knight on one o' your shoulders,--oh,
Chump!' I'd say, 'it wouldn't be necessary to be rememberin' always
the words of the cerr'mony about lovin' and honourin' and obeyin' of a
little whistle of a fella like you.' Poor lad! he couldn't stop for his
luck! Did ye ask me to take wine, Mr. Wilfrud? I'll be cryin', else, as
a widde should, ye know!”
Frequent administrations of wine arrested the tears of Mrs. Chump, until
it is possible that the fulness of many a checked flow caused her
to redden and talk slightly at random. At the first mention of their
father's name, the ladies went out from the room. It was foolish,
for they might have watched the effect of certain vinous innuendoes
addressed to Wilfrid's apprehensiveness; but they were weakened and
humbled, and everything they did was foolish. From the fact that they
offended their keen critical taste, moreover, they were targets to the
shaft that wounds more fatally than all. No ridicule knocks the strength
out of us so thoroughly as our own.
Whether or not he guessed their condition favourable for his plans,
Wilfrid did not give them time to call back their scattered powers. At
the hour of eleven he sent for Arabella to come to him in the library.
The council upstairs permitted Arabella to go, on the understanding
that she was prepared for hostilities, and ready to tear the mask from
Wilfrid's face.
He commenced, without a shadow of circumlocution, and in a
matter-of-fact way, as if all respect for the peculiar genius of the
house of Pole had vanished: “I sent for you to talk a word or two about
this woman, who, I see, troubles you a little. I'm sorry she's in the
house.”
“Indeed!” said Arabella.
“I'm sorry she's in the house, not for my sake, but for yours, since
the proximity does not seem to... I needn't explain. It comes of your
eternal consultations. You are the eldest. Why not act according to your
judgement, which is generally sound? You listen to Adela, young as she
is; or a look of Cornelia's leads you. The result is the sort of scene I
saw this afternoon. I confess it has changed my opinion of you; it has,
I grieve to say it. This woman is your father's guest; you can't hurt
her so much as you hurt him, if you misbehave to her. You can't openly
object to her and not cast a slur upon him. There is the whole case.
He has insisted, and you must submit. You should have fought the battle
before she came.”
“She is here, owing to a miserable misconception,” said Arabella.
“Ah! she is here, however. That is the essential, as your old governess
Madame Timpan would have said.”
“Nor can a protest against coarseness be sweepingly interpreted as a
piece of unfilial behaviour,” said Arabella.
“She is coarse,” Wilfrid nodded his head. “There are some forms of
coarseness which dowagers would call it coarseness to notice.
“Not if you find it locked up in the house with you--not if you suffer
under a constant repulsion. Pray, do not use these phrases to me,
Wilfrid. An accusation of coarseness cannot touch us.”
“No, certainly,” assented Wilfrid. “And you have a right to protest. I
disapprove the form of your protest nothing more. A schoolgirl's...but
you complain of the use of comparisons.”
“I complain, Wilfrid, of your want of sympathy.”
“That for two or three weeks you must hear a brogue at your elbow? The
poor creature is not so bad; she is good-hearted. It's hard that you
should have to bear with her for that time and receive nothing better
than Besworth as your reward.”
“Very; seeing that we endure the evil and decline the sop with it.”
“How?”
“We have renounced Besworth.”
“Have you! And did this renunciation make you all sit on the edge of
your chairs, this afternoon, as if Edward Buxley had arranged you? You
give up Besworth? I'm afraid it's too late.”
“Oh, Wilfrid! can you be ignorant that something more is involved in the
purchase of Besworth?”
Arabella gazed at him with distressful eagerness, as one who believes in
the lingering of a vestige of candour.
“Do you mean that my father may wish to give this woman his name?” said
Wilfrid coolly. “You have sense enough to know that if you make his home
disagreeable, you are taking the right method to drive him into such
a course. Ha! I don't think it's to be feared, unless you pursue these
consultations. And let me say, for my part, we have gone too far about
Besworth, and can't recede.”
“I have given out everywhere that the place is ours. I did so almost at
your instigation. Besworth was nothing to me till you cried it up. And
now I won't detain you. I know I can rely on your sense, if you will
rely on it. Good night, Bella.”
