Emilia sat in her old place under the dwarf pine. Mr. Powys had brought
her back to Brookfield, where she heard that Wilfrid had been seen; and
now her heart was in contest with an inexplicable puzzle: “He was here,
and did not come to me!” Since that night when they had walked home from
Ipley Green, she had not suffered a moment of longing. Her senses had
lain as under a charm, with heart at anchor and a mind free to work. No
one could have guessed that any human spell was on the girl. “Wherever
he is, he thinks of me. I find him everywhere. He is safe, for I pray
for him and have my arms about him. He will come.” So she waited,
as some grey lake lies, full and smooth, awaiting the star below the
twilight. If she let her thoughts run on to the hour of their meeting,
she had to shut her eyes and press at her heart; but as yet she was not
out of tune for daily life, and she could imagine how that hour was to
be strewn with new songs and hushed surprises. And 'thus' he would look:
and 'thus.' “My hero!” breathed Emilia, shuddering a little. But now
she was perplexed. Now that he had come and gone, she began to hunger
bitterly for the sight of his face, and that which had hitherto
nourished her grew a sickly phantom of delight. She wondered how she
had forced herself to be patient, and what it was that she had found
pleasure in.
None of the ladies were at home when Emilia returned. She went out
to the woods, and sat, shadowed by the long bent branch; watching
mechanically the slow rounding and yellowing of the beam of sunlight
over the thick floor of moss, up against the fir-stems. The chaffinch
and the linnet flitted off the grey orchard twigs, singing from new
stations; and the bee seemed to come questioning the silence of the
woods and droning disappointed away. The first excess of any sad feeling
is half voluntary. Emilia could not help smiling, when she lifted her
head out of a musing fit, to find that she had composed part of a minuet
for the languid dancing motes in the shaft of golden light at her feet.
“Can I remember it?” she thought, and forgot the incident with the
effort.
Down at her right hand, bordering a water, stood a sallow, a dead tree,
channelled inside with the brown trail of a goat-moth. Looking in this
direction, she saw Cornelia advancing to the tree. When the lady had
reached it, she drew a little book from her bosom, kissed it, and
dropped it in the hollow. This done, she passed among the firs. Emilia
had perceived that she was agitated: and with that strange instinct of
hearts beginning to stir, which makes them divine at once where they
will come upon the secret of their own sensations, she ran down to the
tree and peered on tiptoe at the embedded volume. On a blank page stood
pencilled: “This is the last fruit of the tree. Come not to gather
more.” There was no meaning for her in that sentimental chord but she
must have got some glimpse of a meaning; for now, as in an agony, her
lips fashioned the words: “If I forget his face I may as well die;” and
she wandered on, striving more and more vainly to call up his features.
The--“Does he think of me?” and--“What am I to him?”--such timorous
little feather-play of feminine emotion she knew nothing of: in her
heart was the strong flood of a passion.
She met Edward Buxley and Freshfield Sumner at a cross-path, on their
way to Brookfield; and then Adela joined the party, which soon embraced
Mr. Barrett, and subsequently Cornelia. All moved on in a humming
leisure, chattering by fits. Mr. Sumner was delicately prepared to
encounter Mrs. Chump, “whom,” said Adela, “Edward himself finds it
impossible to caricature;” and she affected to laugh at the woman.
“Happy the pencil that can reproduce!” Mr. Barrett exclaimed; and,
meeting his smile, Cornelia said: “Do you know, my feeling is, and I
cannot at all account for it, that if she were a Catholic she would not
seem so gross?”
“Some of the poetry of that religion would descend upon her, possibly,”
returned Mr. Barrett.
“Do you mean,” Freshfield said quickly, “that she would stand a fair
chance of being sainted?”
Out of this arose some polite fencing between the two. Freshfield might
have argued to advantage in a Court of law; but he was no match, on such
topics and before such an audience, for a refined sentimentalist. More
than once he betrayed a disposition to take refuge in his class (he
being son to one of the puisne Judges). Cornelia speedily punished him,
and to any correction from her he bowed his head.
Adela was this day gifted with an extraordinary insight. Emilia alone
of the party was as a blot to her; but the others she saw through, as
if they had been walking transparencies. She divined that Edward and
Freshfield had both come, in concert, upon amorous business--that it was
Freshfield's object to help Edward to a private interview with her, and,
in return, Edward was to perform the same service for him with
Cornelia. So that Mr. Barrett was shockingly in the way of both; and the
perplexity of these stupid fellows--who would insist upon wondering why
the man Barrett and the girl Emilia (musicians both: both as it were,
vagrants) did not walk together and talk of quavers and minims--was
extremely comic. Passing the withered tree, Mr. Barrett deserved
thanks from Freshfield, if he did not obtain them; for he lingered,
surrendering his place. And then Adela knew that the weight of Edward
Buxley's remonstrative wrath had fallen on silent Emilia, to whom she
clung fondly.
“I have had a letter,” Edward murmured, in the voice that propitiates
secresy.
“A letter?” she cried loud; and off flew the man like a rabbit into his
hole, the mask of him remaining.
Emilia presently found Mr. Barrett at her elbow. His hand clasped the
book Cornelia had placed in the tree.
“It is hers,” said Emilia.
He opened it and pointed to his initials. She looked in his face.
“Are you very ill?”
Adela turned round from Edward's neighbouring head. “Who is ill?”
Cornelia brought Freshfield to a stop: “Ill?”
Before them all, book in hand, Mr. Barrett had to give assurance that
he was hearty, and to appear to think that his words were accepted, in
spite of blanched jowl and reddened under-lid. Cornelia threw him one
glance: his eyes closed under it. Adela found it necessary to address
some such comforting exclamation as 'Goodness gracious!' to her
observant spirit.
In the park-path, leading to the wood, Arabella was seen as they came
out the young branches that fringed the firs. She hurried up.
“I have been looking for you. Papa has arrived with Sir Twickenham
Pryme, who dines with us.”
Adela unhesitatingly struck a blow.
“Lady Pryme, we make place for you.”
And she crossed to Cornelia. Cornelia kept her eyes fixed on Adela's
mouth, as one looks at a place whence a venomous reptile has darted out.
Her eyelids shut, and she stood a white sculpture of pain, pitiable to
see. Emilia took her hand, encouraging the tightening fingers with a
responsive pressure. The group shuffled awkwardly together, though
Adela did her best. She was very angry with Mr. Barrett for wearing that
absurdly pale aspect. She was even angry with his miserable bankrupt
face for mounting a muscular edition of the smile Cornelia had shown.
“His feelings!” she cried internally; and the fact presented itself to
her, that feelings were a luxury utterly unfit for poor men, who were to
be accused of presumption for indulging in them.
“Now, I suppose you are happy?” she spoke low between Arabella and
Edward.
The effect of these words was to colour violently two pair of cheeks.
Arabella's behaviour did not quite satisfy the fair critic. Edward
Buxley was simply caught in a trap: He had the folly to imagine that by
laughing he released himself.
“Is not that the laugh of an engaged?” said Adela to Freshfield.
He replied: “That would have been my idea under other conditions,” and
looked meaningly.
She met the look with: “There are harsh conditions in life, are there
not?” and left him sufficiently occupied by his own sensations.
“Mr. Barrett,” she inquired (partly to assist the wretch out of his
compromising depression, and also that the question represented a real
matter of debate in her mind), “I want your opinion; will you give it
me? Apropos of slang, why does it sit well on some people? It certainly
does not vulgarize them. After all, in many cases, it is what they call
'racy idiom.' Perhaps our delicacy is strained?”
Now, it was Mr. Barrett's established manner to speak in a deliberately
ready fashion upon the introduction of a new topic. Habit made him, on
this occasion, respond instantly; but the opening of the gates displayed
the confusion of ideas within and the rageing tumult.
He said: “In many cases. There are two sorts. If you could call it the
language of nature! which anything... I beg your pardon, Slang! Polite
society rightly excludes it, because....”
“Yes, yes,” returned Adela; “but do we do rightly in submitting to
the absolute tyranny?--I mean, I think, originality flies from us in
consequence.”
The pitiable mortal became a trifle more luminous: “The objection is
to the repetition of risked phrases. A happy audacity of expression may
pass. It is bad taste to repeat it, that is all. Then there is the slang
of heavy boorishness, and the slang of impatient wit...”
“Is there any fine distinction between the extremes?” said Cornelia, in
as clear a tone as she could summon.
“I think,” observed Arabella, “that whatever shows staleness speedily is
self-condemned; and that is the case with slang.”
“And yet it's to avoid some feeling of the sort that people employ it,”
was Adela's remark; and the discussion of this theme dropped lifelessly,
and they walked on as before.
Coming to a halt near the garden gate, Adela tapped Emilia's cheek,
addressing her: “How demure she has become!”
“Ah!” went Arabella, “does she know papa has had a letter from Mr.
Pericles, who wrote from Milan to say that he has made arrangements
for her to enter the Academy there, and will come to fetch her in a few
days?”
Emilia's wrists crossed below her neck, while she gave ear.
“To take me away?” she said.
The tragic attitude and outcry, with the mournful flash of her eyes,
might have told Emilia's tale.
Adela unwillingly shielded her by interpreting the scene. “See! she must
be a born actress. They always exaggerate in that style, so that you
would really think she had a mighty passion for Brookfield.”
“Or in it,” suggested Freshfield.
“Or in it!” she laughed assentingly.
Mr. Pole was perceived entering the garden, rubbing his hands a little
too obsequiously to some remark of the baronet's, as the critical ladies
imagined. Sir Twickenham's arm spread out in a sweep; Mr. Pole's head
nodded. After the ceremony of the salute, the ladies were informed of
Sir Twickenham's observation: Sir Twickenham Pryme, a statistical member
of Parliament, a well-preserved half-century in age, a gentleman in
bearing, passably grey-headed, his whiskers brushed out neatly, as if he
knew them individually and had the exact amount of them collectively
at his fingers' ends: Sir Twickenham had said of Mr. Pole's infant park
that if devoted to mangold-wurzel it would be productive and would pay:
whereas now it was not ornamental and was waste.
“Sir Twickenham calculates,” said Mr. Pole, “that we should have a crop
of--eh?”
“The average?” Sir Twickenham asked, on the evident upward mounting of a
sum in his brain. And then, with a relaxing look upon Cornelia: “Perhaps
you might have fifteen, sixteen, perhaps for the first year; or,
say--you see, the exact acreage is unknown to me. Say roughly, ten
thousand sacks the first year.”
“Of what?” inquired Cornelia.
“Mangold-wurzel,” said the baronet.
She gazed about her. Mr. Barrett was gone.
“But, no doubt, you take no interest in such reckonings?” Sir Twickenham
added.
“On the contrary, I take every interest in practical details.”
Practical men believe this when they hear it from the lips of
gentlewomen, and without philosophically analyzing the fact that it is
because the practical quality possesses simply the fascination of a
form of strength. Sir Twickenham pursued his details. Day closed on
Brookfield blankly. Nevertheless, the ladies felt that the situation
was now dignified by tragic feeling, and remembering keenly how they had
been degraded of late, they had a sad enjoyment of the situation.