As she was going a faint spark of courage revived Arabella's wits.
Seeing that she was now ready to speak, he opened the door wide, and she
kissed him and went forth, feeling driven.
But while Arabella was attempting to give a definite version of the
interview to her sisters, a message came requesting Adela to descend.
The ladies did not allow her to depart until two or three ingenuous
exclamations from her made them share her curiosity.
“Ah?” Wilfrid caught her hand as she came in. “No, I don't intend to
let it go. You may be a fine lady, but you're a rogue, you know, and a
charming one, as I hear a friend of mine has been saying. Shall I
call him out? Shall I fight him with pistols, or swords, and leave him
bleeding on the ground, because he thinks you a pretty rogue?”
Adela struggled against the blandishment of this old familiar style of
converse--part fun, part flattery--dismissed since the great idea had
governed Brookfield.
“Please tell me what you called me down for, dear?”
“To give you a lesson in sitting on chairs. 'Adela, or the Puritan
sister,' thus: you sit on the extremest edge, and your eyes peruse the
ceiling; and...”
“Oh! will you ever forget that perfectly ridiculous scene?” Adela cried
in anguish.
She was led by easy stages to talk of Besworth.
“Understand,” said Wilfrid, “that I am indifferent about it. The idea
sprang from you--I mean from my pretty sister Adela, who is President of
the Council of Three. I hold that young woman responsible for all that
they do. Am I wrong? Oh, very well. You suggested Besworth, at all
events. And--if we quarrel, I shall cut off one of your curls.”
“We never will quarrel, my darling,” quoth Adela softly. “Unless--” she
added.
Wilfrid kissed her forehead.
“Unless what?”
“Well, then, you must tell me who it is that talks of me in that
objectionable manner; I do not like it.”
“Shall I convey that intimation?”
“I choose to ask, simply that I may defend myself.”
“I choose to keep him buried, then, simply to save his life.”
Adela made a mouth, and Wilfrid went on: “By the way, I want you to
know Lady Charlotte; you will take to one another. She likes you,
already--says you want dash; but on that point there may be two
opinions.”
“If dash,” said Adela, quite beguiled, “--that is, dash!--what does it
mean? But, if Lady Charlotte means by dash--am I really wanting in it? I
should define it, the quality of being openly natural without vulgarity;
and surely...!”
“Then you two differ a little, and must meet and settle your dispute.
You don't differ about Besworth: or, didn't. I never saw a woman so much
in love with a place as she is.”
“A place?” emphasized Adela.
“Don't be too arch. I comprehend. She won't take me minus Besworth, you
may be sure.”
“Did you, Wilfrid!--but you did not--offer yourself as owner of
Besworth?”
Wilfrid kept his eyes slanting on the floor.
“Now I see why you should still wish it,” continued Adela. “Perhaps
you don't know the reason which makes it impossible, or I would
say--Bacchus! it must be compassed. You remember your old schoolboy oath
which you taught me? We used to swear always, by Bacchus!”
Adela laughed and blushed, like one who petitions pardon for this her
utmost sin, that is not regretted as it should be.
“Mrs. Chump again, isn't it?” said Wilfrid. “Pole would be a preferable
name. If she has the ambition, it elevates her. And it would be rather
amusing to see the dear old boy in love.”
Adela gave her under-lip a distressful bite.
“Why do you, Wilfrid--why treat such matters with levity?”
“Levity? I am the last to treat ninety thousand pounds with levity.”
“Has she so much?” Adela glanced at him.
“She will be snapped up by some poor nobleman. If I take her down to
the yacht, one of Lady Charlotte's brothers or uncles will bite; to a
certainty.”
“It would be an excellent idea to take her!” cried Adela.
“Excellent! and I'll do it, if you like.”
“Could you bear the reflex of the woman?”
“Don't you know that I am not in the habit of sitting on the extreme
edge...?”
Adela started, breathing piteously: “Wilfrid, dear! you want something
of me--what is it?”
“Simply that you should behave civilly to your father's guest.”
“I had a fear, dear; but I think too well of you to entertain it for a
moment. If civility is to win Besworth for you, there is my hand.”
“Be civil--that's all,” said Wilfrid, pressing the hand given. “These
consultations of yours and acting in concert--one tongue for three
women--are a sort of missish, unripe nonsense, that one sees only in
bourgeoise girls--eh? Give it up. Lady Charlotte hit on it at a glance.”
“And I, my chameleon brother, will return her the compliment, some day,”
Adela said to herself, as she hurried back to her sisters, bearing a
message for Cornelia. This lady required strong persuasion. A word from
Adela: “He will think you have some good reason to deny him a private
interview,” sent her straight to the stairs.
Wilfrid was walking up and down, with his arms folded and his brows
bent. Cornelia stood in the doorway.
“You desire to speak to me, Wilfrid? And in private?”
“I didn't wish to congratulate you publicly, that's all. I know it's
rather against your taste. We'll shut the door, and sit down, if you
don't mind. Yes, I congratulate you with all my heart,” he said, placing
a chair for Cornelia.
“May I ask, wherefore?”
“You don't think marriage a matter for congratulation?”
“Sometimes: as the case may be.”
“Well, it's not marriage yet. I congratulate you on your offer.”
“I thank you.”
“You accept it, of course.”
“I reject it, certainly.”
After this preliminary passage, Wilfrid remained silent long enough for
Cornelia to feel uneasy.
“I want you to congratulate me also,” he recommenced. “We poor fellows
don't have offers, you know. To be frank, I think Lady Charlotte
Chillingworth will have me, if--She's awfully fond of Besworth, and I
need not tell you that as she has position in the world, I ought to show
something in return. When you wrote about Besworth, I knew it was as
good as decided. I told her so and--Well, I fancy there's that sort
of understanding between us. She will have me when... You know how the
poorer members of the aristocracy are situated. Her father's a peer,
and has a little influence. He might push me; but she is one of a large
family; she has nothing. I am certain you will not judge of her as
common people might. She does me a particular honour.”
“Is she not much older than you, Wilfrid?” said Cornelia.
“Or, in other words,” he added, “is she not a very mercenary person?”
“That, I did not even imply.”
“Honestly, was it not in your head?”
“Now you put it so plainly, I do say, it strikes me disagreeably; I have
heard of nothing like it.”
“Do you think it unreasonable that I should marry into a noble family?”
“That is, assuredly, not my meaning.”
“Nevertheless, you are, on the whole, in favour of beggarly alliances.”
“No, Wilfrid.”
“Why do you reject this offer that has been made to you?”
Cornelia flushed and trembled; the traitorous feint had thrown her off
her guard. She said, faltering:
“Would you have me marry one I do not love?”
“Well, well!” He drew back. “You are going to do your best to stop the
purchase of Besworth?”
“No; I am quiescent.”
“Though I tell you how deeply it concerns me!”
“Wilfrid, my own brother!” (Cornelia flung herself before him, catching
his hand,) “I wish you to be loved, first of all. Think of the horror of
a loveless marriage, however gilded! Does a woman make stipulations ere
she gives her hand? Does not love seek to give, to bestow? I wish you to
marry well, but chiefly that you should be loved.”
Wilfrid pressed her head in both his hands.
“I never saw you look so handsome,” he said. “You've got back your old
trick of blushing, too! Why do you tremble? By the way, you seem to have
been learning a great deal about that business, lately?”
“What business?”
“Love.”
A river of blood overflowed her fair cheeks.
“How long has this been?” his voice came to her.
There was no escape. She was at his knees, and must look up, or confess
guilt.
“This?”
“Come, my dearest girl!” Wilfrid soothed her. “I can help you, and will,
if you'll take advice. I've always known your heart was generous and
tender, under that ice you wear so well. How long has this been going
on?”
“Wilfrid!”
“You want plain speech?”
She wanted that still less.
“We'll call it 'this,'” he said. “I have heard of it, guessed it, and
now see it. How far have you pledged yourself in 'this?'”
“How far?”
Wilfrid held silent. Finding that her echo was not accepted as an
answer, she moaned his name lovingly. It touched his heart, where a
great susceptibility to passion lay. As if the ghost of Emilia were
about him, he kissed his sister's hand, and could not go on with his
cruel interrogations.
His next question was dew of relief to her.
“Has your Emilia been quite happy, of late?”
“Oh, quite, dear! very. And sings with more fire.”
“She's cheerful?”
“She does not romp. Her eyes are full and bright.”
“She's satisfied with everything here?”
“How could she be otherwise?”
“Yes, yes! You weren't severe on her for that escapade--I mean, when she
ran away from Lady Gosstre's?”
“We scarcely alluded to the subject, or permitted her to.”
“Or permitted her to!” Wilfrid echoed, with a grimace. “And she's
cheerful now?”
“Quite.”
“I mean, she doesn't mope?”
“Why should she?”
Cornelia had been too hard-pressed to have suspicion the questions were
an immense relief.
Wilfrid mused gloomily. Cornelia spoke further of Emilia, and her
delight in the visits of Mr. Powys, who spent hours with her, like a man
fascinated. She flowed on, little aware that she was fast restoring to
Wilfrid all his judicial severity.
He said, at last: “I suppose there's no engagement existing?”
“Engagement?”
“You have not, what they call, plighted your troth to the man?”
Cornelia struggled for evasion. She recognized the fruitlessness of the
effort, and abandoning it stood up.
“I am engaged to no one.”
“Well, I should hope not,” said Wilfrid. “An engagement might be
broken.”
“Not by me.”
“It might, is all that I say. A romantic sentiment is tougher. Now, I
have been straightforward with you: will you be with me? I shall not
hurt the man, or wound his feelings.”
He paused; but it was to find that no admission of the truth, save what
oozed out in absence of speech, was to be expected. She seemed, after
the fashion of women, to have got accustomed to the new atmosphere into
which he had dragged her, without any conception of a forward movement.
“I see I must explain to you how we are situated,” said Wilfrid. “We
are in a serious plight. You should be civil to this woman for several
reasons--for your father's sake and your own. She is very rich.”
“Oh, Wilfrid!”
“Well, I find money well thought of everywhere.”
“Has your late school been good for you?”
“This woman, I repeat, is rich, and we want money. Oh! not the ordinary
notion of wanting money, but the more we have the more power we have.
Our position depends on it.”
“Yes, if we can be tempted to think so,” flashed Cornelia.
“Our position depends on it. If you posture, and are poor, you provoke
ridicule: and to think of scorning money, is a piece of folly no girls
of condition are guilty of. Now, you know I am fond of you; so I'll
tell you this: you have a chance; don't miss it. Something unpleasant is
threatening; but you may escape it. It would be madness to throw such a
chance away, and it is your duty to take advantage of it. What is there
plainer? You are engaged to no one.”
Cornelia came timidly close to him. “Pray, be explicit!”
“Well!--this offer.”
“Yes; but what--there is something to escape from.”
Wilfrid deliberately replied: “There is no doubt of the Pater's
intentions with regard to Mrs. Chump.”
“He means...?”
“He means to marry her.”
“And you, Wilfrid?”
“Well, of course, he cuts me out. There--there! forgive me: but what can
I do?”
“Do you conspire--Wilfrid, is it possible?--are you an accomplice in the
degradation of our house?”
Cornelia had regained her courage, perforce of wrath. Wilfrid's
singular grey eyes shot an odd look at her. He is to be excused for not
perceiving the grandeur of the structure menaced; for it was invisible
to all the world, though a real fabric.
“If Mrs. Chump were poor, I should think the Pater demented,” he said.
“As it is--! well, as it is, there's grist to the mill, wind to the
organ. You must be aware” (and he leaned over to her with his most
suspicious gentleness of tone) “you are aware that all organs must be
fed; but you will make a terrible mistake if you suppose for a moment
that the human organ requires the same sort of feeding as the one in
Hillford Church.”
“Good-night,” said Cornelia, closing her lips, as if for good.
Wilfrid pressed her hand. As she was going, the springs of kindness in
his heart caused him to say “Forgive me, if I seemed rough.”
“Yes, dear Wilfrid; even brutality, rather than your exultation over the
wreck of what was noble in you.”
With which phrase Cornelia swept from the room.